A/N: I finally decided to write another "The Ring" story! Yea! Okay, please review!!!
Title: "Eye of the Demon"
Rating: PG-13 for language and supernatural elements
Summary: The life of the Morgan's, starting from the day Anna was first pregnant with Samara, and the story goes from there. R&R!
Chapter One-No Child of Mine
Anna Morgan smiled at her husband. "Richard," she whispered. "I'm late."
Richard Morgan smiled back at his wife, but he did not rejoice. This had happened many times before; his wife would become pregnant and then . . . the baby would die. He wanted to be happy for his wife, but something told him that they were not meant to have a child.
"Richard," she said again. "I think that this time we're going to make it! We're going to be parents!" Her smile widened as she placed her hand over she stomach.
"Of course we are, Anna," he replied, pulling her into a tight embrace. "We're going to be parents."
Anna was on the verge of tears; his t-shirt was already becoming damp where she had pressed her face. She pulled back and looked up at her husband. Her eyes were bloodshot. "Honey . . ."
"What should we call it?"
Morgan sighed inwardly. Anna was already naming her baby. It happened this way every time; she would name it, and then, when it died, she would be even more upset, screaming her child's name as the doctor's carried its lifeless form away . . .
"Well, if it's a boy, Richie . . ."
"And if it's a girl, Samara," she finished, smiling through her tears. Morgan smiled at her again, but turned away to go out to feed the horses.
He pushed the screen door of their house opened and walked outside. The evening breeze whistled through the trees. Samara, it hissed. Samara. His wife had always loved that name. But why? It was unique, yes, but . . . he had never been fond of it.
As he neared the stable, he found himself wishing, no, yearning, for the baby to be a boy. He paused, confused. He had never had such a feeling before. He always wanted a child, no matter what the gender.
But I want a boy, his mind insisted. He shuddered as another breeze whipped past. He entered the stable; the horses shuffled in their stalls at the sound of him coming. They knew what his arriving meant: food.
Richard fed the horses in silence, listening to them crunch on their pellets. Samara, the wind hissed again. The sound of the name made Morgan feel uneasy. What was it about that name? It had always terrified him to hear someone (except by his wife, of course) say it.
He patted his favorite horse, a grey Andalusian named August. "What do you think, boy?" he asked August. "What do you think of the name Samara?"
At the sound of the name, the horse reared back and neighed, which sounded almost identical to a young woman's scream.
Morgan stepped forward and attempted to calm his horse. When August had finally settled down, Morgan reached up and adjusted his hat, a black fedora. He had never seen August act that way before. "Hmm, must've heard somethin' . . ."
But something told him that he and Anna weren't meant to have a child. Something told him that something was going to happen. Something horribly evil . . .
It had already been a month and nothing had gone wrong yet; the baby was beginning to appear, as Doctor Grasnik had told them, and it was showing no signs of abnormality, missing parts . . . everything was perfect.
Well, to Anna everything was perfect. To Morgan, well, some unusual things had begun to occur that he just couldn't make sense of, but, for his wife's sake, he had shrugged them off as "bad luck."
Morgan awoke as soon as the sun began to rise. He sat up in bed and stretched, hearing all of his joints crack. "Morning Hon-" He looked to his right and saw that the covers were pulled back from his wife's spot on the bed.
He heard a noise coming from the bathroom. It was the toilet flushing. She couldn't be having morning sickness already, could she? It had never happened that quickly before. Again, he shrugged it off and got out of bed. He walked towards the bathroom and heard his wife coughing.
"Honey, are you okay?" he asked through the door.
All he heard was coughing.
"Honey?" He pushed the door open and saw his wife kneeling in front of the toilet. He gasped at what he saw: the toilet was filled with blood. It was on the floor and on Anna's face and everywhere, it was everywhere!
"Anna!" he yelled, running over to her. He gently helped her up and picked her up in his arms. He carried her down the stairs and out the front door to the car. He opened the back car door and laid Anna on the back seat. He dashed to the driver's side door and flung it open.
