The hospital was clean and peaceful. The polished floors extended down long white halls, and soothing instrumental music played from hidden speakers, attempting to make the space feel less like what it was. The front desk clerk, wearing a blue uniform and moving slowly as if she had been awake all night, didn't ask many questions; she scanned Alice's ID, glanced at Jill, and handed them a clipboard with steady hands.
"Fill out." She said, calmly yet distantly, as if she had said those precise words a thousand times before. You'll be called shortly."
The waiting room smelled like floor polish and hand sanitiser. Several chairs lined the walls. There were no other patients yet. A quiet TV in the corner broadcasted morning news without sound.
Alice sat first. Jill stood still for a second, her gaze flitting to the ceiling, the corners, and the entrance they had just passed through. It was as if she were looking out for something. She hadn't spoken since the vehicle ride, her arms securely wrapped around her stomach.
Alice patted the chair beside her. "Sit down." You're okay. We are here now."
Jill finally sat, her hands folded as if holding something in place.
The surgical section was located on the third floor. When called, a young nurse guided them through double doors into a side wing labelled 'Outpatient Procedures'. The hallway felt colder, and the lights above emitted a clinical glow.
The pre-op room was clean, with drawers labelled, surfaces wiped down, gloves in wall-mounted dispensers and metal trays neatly placed by the sink. Jill sat on the hospital bed while Alice stood close, attempting to remain composed.
A monitor displayed vital signs—heart rate, oxygen, and blood pressure—all in green. Beside the bed was a portable ultrasound cart with a large screen and a plastic wand. Next to it, a tall silver IV pole stood, bag half-filled and ready to drip.
The surgical suite was visible through the small window in the door—glass walls, a steel table, and a faintly humming anaesthesia machine. A vacuum aspiration machine, used in early-stage terminations, sat against the wall, with tubing coiled neatly beside it, its parts clean and gleaming.
The doctor arrived a few minutes later. He was in his mid-fifties, with a pleasant expression and a coat buttoned halfway. He greeted them with a brief nod.
"Jill Andrew?"
Jill nodded.
"I'm Dr. Manne. I'll be overseeing today's procedure. You're about twelve weeks?"
"Yes," she said, her voice flat.
He checked the chart, then looked up. "We'll do a quick ultrasound first. To confirm everything. Then we'll proceed with the standard D&C, which has nothing to worry about. It's a safe and common procedure."
Alice leaned forward. "She's been acting weird since we got here – strange symptoms I can't describe."
Dr. Manne nodded. "We'll take a look at it. Let's go step by step."
He pulled over the ultrasound machine and applied gel to Jill's abdomen. The wand moved smoothly over her skin.
And then, for a moment, something darted across the screen. A shape—it was unclear. It was neither a fetus nor appropriate.
The monitor failed to function correctly.
And Jill flinched.
Dr. Manne repositioned the probe. "Try to relax."
Jill's face was tight. Her body didn't move, but something beneath her skin did—not a kick or twitch, but something attempting to move upward.
The shape reappeared on the screen, this time sharper. It was too long and spindly, and then it was gone again.
The monitor malfunctioned once more.
Dr. Manne frowned. "That's odd." He tapped the screen with the back of his knuckle. "Might be a connection issue."
Jill's voice came out tight. "It's him."
Alice glanced at her. "Who?"
"Larry".
Dr. Manne gazed between them with patience, though there was apparent confusion. "You're feeling some movement already?"
Jill nodded and then whispered to Alice. "This is not normal. He is pushing at me from within. He does not want me here. "He does not want you here either."
Dr. Manne maintained an even tone. "Alright. I'm going to remove the probe now. We will suspend the scan and prepare for operation."
He peeled the gloves from his hands and tossed them into the bin. "It's a straightforward process," he said to both of them. "We'll sedate her gently—light anaesthesia. The procedure typically lasts ten to fifteen minutes. We use a vacuum suction device—completely sterile and controlled. Minimal bleeding, no lasting physical harm. Afterwards, you'll rest, we'll monitor your vitals, and you'll go home the same day."
Jill's hands were trembling on her lap.
"Okay," she whispered.
The nurse returned with a hospital gown and a small plastic bag for her clothes. "Go ahead and change in there," she said, pointing to a curtained corner of the room. "I'll prep the IV."
Jill walked as if she were holding something fragile and volatile within her. When the curtain closed behind her, Alice exhaled a breath she had not realised she was holding.
Dr. Manne turned to Alice. "Has she had any prior psychiatric history?"
Alice hesitated. "No... she hasn't been sleeping. And last night, she stated she spoke with the baby."
Dr. Manne raised an eyebrow.
"She's scared," Alice added quickly. "I mean, She thinks the baby's alive in a way it shouldn't be."
