Ghosted: The Little Prankster (Part III)

Ghosted: The Little Prankster (Part III)
Dr. Parks pushed the door open with a soft knock and stepped inside. Her presence filled the small exam room at once—calm, authoritative, with a kind of poise that suggested she was used to handling things most people couldn’t.

“Good morning, ladies,” she said smoothly.

Molly and Tiffany both startled, turned and faced her. They hadn’t even noticed the door opening. Dr. Parks paused, taking in the scene—the gel still slick on Molly’s stomach, Tiffany clutching her friend’s hand like she might float away if she let go, and the technician standing rigidly in the corner, pale and silent.

There was a heaviness in the air, almost tangible.

Dr. Parks didn’t comment. Instead, she offered a kind smile and crossed to the workstation. She flipped through the notes quickly. For just a moment, her eyebrows lifted, the faintest flicker of surprise—but then it was gone, hidden behind her professional mask.

“Well,” she said lightly. “Let’s take a look.”

She took the wand from the technician and placed it gently on Molly’s stomach. The machine hummed, the screen flickered, and there—clear as day—was the baby.

Molly sighed in relief, but she still couldn’t shake the image of the flickering, vanishing child. The same one that had seemed to understand her when she threatened it with Robert.

Dr. Parks adjusted the angle, her gaze sharpening as she studied the screen. The room was silent except for the machine’s faint buzz. After a moment, she murmured, almost to herself, “Remarkable. Your child has a power surrounding them that I haven’t seen since—”

She stopped, catching the alarm flashing across Molly’s face.

Dr. Parks’s tone shifted instantly, warm and reassuring. “Nothing to worry about. The baby is perfectly healthy—just a little precocious, it seems.” She offered a faint smile. “And I’ll make sure that when the time comes, both mother and child are delivered safely.”

Molly tried to swallow the knot in her throat, nodding.

Tiffany, however, still gawked at the screen like she was waiting for the baby to do cartwheels. “Precocious?” she muttered. “Lady, that thing just played peekaboo with the ultrasound machine. That’s not precocious—that’s… paranormal.”

Dr. Parks’s eyes flicked briefly toward her, unreadable. “It means your friend has a very strong child. That’s all.” She finished the exam briskly, wiped away the gel, and handed Molly a packet of standard prenatal instructions. “Come to my office immediately,” she said to the tech as she left. To anyone else, it would’ve seemed like the most normal appointment in the world. But Molly could still feel the undercurrent, the unsaid things hanging between every word.

Outside, the late-morning sun hit them, bright and sharp after the dim chill of the hospital. Molly clutched her bag to her chest, breathing in the fresh air like she’d been underwater.

Tiffany looped her arm through hers. “Well,” she said. “That was… normal. Totally normal. Completely every day. Babies vanish on ultrasound screens all the time, right?”

Molly shot her a look.

“Okay, fine,” Tiffany muttered. “Not normal. Not at all normal. Your kid is already pulling stunts and they’re the size of a peach. Congratulations, you’re raising Houdini.”

Molly gave a small laugh, but her mind was tangled. Power. Dr. Parks had said . And the way she’d cut herself off—it wasn’t random. She knew something. Something she wasn’t saying.

They walked in silence for a few minutes, Molly chewing on her thoughts until Tiffany’s voice broke through.

“Ooooh, look!”

Molly blinked as Tiffany tugged her arm. Across the street, nestled between a café and a florist, was a boutique with pastel awnings and glossy window displays. The sign above the door read “Lullabies & Lace.”

Inside the window were tiny mannequins dressed in frilly baby outfits, some complete with matching hats and shoes.

Molly groaned. “That place looks expensive.”

“Which is why we should go in,” Tiffany said, already dragging her toward the crosswalk.

“I don’t need designer onesies, Tiff. I can barely afford my own rent.”

“Please,” Tiffany scoffed. “You have a wealthy baby daddy. Might as well get used to it.”

Molly froze mid-step. “He’s not—don’t call him that!”

“Oh, sorry. Your ghostly benefactor?” Tiffany smirked. “Look, if the man can’t walk in a straight line, fine. But you did say his family had money. Right? So, let’s let his wallet contribute to this child’s wardrobe.”

Molly opened her mouth to object again, but Tiffany had already hauled her through the boutique’s glass door.

Inside, the air smelled faintly of lavender and fabric softener. Rows of impossibly tiny clothes filled the shop: ruffled dresses, knit cardigans, animal-shaped hats. Molly’s hand automatically drifted to a soft yellow sleeper, her chest tightening.

“I wish Robert was here,” she murmured, not realizing she’d said it aloud until Tiffany’s arm slipped around her shoulders.

Her friend hugged her tight. “He’ll come around, Mol. And even if he’s not here today, he’s not gone. You’re not alone.”

Molly smiled weakly. The reassurance helped, even if doubt still lingered in her chest.

Tiffany pulled away and picked up a shirt shaped like a tiny tuxedo. “Okay, but how cute would this be? Your baby could look like a bouncer at a nightclub.”

Molly laughed, then glanced at the price tag. Her laugh died. “Eighty dollars? For a shirt they’ll outgrow in a week?” She set it down quickly, her hand darting to the clearance rack instead.

Pulling out a faded green onesie with crooked stitching, she forced a smile. “This one’s… nice. Very practical.”

Tiffany wrinkled her nose. “That’s hideous. Why would you put my godchild in that?”

“It’s not that bad,” Molly said defensively, but the grimace on her face betrayed her.

“It looks like swamp algae,” Tiffany said flatly. Then she straightened her spine and deepened her voice, dramatically raising her hand. “Robert’s ghost, I summon thee! Come snatch this monstrosity from Molly’s hands before she dooms your child to fashion exile!”

Molly scowled. “You’re ridiculous.”

But before Tiffany’s laughter could fully spill out, the ugly onesie jerked violently from Molly’s grasp as though plucked by invisible hands.

Both women froze, eyes wide, as the fabric sailed through the air and landed neatly in the trash bin by the counter.

The boutique went dead silent.

Molly’s mouth fell open. Tiffany’s laughter died in her throat, replaced by a strangled squeak.

Slowly, they looked at each other, faces pale.

“…Molly,” Tiffany whispered. “Did your Robert just throw that shirt away?”

Molly swallowed hard, her pulse racing. The surrounding air seemed to hum faintly, like static before a storm.

The onesie lay crumpled in the trash, unmoving. But Molly couldn’t shake the impression that somewhere, deep in her belly, the baby was smugly satisfied.

“No…I-I think it’s the baby,” she said as the shirt Tiffany picked appeared in her hand.