Megan's Bath-- Prologue

The camcorder lay useless at the bottom of the toilet, where it had landed after being flung across the bathroom.

Moments earlier, Michael had been happily recording a milestone of his daughter's young life: her first bath. His wife had cradled the baby's pudgy little body close to her own, cooing happily, as she dangled a lazy finger into the carefully-measured-out inch of bathwater in the tub, checking its temperature for the twentieth time. She turned Megan's little face-- which wore the look of perpetual confusion typical of the newly-born-- to the camera and chirped her name, then knelt carefully beside the tub and laid the baby in the little cushioned seat that would support her. Still cooing, Helen dipped a tiny washcloth into the bathwater and began to delicately dab the baby with it.

Then all hell broke loose.

Helen dropped the washcloth and gasped. "Michael," she said uncertainly, "look."

"I'm getting it, Helen."

"No," Helen urged him. "Look at her face. Look at her legs."

Michael lowered the camera from the face and looked. There was an odd rash breaking out across the baby's body: red welts in a diamond-shaped pattern.

"What the--?" He peered closer.

"We rinsed out the tub, so there wouldn't be any residue on it," protested Helen, as if she was pleading a case. "We used the baby detergent on the washcloth, not the regular."

"You're not using any soap, are you?"

"Not yet," said Helen, looking bewildered at the bottle of baby wash that stood at the ready by her knee.

Suddenly, Megan lurched violently, splashing her mother with water. Her eyes bugged out, her mouth gaped, and she was thrashing and gasping for air.

"Oh shit!" cried Helen, instinctively grabbing the dripping-wet baby from the cushion and holding her fast to her chest, as if she could wrestle the seizure into submission, but Megan kept jerking and twitching. That was when Michael threw the camera away from him, inadvertently sending it flying into the toilet. He grabbed a towel and stuffed it around Megan's writhing body, as if drying her off would do any good.

"She can't breathe!" cried Helen. Megan was wheezing, trying to find air anywhere she could. "Call 911! Now!"

Michael ran out of the room for the telephone as Helen cradled her distressed infant fearfully, praying for the awful thrashing to stop and wrapping the towel tightly around her. Should she try CPR? Did she know how? Helen cursed her poor preparation and the demon that had possessed her poor, helpless infant, and pleaded for the ambulance to arrive. "Please...please...please...please..."

Slowly the lurching and gasping subsided, and Helen summoned the courage to look into Megan's face, fearing she had died. Instead, Megan looked alarmed, then burst into wailing tears.

"Oh, God," sobbed Helen, clutching her baby tightly.

Michael ran back in. "They're on their way," he gasped. "What's happening?"

"It's over," wept Helen. "She's okay." She drew Megan's face away from the hollow of her neck to show Michael; Michael heaved a huge sigh and sank to his knees. He put his arms around both of them and the small family rested together for a moment, none of them sure what had just happened.

"Are you okay, sweetheart?" Michael asked Megan gently, wiping the tears away from her tiny cheeks. "It's okay now, it's okay."

"What the hell was that?" Helen looked haunted.

"I don't know. Let's take a look at that rash."

He carefully pulled the towel away from Megan's little body; immediately, both parents gasped.