The Red Cry

The Red Cry

They called it "Red-Plated Skin Disease," a term whispered in hushed tones, a grim legend passed from one trembling voice to another. Years ago, in a small town in Germany, unassuming and shrouded in perpetual mist, a couple anticipated the birth of their first child. Their joy was short-lived, as frequent visits to the doctor revealed something chilling about the unborn child.

The baby was abnormally large, its shape grotesquely egg-like. It shifed unnaturally within the womb, as if impatient to emerge. Doctors were baffled, their faces tight with concern, though they chose their words carefully to avoid alarming the couple. But the husband noticed how their hands shook, how their voices dropped into whispers behind closed doors.

On the cold night of December 6th, a month before her due date, the wife suddenly screamed in agony as her water broke. The husband, panic-stricken, drove through the desolate streets to the hospital. The air felt heavy, like the world itself was holding its breath. When they arrived, the doctors rushed the woman into the delivery room.

But what followed would haunt everyone present for the rest of their lives.

The child came into the world with a wet, guttural sound, a noise so foreign and unnatural it froze the room in stunned silence. Nurses gasped, dropping instruments as they stumbled backward. The father, standing at the edge of the room, felt his knees weaken.

The baby was massive, its body a landscape of cracked, bleeding skin that resembled dry, broken earth. Each jagged crack seemed to ooze a viscous, dark fluid. Its chest appeared as though it had been flayed with a knife, raw and glistening under the harsh lights. The child’s eyes—two glowing orbs of molten red—stared blankly at nothing, yet seemed to see everything.

The room filled with an unnatural sound—a low, rasping breath, deep and guttural, like the exhalation of a creature from the depths of Hell. The doctors, pale and shaking, exchanged horrified glances. One finally whispered, his voice trembling, “He’s… breathing.”

The baby let out a cry, but it was no ordinary wail. It was a sound that clawed at the mind, a guttural, demonic roar that reverberated through the sterile room. The glass of the observation window cracked under the sheer force of the sound. Nurses fled, screaming, as if they could outrun the horror that had manifested before them.

The father stood frozen, his face a mask of terror. A chill ran down his spine as he heard the baby’s guttural voice for the first and last time: “Mama.”

Moments later, the baby fell silent. Its tiny, misshapen chest ceased its grotesque heaving, and it lay still, lifeless.

In the days that followed, no one in the hospital spoke of the event. The baby’s body, grotesque and unnatural, was buried hastily in the woods near the hospital grounds. Rumors spread like wildfire, and the forest was soon avoided by everyone.

Years passed, but the legend only grew. Those brave—or foolish—enough to venture near the burial site at night reported hearing the cries of a baby. But it was no ordinary cry; it was a mournful, guttural wail that seemed to echo from the depths of the earth. Some claimed they heard a voice, faint and sorrowful, whispering,

"Don't Leave Me Alone,Mama."