He drove about seventy miles an hour in a forty mile an hour zone. He knew that he was going to be caught by a cop, he could feel it. The cop would pull him over and Anna would be covered in blood and the cop would apologize and let him go, but by the time he got to Dr. Grasnik's office Anna would have choked on the blood and died, oh shit, oh shit.
Morgan was becoming hysterical. Hell, who wouldn't be? He pulled into Grasnik's office and carried Anna inside. "Dr. Grasnik!" he shouted when he had entered the waiting room.
Dr. Grasnik came out, took one look at Anna and instructed Morgan to take her to one of the examining rooms. Morgan did as instructed; he carried Anna to Room 3 and laid her down on the examining table.
Dr. Grasnik entered. "Mr. Morgan, would you please wait in the waiting room?" she asked.
Morgan almost said no. Almost told Dr. Grasnik off for wanting him to not know what was happening to his wife (and child), but he didn't. He simply nodded and left the room.
He sat in the waiting room for what felt like a lifetime. Every so often he would hear the wind whistle through the open window (Samara, it hissed)and feel a twinge of fear in his gut.
"Mr. Morgan?" Morgan looked up to see Dr. Grasnik, a young brown-haired woman of about twenty-eight, standing over him. "Your wife is doing fine."
Morgan somehow found his voice. "Fine? FINE? She was in the bathroom coughin' up blood and all you can say is that she's 'fine?' What the hell happened to her?"
Dr. Grasnik was not shaken by Morgan's outburst. "It seems that somehow one of Anna's teeth had fallen out; that was where the blood came from."
"A tooth?" repeated Morgan. "A tooth wouldn't have made all of that goddamn blood come out. There were tons, I saw it. It was everywhere! I-I . . ." He paused, out of breath.
"Mr. Morgan," began Dr. Grasnik, slowly, "Anna did not recall losing much blood; just the amount from her tooth being knocked out when she accidentally hit her jaw on the toilet seat."
"But-but . . . I saw-"
"I don't know what you saw, Mr. Morgan, but I assure you, Anna did not lose more than an ounce of blood; not even that."
Dr. Grasnik looked at Morgan in a way he did not appreciate. The look was one that you gave to a psychopath who says that the little sparkling elf in his closet told him that rainbows are made of marshmallows. It wasn't a look that one wants to receive.
Morgan sighed. What was the point of arguing with a doctor? "I-I guess I must have imagined it," he mumbled.
Dr. Grasnik nodded. "She can go home now," she added, going back to the examining room to tell Anna that she could go back home.
Morgan rubbed at his temple. A tooth? There was no way that he had imagined that blood. When he got home, he would see the blood, and he wouldn't be that guy who sees elves and believes rainbows are made of marshmallows . . . right?
When he arrived home, he helped his wife out of the car and went inside the house. He rushed upstairs and ran into the bathroom. "Oh my God," he whispered. The bathroom was clean. There was no trace of blood, or even vomit, on the floor.
Morgan leaned against the wall. What in God's name was going on?
Anna was already beginning to show a little and her hormones were already beginning to fluctuate. "No!" she shouted one morning at breakfast. "I told you, I can't have any butter! Do you want our baby to die?!" She hurled the plate across the kitchen, where it hit the wall and shattered.
Morgan stared at his wife and began to silently pick up the pieces of the plate. "No, 'course not, honey. I just-"
"You just what?!" she demanded. When Morgan did not reply, Anna's face began to contort and she buried her face in her hands and began to sob. "Oh, Richard!" she wailed, tears streaming down her face. "I'm sorry!"
Morgan walked over and embraced his wife. "It's okay Annie," he whispered in her ear.
"No, it's not," she said with a hiccup. "I don't want to yell at you, I really don't . . . it's just-"
"-your hormones," finished Morgan with a sad smile. "Don't worry about it, Annie. We've been through this many times before and we never let it bother us."
