It's been quite a while since I have touched a bottle of alcohol.
Had a problem with it when I was younger, but I kicked the habit when I found out that I was pregnant.
I swore I would never even have a drop of the stuff again.
But now... it's been three days and there isn't any hope in sight for my daughter.
If you're just catching this for the first time, the problem started on Friday.
Marcy was drawing on the wall in the back hallway of our three bedroom house, and then suddenly; she was unable to remove her right hand from the wall.
Since that time we've tried every method known to science and it's left my husband Stan and I feeling rather desperate. It got so bad after we called Tim, her uncle; we resorted to drilling from the crawlspace under the house.
Despite the impossibility of it; i can't deny what I am witnessing any longer... it does seem like she is being absorbed by the house.
That was further confirmed when Tim and Stan tried the drill. After lowering it through the vent, followed by the extension cord; I told the boys to give it a shot and held Marcy as close as possible as the machinery activated.
For a moment I thought it was working. She wasn't screaming and seemed to be distracted by the hum. Then it hit the foundation of the house. Marcy let out a wail so loud I thought it might burst my eardrums. Instantly I signaled for the two of them to stop. They hadn't even made a dent in the foundation and it was already causing her more harm.
Once Tim and Stan were back inside, the two of them checked on Marcy first before deciding to go to the den and try to solve this. Somehow I managed to calm her down long enough for me to join them.
"Anywhere close to her is hurting her physically, so let's try going further and further out into the house. There's bound to be somewhere that doesn't affect her. Maybe we start from there and work our way toward her?" Stan suggested. I could tell he was stressed more than ever. He had called into work these past few days to try and help. his job had even called several times yesterday to ask when he was returning and he offered a flimsy excuse. But it's not like we can just ignore bills forever.
"I think you should contact the media. I know you have posted it on the internet so what's the harm here?" Tim suggested. "I don't want a bunch of quacks coming in and treating her like some kind of experiment," I said angrily.
I didn't want to admit that i almost considered posting a video of Marcy's predicament earlier. I couldn't press the button though. It didn't seem right, this was my child not some work of art or a freak show. I didn't know what sort of attention that kind of post would attract. I turned to my phone as the two men talked and reviewed some of the more outlandish theories. Surprisingly the only sanity I have found has been to come online and check the suggestions made. They didn't seem so bizarre anymore.
Many of them were practical, like attempting to cut away at the wall from a Further and further distance That sounded like what Tim had just said. But we soon found out that just about anywhere in the house when we did something it was causing pain to our little girl, even the simplest things like flicking the light switch on and off she said it felt like a shock. Eventually Stan and Tim agreed that they needed to test and see what else did and did not affect Marcy so they went to different parts of the house to try other things. Meanwhile I sat a chair alongside her bean bag and prepared her.
"Uncle Tim and daddy are going to try and see if they can help you... but it's going to take a lot of trial and error sweetie," I told her. She seemed numb now, so tired from pain that she barely registered the words I was saying. I sobbed and held her, wishing that this damned house would take me instead of her. Tim started in the bathroom and turned on the sink. Marcy said it felt like she was swimming and that it was hard to breathe.
Stan went to the living room and turned on the tv. Marcy knew what show was playing even though she was down at the end of the hall and it was muted.
We decided to limit our use of anything in the house, not knowing what could or could not affect her. Tim made a few calls to some nurses he knew over in the local ER.
"The stuff the EMTs gave her was probably not nearly strong enough. If we're gonna do this, she needs to be out cold," he told me.
Stan and I were too tired to argue. A few hours later, his friend arrived and examined our little girl like she was some kind of specimen, asking us all the questions we'd been asked a thousand times. I was already concluding in my mind that this wasn't going to work.
"There's not much room to work with here," the nurse admitted as she tried to numb the little portion of skin on Marcy's arm that was still outside the wall between her arm and shoulder. But the needles weren't working. Most of that part of her body now seemed impenetrable.
Instead she resorted to setting up an IV on Marcy's left arm and gave her a few general antibiotics and morphine as Tim searched desperately online for what sort of anesthetic could do the trick.
"Even if you do get her sedated, how would you even amputate at this point, you would have to cut from the neck down," I said angrily.
"You have a better idea?" the nurse snapped back.
