Every night as a child, Hannah’s Oma had tucked her into bed with tales of changelings that switched with children if parents weren’t vigilant. Hannah still knew the rules to find a Wechselbalg: they can’t touch iron, can’t eat eggshells, and can’t stand heat. Tonight, she was thankful for that knowledge, because Charlotte wasn’t Charlotte.
Hannah had kept a steady job babysitting the toddling Charlotte for going on half a year — fourth Friday of every month, when the Nelsons went on their “monthly date night.” It was a good gig for a high schooler; Charlotte was an okay kid: too young to do more than babble a few words while playing in the Nelsons’ roomy living room.
Hannah figured the entire house, recently remodeled, was at least twice as big as her mom’s. She didn’t know why the Nelsons needed all that space. The living room and adjoining kitchen were picture-perfect, like the ones in the glossy magazines that Hannah’s mom liked to flip through at the grocery store checkout.
Between the extra cash Mrs. Nelson left for pizza and the mega big-screen TV in the living room, Hannah always had a pretty sweet setup once Charlotte went to bed. But tonight felt different. Charlotte didn’t really look like Charlotte. Sure, her big blue eyes looked similar to Charlotte’s, and so did the tuft of hair that stuck up in the back of her head. It had something to do with her smile or her walk. Watching her turned Hannah’s stomach.
“Lottie,” said Hannah. “Lottie, look at me.”
Charlotte looked, and Hannah peered into the child’s eyes. “Are you Lottie?” she whispered.
“No!” Charlotte said, with a distinct note of defiance. It chilled Hannah, the way the child looked directly into her eyes. It wasn’t the way a child looked at you. Her gaze was too aware, too knowing, too… other.
Her answer wasn’t conclusive, though. Mrs. Nelson had warned that Charlotte was apt to say “no” to anything you asked her these days.
Hannah thought back to the bedtime tales her Oma had told her. Her stories ended the same way every night: “That is why, Liebling, I always tuck you into bed with the fireplace poker. I would never let a Wechselbalg take your place.”
The Nelsons didn’t have a wood-burning fireplace. But there were other ways to catch a changeling. They couldn’t eat eggshells. That seemed easy enough to test.
She scooped up Charlotte — it gave her the creeps, the girl’s skin didn’t feel like skin, it felt like rubber, she was handling a rubber child — and placed her within sight of the kitchen. “Would you like eggs for dinner, Lottie?”
“No!”
Hannah ignored that.
With the Nelsons’ recent remodel came brand-new appliances, like a gleaming double oven and induction range. Hannah cracked a couple of eggs into a skillet on the range and scrambled them with bits of eggshell left in. A real child wouldn’t notice.
A few minutes later, Hannah plopped the hot eggs before Charlotte and handed over her spoon. “Eat.”
Charlotte obediently scooped up a mouthful of eggs, then spat them out, bursting into tears. “No!” she cried. She babbled some nonsense words, toddler speak (or changeling speak?), and refused to try another bite. Hannah wasn’t sure if the mouthful she spat out had eggshell in it, but her suspicions multiplied. What normal kid doesn’t like freshly scrambled eggs?
Hannah’s eye wandered over to the cast iron skillet. Of course!
“C’mere,” she said, scooping up Charlotte. “Touch,” she commanded.
Charlotte tried to squirm away, but Hannah placed her little hand on the skillet. Charlotte shrieked and cried harder. Hannah dropped her and backed away. The shrill sound of cries filled the air.
This wasn’t Lottie. This wasn’t her charge. Oma had warned her of the Wechselbalgs and now here was one, right in front of her, and the girl’s parents didn’t even realize. It was up to Hannah to show them the truth.
“The best way to stop a Wechselbalg,” Oma had said, “is to cook them in the oven.”
Hannah turned and looked at the sparkling clean double oven. Perfect.
The Nelsons would be so happy. They might even give her a bonus.
Jennifer Peaslee is a multi-genre author whose work has appeared in BarBar, Moonday Mag, and on the Kaidankai Podcast. She lives outside Atlanta with her mischievous cat, Trouble, and runs The Bleeding Typewriter, a creative writing advice blog and online community.
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