Anna smiled at him through her tears. Her smile quickly faded, however, as she doubled over in pain, clutching her stomach. "Ohh," she groaned, biting her lip.
"Anna, what's wrong?" Morgan asked, becoming nervous. It was the second time today she had had stomach pains, and it was only eight thirty in the morning.
"The baby's kicking again," she moaned, rubbing her stomach gently.
"But it shouldn't be hurtin' you, Anna. Maybe we should go see Dr. Grasnik again . . ."
"No!" she snapped, cutting off his sentence. "I don't want to bother her with any more problems. I'm sure it'll st-" She did not finish her sentence. The baby's foot went crashing against the inside of her stomach and she screamed out in pain, falling to the kitchen floor.
"Anna!" shouted Morgan, kneeling down beside her.
"No, no, I'm fine," murmured Anna, standing up. "I'm just going to lie down for awhile, okay?"
Morgan nodded and watched as his wife retreated to their bedroom. He sighed. This baby, still unborn, was causing more pain for Anna then any other child they had (almost) had.
He began to stumble up the stairs. "I guess I'll go take a shower," he said to himself, looking at his hands. They were covered in thick, brown mud. Just two hours earlier, he had been bathing his horses, and that never went without getting himself dirtier than the horses ever were.
He slipped inside the bathroom and shut the door; he did not want the running water to disturb Anna while she was resting. He undressed and stepped into the shower. He slowly turned the knobs and heard the water running through the pipes.
A drop of water oozed from the shower nozzle and fell to the floor. Splish. Morgan sighed heavily. It's always takes forever to get any friggin' water in this place, he thought.
Finally, the shower hummed and water began to spray out of the nozzle. Morgan closed his eyes as the hot water hit his sore, aching muscles . . .
But, oh my God, the water was burning through his skin like acid, he could hear it sizzle as it hit his skin. His eyes snapped open and saw that the water had turned pitch black and that the water was searing through his skin like acid and oh God, oh God, it was burning and burning and burning . . .
Morgan's body jerked and he opened his eyes. The hot water continued to spray onto his body, but there was no pain, no acid-water, no nothing . . . nothing but the rusty well water falling down upon him.
He quickly turned off the shower. He stepped out and wrapped a towel around him. He saw that the bathroom mirror had fogged up from the steam. A few drops of water were slowly running down, leaving a clear line behind them.
A look of confusion washed over Morgan as he saw that the droplets of water on the mirror had formed a . . . a circle. Or a ring . . .
Anna was now three months into her pregnancy, and she was beginning to eat . . . a lot. Morgan noticed that what she seemed to enjoy most was meat. Chicken, beef, pork, fish . . . she would eat any of it. Morgan guessed that his child was going to be a strong boy (A boy, not a girl. I've got to have a boy!).
And her hormones were fluctuating horribly, and not only in the day. Just the previous night, Morgan had heard her in her sleep mumbling: "Samara . . . I hate you! Hate you!!" Morgan had had to nudge her quite a few times in order to make her stop; her insane murmuring had begun to frighten him terribly.
Morgan was in his ranch, brushing August slowly, deeply immersed in thought. What if, he thought, what if Anna dies this time? I can feel somethin' bad about this child. Somethin' just . . . doesn't seem right about it. It hasn't even been born yet but, I dunno, it's just . . . killin' us both slowly.
August snorted, snapping Morgan out of his thoughts. He smiled sadly and stopped brushing his horse. He placed the brush in a small wooden crate and began to walk back towards his house. As he got closer, he looked up at the highest window: his and Anna's bedroom.
He squinted. For a moment, he thought that he had seen someone inside; someone old, someone depressed. Someone who looked rather like his own father. He shuddered and pulled his jacket tightly around him. For a moment, he could have sworn he had seen himself up in that window . . .
Anna had begged Morgan to let them go up to their cabin in Washington. She said that she had needed to be isolated, in fear that she would hurt someone . . . again.