"I see." He made a note in the chart. "We'll keep her calm. She'll be asleep soon."
The curtain slid open again. Jill stepped out in the gown, holding the fabric tightly against her chest.
She stayed silent as they wheeled her into the theatre. She didn't cry. She gazed at the ceiling tiles, observing the lights blur overhead as they rolled her down the hall.
The operating room was quiet and cooler than the rest of the facility. A series of sleek, buzzing devices stood waiting along one wall, their screens glowing softly. Stainless steel trays stored clean, well-organised precision instruments such as scissors, forceps, and clamps. The Hoover aspiration machine sat near the bed. Its tube was neatly coiled, and the transparent canister shone under the bright surgical lamp.
Jill was helped onto the padded table. A nurse attached monitors to her chest and finger, while another adjusted her arm for the IV. The anaesthetist, a woman in green scrubs, explained each step in a low, steady voice.
"You'll start to feel warm," she said. "Then tired. Then nothing at all."
Alice stood in a corner, arms crossed. She was watching, worried and powerless.
Jill looked up at the ceiling. "He's in my lungs now," she said softly.
"What?" the anaesthetist asked, tightening the line.
"I can feel him climbing." She spoke again.
The nurse glanced at the monitor. The heart rate is increasing.
Dr. Manne leaned over her. "You're safe, Jill. We are going to help you." Nothing can hurt you here."
Jill shook her head. "He said it was too late."
Dr. Manne looked at her, his brow twisted in disbelief, as if he couldn't quite grasp what he was saying.
Then she screamed.
Her entire body arched upward—arms locked, back tight. The monitors beeped quickly. Her heart rate accelerated.
The anaesthetist pulled back. "Wait. Something's wrong."
Jill's legs began to kick. She struggled against the table restraints, which were not tightened. The nurse rushed to keep her still.
"I can feel his hands," Jill gasped. "He's pushing—he's pushing through—"
The monitor flatlined.
Silence.
The anaesthetist pulled off the mask.
"Vitals dropping. No blood pressure. She's crashing!"
Dr. Manne moved fast. "Defib, now!"
Alice moved to the doorway as panic set in.
But then—*
The vacuum machine turned on by itself.
Its engine whirred quietly, increasing in speed. The container vibrated on the table next to it. The tubing slithered slightly, as if something inside was breathing.
Dr. Manne didn't notice. His attention was on the lifeless girl in front of him.
But Jill's eyes were open.
Wide open.
Jill shot upright with no warning, sound, or effort. Just a swift, silent rising, like if something had drawn her up from within.
She sat perfectly still, her gaze fixed straight ahead, mute. There was no movement, not even a twitch—it was as if she had been carved from stone.
Everyone froze as they continued to stare at her.
Alice's voice broke. "Jill?"
Jill turned her head slowly, as if her neck didn't have muscles or hinges.
She smiled.
"Too late," she said again—but it wasn't her voice. It was lower. A rough male voice.
Then the lights went out.
Total blackout.
Machines clicked off. The suction stopped. The heart monitor went dead.
Only the sound of breathing in the room.
Panic surged through the room as they cried out to one another, their voices shaking, seeking a way out of the crushing darkness.
Suddenly, a twisted, horrible laughter ripped through the darkness, leaving everyone frozen. The sound had no source or direction.
A deep, chilly voice pierced through the silence, saying, "It's too late."
And then—
A tap on Jill's arm.
Jill blinked.
The lights returned. The machines vanished. The cold table, the mask, the laughter, the trembling ascent of something in her lungs—gone. Her hands were still folded tightly over her stomach, but she no longer wore a hospital gown. No restraints. No IV. No distant buzz of anaesthesia machines humming in the dark.
Just the steady, sterile scent of floor polish and hand sanitiser.
The TV in the corner played a muted weather forecast while the nurse at the front desk continued tapping on her keyboard. Nothing had changed—because nothing had happened.
Alice was beside her, her eyes calm, as if nothing had gone wrong.
"Hey," she said, gently. "You okay? They're about to call us."
Jill glanced at her, confused, and wondered if her imagination would come true. Her throat felt dry, and her body was cold, but she didn't sweat. Her breathing slowed.
It had all been a dream.
She nodded slowly. "Yeah," she whispered.
Alice gave a small smile. "You've been sitting silently the whole time. Like you were in another world."
Jill looked at Alice, who had no expression of fear on her face.
Jill turned her eyes toward the hallway, where the surgical ward doors remained closed. She wrapped her arms again around her stomach, this time more gently.
Whatever it was—whatever waited—it hadn't started yet.
And still, somewhere inside her, the whisper echoed: Too late.
But she didn't say it out loud.
Not yet.