"We aren't dealing with anything natural. So it's not going to be solved by natural means... I think we need to consider calling a priest or something," I admitted. Stan was nearby pouring some coffee and he nodded absently.
"I guess it couldn't hurt to try at this point," he admitted.
"Oh yeah, let's just look in the yellow pages under exorcist," the nurse said rolling her eyes and crossing her arms.
I was about to snap back at her for her attitude when I heard Marcy making more whimpering noises and I went to check on her. Stan was right by my side.
We now saw that her arm was completely sucked in, along with a portion of her shoulder. She was gripping my hand with her left one hard as she told us how badly it hurt. "Why won't it let go of me??" she screamed.
Stan's face hardened and he stood up before going to grab his coat.
"What are you doing?" I asked. "Off to find a priest. There's bound to be someone that'll listen to me," he said.
Tim and his friend were finishing up the next round of drugs, but Marcy complained about the needles. "Every time they stick me, it makes me hurt more in there," she complained.
I touched her cheek softly and kissed her forehead. "I know babygirl; I know. It's going to hurt before it gets better," I said.
But Tim wasn't feeling as sympathetic. He held Marcy still as his friend prepared the next round of general anesthetic. Nothing seemed to be making her sleep though, and the more she was poked and prodded; the more she complained about the wall squeezing her arm tighter and tighter. It was a wonder that she could feel anything at all.
"Just get out! You've done more harm than good!!" I screamed to them. Tim apologized for his friend and the two of them scurried away as I kept rocking her, trying to make sense of this nightmare.
"You should be glad I even came to help!" the nurse shouted as she left the house. Tim muttered another apology and followed after her.
Then just when I was ready to pass out myself, Stan came back. And he wasn't alone.
The man that came with him did not look like a traditional Catholic priest, he was wearing just some khaki pants and a buttoned up white shirt that wasn't completely ironed. It looked like Stan had probably caught him at a bad time because when he arrived he didn't seem too happy with being there. As he got closer, his eyes narrowed and he examined Marcy closely. It was almost infuriating to see yet another person scrutinize our child and treat her like an object.
"I must admit, I've never seen anything like this," he said.
"Can you help us or not?" Stan said in a cold tone. I could tell that he had likely gotten a few negative responses from his search.
"I can do my best," the priest said as he went back outside and then returned a moment later with a small bag.
He laid it down about nine feet from Marcy and then took out a few simple supplies. He first took out long bundles of sage leaves and stems that were tied together and then took out a few bottles of crystal clear water.
He instructed us to wait outside the house as he began to gently pour the water around the spot where Marcy was stuck.
I hesitated, not wanting to leave my little girl; but I understood the stakes and promptly left to go stand in the yard.
Stan and I stood there holding each other for the next twenty minutes or so, waiting for some signal that it was ok to come back inside. And the longer we waited, the more uneasy I felt. Was this man really here to help our daughter? What if he was a molester or something? And how did we even know if he was really doing anything helpful or not?
Suddenly; a shrill noise burst through my thoughts. It was a smoke alarm. Stan ran in to shut it off and I wasn't far behind him.
"Open all the windows," he told me hastily as I ran amid the smoky hallway to grab hold of Marcy.
"Are you okay?" I asked her; touching her face. It was hard for me to really she her expression but she nodded silently as I went to the other windows to ventilate the house.
Once the smoke was starting to clear, I could tell looked like what had happened was the priest had lit the sage on fire and then dropped it on the ground for whatever reason.
"Jesus Christ," Stan said as he waved the smoke away and tried to find the priest.
But he was nowhere in sight. I turned my attention to Marcy, to make sure she was okay. Then I let out a louder scream.
I didn't think it was possible, but it was now somehow worse. Part of her face was melded to the wall up to the edge of her right eye and her lower chest as well.
"Baby are you okay? Did that man do something to you?!" I screamed as I squeezed her hand. She was sobbing again, and looking around frantically. It was clear she was panicking because she couldn't turn her head.
"I don't know what happened mommy. He was chanting something and talking funny and then he began to strike the wall... I... I felt dizzy when he did that. It was scary. He was a scary man," she admitted.
Stan checked the rest of the house but there was no sign of the priest anywhere. I slumped against the wall, feeling deflated and defeated.
There was one thing of significance though. The spot where Marcy had said the priest had been striking the wall felt a little different.
It felt warm.
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Credits
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