The week prior to her asking to go to their cabin, she and Morgan had gone to the grocery store together. At the checkout line, the cashier had been taking an extremely long time. Anna, in a fit of rage, had hurled a wooden box containing a few cigars for Morgan at the cashier after she had mouthed off about "Hey, I'm the only one workin' here today."
Anna had (politely) asked the girl to hurry, because she and her husband were going to go to a horse competition and she didn't want to be late.
The cashier had responded: "Bite me, you fat bit-"
Anna, knowing what the girl, in about her early twenties, was going to call her. Without even thinking, she had thrown the wooden cigar box at the cashier and heard the girl scream out in pain.
At the time of the scream, Anna had felt the baby kicking happily. Do you like that? she thought, asking the baby subconsciously. Do you like it when people are hurting? Do you?! DO YOU?
Suddenly, she had felt a passionate hate for her baby.
She looked back at the cashier, who was screaming with her hand pressed to her forehead, just above her left eye. Blood was trickling through her fingers and down her wrist. Anna smiled. Seeing the blood made her baby kick even more joyfully, and Anna did not feel sick when she looked at the blood. It made her feel . . . empowered, malevolent.
The manager ran over to the scene and demanded to know what had happened. Morgan had quickly explained that Anna was in the middle of a pregnancy and that her hormones were "out of control."
The manager took one look at Anna's hefty stomach and nodded. He did not want to get involved with a pregnant woman; he knew what could happen if they got angry. Just look at what had happened to his cashier, who had tears running down her face, screaming at him over "how can you let her just leave? Look what she did to my f-f-f-" She began to stammer, her breath coming out in hicks. She let out a wail. "My f-f-face!"
The manager had shooed Morgan and his wife on, telling them to leave before there were any more problems.
Now Anna was literally begging Morgan to let them go up to their isolated cabin. "Please Richie?" she asked, placing a hand on his chest. "I can't stay here. I'll-I'll hurt someone again. I can't do that, Richie. Please, please can we go?"
Morgan ran a hand through his dark brown hair. "I dunno, Anna. How long do ya want to stay?"
"A few months."
"Anna, you're in your forth month of pregnancy! What if you go into labor up there?!"
"Richard, we've been through this many, many times. You'll know what to do if that happens." Anna smiled at him; her wispy black hair was tied in a high ponytail and she was swishing it back and forth as she waited for an answer.
"But what about the horses-?"
"Get John to watch them; he loves it. Please, I can't let what happened last week happen again." Anna looked at her husband, her eyes wide, silently pleading with him. "Please," she whispered, reaching out and tracing her index finger down his face.
He smiled, taking her hand in his. "Okay," he said, finally giving in. "But only until you reach your eighth month of pregnancy."
Anna's face broke into a wide smile. "Oh thank you, Richie!" she squealed, throwing her arms around his neck. "And I promise that we'll leave as soon as month eight hits."
Morgan nodded. "Okay then . . . go on and get packed." He watched as Anna walked slowly up the stairs, her hands gently massaging her growing stomach.
Later that day, after Anna and Morgan had gotten packed and loaded up their car, the Morgans were on their way to their cabin in the North-west part of Washington. It was slowly slipping into nighttime. Morgan looked at the passenger seat, where Anna was sitting, while the very last sliver of the sun began to disappear under the horizon.
Anna was sleeping soundly, a lone strand of black hair was hanging in her face. Morgan reached over and lovingly brushed it out of her face, tucking it behind her ear. Anna shifted slightly in her seat, but did not awake.
Morgan returned his gaze back to the empty road. But he doesn't know. Seven . . . seven.
Morgan looked around, confused. That voice, it had been there, hadn't it? That frightening voice of a young girl; it had been there, talking to him. Hadn't it? Morgan shook his head slightly. Careful, Rich, he told himself. You don't want your (son, son, son!!) kid thinkin' you're a schitzo, now do ya?
But that voice . . . it had been there, he was sure of it. It had been there, telling him something. He wasn't crazy, he knew that the voice had been there. Calm down, Morgan, he thought. The last thing that you wanna do is start arguin' with yourself.
Anna shifted again, diverting Morgan's gaze for a split second. When his eyes drifted back to the road, he saw a . . . young girl standing in the middle of the road and he swerved and went flying over the edge of the cliff they had been driving on and fell and fell and Anna awoke and Morgan could do nothing more than watch as the two of them hurdled to their death and the young girl that had been in the middle of the road simply stood there, her hair covering her face, unmoving . . .
Morgan blinked, snapping himself out of his hallucination. He could feel sweat appearing on his hairline, goosebumps popping up over his arms, his heart pumping madly. It seemed like he had awakened from one of those dreams where it feels like your falling and falling and then you hit the ground and wake up and your heart is going crazy.
He took a deep breath. Already it seemed as though their lives had been turned upside down. He looked down at Anna's slightly-round stomach and grimaced. He wanted the baby to die, die, DIE!
Morgan swallowed. How could I think such a thing? he asked himself. That's my child in there.
But he did. He did want the child to die. He wanted a kid more than anything, but not that one. Something about it . . . he didn't want it. He did not want it.
"Richard! Breakfast!" Anna called up to her husband. She and Morgan had been up at their cabin for nearly a month now, and her stomach was growing at an alarming rate; she appeared to already be in her seventh month of pregnancy. Morgan hoped that the baby wouldn't be born premature; especially four months premature. Except . . . maybe, maybe if it was born so early, it would not live. Maybe . . .
Morgan came down the stairs, trying desperately to shake off all of his "death wishes" he had been thinking towards his unborn child. He sat down at the small dining room table, smiling a painted-on smile up at his wife as she served him his breakfast: two pancakes with a pool of syrup, a small slice of butter and . . .
Morgan grimaced; there was a black fly crawling figure-eights on the top of his pancake . . . and God only knew what else it was doing. Slowly, he reached down and closed his thumb and forefinger on the fly's wings. He pulled it up off of the pancake and tossed it over his shoulder, the way a superstitious person tosses salt over their shoulder after spilling the salt shaker.
Morgan looked back down at his breakfast, somewhat hesitant to eat it. The rumor about flies flashed through his mind: Every time a fly lands, it lays an egg. Frowning at that thought, he cut away the part of the pancake that the fly had touched.
"Richard, what's wrong?" Anna asked, and Morgan looked up at his wife, who was watching him with a distraught look upon her face. "Is there something the matter with your breakfast? I'll make you something else . . ."
Anna turned to walk back towards the kitchen, but before she could enter the kitchen, Morgan shook his head and protested, "No, no Anna. There's nothing wrong. Just sit down." Anna turned around and gave her husband a questioning look. "Really, there was just a fly on it. You don't have to make something else."
She shrugged but smiled, sitting down (quite awkwardly) beside Morgan at the dining room table. Morgan proceeding in eating his breakfast, happy that Anna had actually sat down. Why was it, he wondered, that she never sits down unless I make her. Doesn't she know, after all of those pregnancies, that sitting down is good for the baby?
Bzzzzzzzz. A buzzing in his left ear interrupted Richard Morgan's thoughts. His left hand went up and batted at his left ear, which ridded himself of the irritating noise . . . for a moment. Within a matter of seconds, the buzzing had returned. This time, however, it did not hover by his ear, but rather circled his head once, returning back in front of him. Morgan saw that it was the same fly as before (although he could not be positive; all flies look identical). The one that had landed on his pancake. He watched the fly hover over his plate and then land on the edge.
Morgan watched as the fly crawled slowly towards the pancake, as though it was taunting him. With fast reflexes, Morgan quickly reached out and took a hold of the fly, crushing it between his fingers. His face contracted into a sick expression and he picked up his napkin and wiped the fly carcass off of his hand.
"Richard, sweetie!" Anna said, suddenly, and the concern in her voice caused Morgan to look over at her quickly, causing his neck to crack. "Your nose!" she explained, off of Morgan 's What is it? look.
His eyebrows rose in confusion, and he brought the tips of his middle and forefinger up to the bottom of his nose. As he brought his hand away, he saw the red, sticky blood on the tips of his fingers. "Oh great," he murmured, snatching up another napkin and pressing it to his nose. "That's fucking great," he added, sarcastically.
Anna watched him in obvious confusion. "I didn't know that you had nosebleeds. I've never seen you have a nosebleed. Ever."
Morgan shrugged, as though it did not bother him. But, unknown to Anna, his heart was racing. Oh, my God, he thought, trying to look calm and collected. I've never had a nosebleed in my entire life. Why, why now? Why? His gaze drifted to Anna's protruding stomach and a horrible thought flashed through his mind: It's that goddam KID. That little THING that's in my wife. IT'S doing this to me. That little . . .
No! he thought, interrupting the previous thought. It's not your child. It can't be. That's insane. Nosebleeds happen; it's no big deal. Calm down and stop blaming everything on your soon-to-be son or daughter.
Keeping that last thought in mind, Morgan began to calm down and his heart race decreased. "Well . . ." he began, answering his wife's previous question. "It happens, right?" he asked, grinning, in a pathetic attempt to keep his wife from "freaking out."
Somehow (how, exactly, he did not know), his attempt suceeded, and his wife smiled back at him; not a cocktail-party smile, but an honestly happy smile. "I guess you're right," she said, the panic in her voice gone.
Seeing her smile made Morgan feel better than he had, but there was still something, something, about the nosebleed that made him feel . . . there was not even a word that seemed fit to describe how he felt. Empty. Dead, his mind told him. That's how you feel. You feel like you no longer are alive, a part of this world. That's how you feel. That was how he felt. That was exactly how he felt.
"RICHARD!" Morgan looked up from the horse he was brushing and looked out the window of the barn. The voice had held such pain that Morgan actually jumped up, but was unsure of what to do.
He began to walk out of the barn when he heard the pain-filled voice again. "RICHARD! HELP! ME!" Hearing those three words sent Morgan into a full sprint out of the barn and out towards the green valley, where Anna had gone, as she had put it, "for a nice walk."
Yeah, well, that "nice walk" seems to have taken a turn somewhere, Morgan thought, knowing that he should feel more sympathy towards his wife. She probably fell down and hurt herself somewhere, but he had warned her. Many times. Yet she had convinced him that she would be okay.
A scream filled the air. It was not a word, nor a sentence. Just a long, high-pitched wail that made Richard Morgan run at a faster speed towards the voice.
He knew that if anyone had been watching him as he was running would have been thinking, Where in the hell does he think he's going? But he knew exactly where to go. He was going where Anna spent more of her time while they were up at the cabin. The place that she enjoyed more than any other place in the valley: the well.
That well . . . Anna could spend hours in front of that well, just standing there, thinking. What she thought about while she was standing there, peering down into the darkness Morgan could only guess, but she always came back from the well happier, so he was not going to complain.
Finally, the dark gray well came into view, sitting alone in the valley, and, to the left of it, screaming and writhing in pain, was Anna Morgan. Morgan could see fresh blood on the grass beside her.
"Anna!" He ran over to her and kneeled down beside her. "Anna, what's wrong?" He did not know why he had asked. He had a pretty good idea of what was happening, but he simply had to hear it from his wife, or else he would not be able to believe it.
Sweat was pouring down Anna's pale face. Her breathing was raspy and heavy. She took a hold of Morgan's shirt, holding it tightly in her fist. "RICHARD! I'M IN LABOR! HELP ME! IT'S TOO EARLY! I CAN'T LOSE ANOTHER ONE! NOT MY BABY! NO! HELP MY BABY!"
Labor. Three months early, and she was going through labor. Would the baby even survive? Morgan rubbed at his temple before reaching down and taking Anna's hand in his. "Don't worry, Anna-"
"NO! IT'S TOO EARLY, RICHARD! OUR BABY'S GOING TO DIE!"
"Shh, shh," Morgan said, soothingly. "It'll be okay. Just breathe. Breathe." Anna did as she was told and began to do her breathing, Morgan breathing along with her.
It'll be okay. Morgan's words to his wife echoed in his mind. It'll be okay. But would it really be okay? His child was being born very early. Was there even a chance? A small chance that it would survive?
Anna's grip on his hand tightened and she let out a scream. The sweat that was dripping down her forehead began to mix with the tears that were now pouring out of her eyes. "Please . . ." she murmured, as though she was praying. ". . . please."
Morgan felt tears begin to well up in his own eyes. "Anna, please . . . please just breathe."
The labor continued for over half an hour, but it had seemed to be over a day. At the end, Anna let out one final scream before gasping and collapsing on the cool grass.
Morgan smiled, leaning down to kiss his wife on the forehead. "Don't worry, baby," he said, softly. "Don't worry." He stood up and walked over to where he could see the baby moving underneath his wife's now-bloodstained skirt. Gently, he lifted the hem of the skirt . . .
. . . and gasped in utter shock. The baby, as he had assumed it would be, was not terribly small. It did not even appear to be premature. It was . . . the perfect size. The baby began to wail. It's alive, Morgan thought, unsure whether to be happy or completely terrified. It's alive. But how?
"Richard, is it okay?" Anna asked, in between gasping breaths.
"Y-Yes," was Morgan's reply. Did I say that? he asked himself. He was not sure; all he could see was that baby squirming on the ground in front of him.
"Bring it to me," Anna said, reaching out her arms.
"I don't think that-"
"BRING IT TO ME!" Anna screamed, beginning to cry again. "BRING ME MY DAMN BABY!"
Morgan winced at the sharpness of his wife's words, and then leaned down to pick up his child. The baby, just previously screaming and twisting around on the ground, fell silent in its father's arms. Morgan smiled; the baby, his daughter, looked so . . . peaceful, its eyes closed, a look of tranquility upon its face.
"My daughter," he murmured. "My daughter . . ." The baby, as though it had heard her father's words, opened her eyes. Morgan's own eyes widened in fear. The baby's eyes were so dark. So completely empty that he actually wanted to drop it back on the ground. Its eyes were so, so dark . . .
"Richard, give me my baby," Anna instructed, and Morgan leaned down and laid the baby gently in his wife's arms. "My baby," Anna cooed, stroking her daughter's face with a lone finger. "My daughter. My Samara."
As soon as his wife said that name, Richard Morgan felt a chill go up his spine. He placed his hand on the top of the well and leaned against it. He could not shake away the memory of his child's eyes. They had been so dark. So horrible. So . . . evil. They had been so filled with . . . nothingness that it had been frightening.
Morgan's gaze drifted down into the darkness of the well, and immediately he felt himself experiencing a deja-vu. Was it his imagination, or did the dark circle of the well remind him of his own daughter's eyes?
"Richard?" Richard Morgan looked down at his wife, who had a look of fear upon her sweat-soaked face. "I-I think that . . . we should tell people that we adopted Samara."
Morgan was taken aback by his wife's suggestion. "Why?" he asked, although he was not completely opposed to the idea.
"I . . . I can't . . . let people think that this," she said, looking down at her daughter, the young girl's dark eyes gleaming with emptyness, "came from us."
Morgan sighed, then kneeled down next to his wife. "I think you're right," he said, nodding. "We should tell people that we adopted."
"Really?" Anna asked, smiling sadly. "I would give her away, but . . . God, Richard, she's the first to have actually . . ."
Morgan nodded. "I know, I know. It's okay." He kissed his wife's cheek. "It's okay," he said again. But will it be? Will it be okay?
The darkness in his daughter's eyes haunted him, even as he sat on the cool, wet grass, an arm around his wife.
Will it be okay?
To Be Continued . . .
A/N-Please review and tell me what you think. No flames, as always, but suggestions are welcomed with open arms. Thanks to all who do!