This is an automated archive made by the Lemmit Bot.
The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/Braven025 on 2024-11-18 15:27:40+00:00.
Day One
It was Friday morning. I started my day nursing a hangover from the night before, drinking my way through a pot of coffee and munching on toaster strudels (real healthy, I know). I had a morning filled with zoom meetings, and was feeling thankful for the option to keep the camera off because, let’s face it, I’m not as young as I used to be and good lord, does a night of drinking do some damage.
Anyway, as I was going into my last meeting before lunch, my phone rang. I silenced it quickly and set it face down so I wouldn’t be distracted. It’s no good to be off cam AND distracted. After the meeting, I forgot all about the call and got up from my desk to make myself some lunch – a salad with grilled chicken (cancels out the toaster strudel, right? Right?)
Just as I sat back at my desk, my phone rang again. When I picked it up, I saw I had five missed calls – two from my husband, Dylan, and three from a number I didn’t recognize. What the heck? I dropped my fork and mashed the answer button. It was the latter that was calling me back.
“Hello?”
“Hi, is this Mrs. Harding?”
“Who’s this?” I asked.
“This is Detective Phillips from the police department.”
My mind jumped to the missed calls from Dylan. Oh, God. Did something happen to him? A car accident? A shoot out? Fuck! My heart was beating out of my chest. Words lodged in my throat like a wad of wet bread. I sputtered, then asked, “Is my husband alright?”
“What?” the detective said, obviously confused.
“My husband,” I gasped. “Is that what you’re calling about?”
“Oh, no ma’am…”
“Thank God,” I breathed. “What can I do for you?”
“Ma’am…I’m calling because we found your son.”
Shock prickled through me. “Excuse me?”
“Your son, ma’am, we found him. He turned up at the police station last night and we were able to positively identify him this morning.”
My mind started spinning at the detective’s words. He must have the wrong Mrs. Harding. I don’t have a son. I don’t have any children at all. Dylan and I never wanted them. We have a nice life, just the two of us and our dog, Gus. Financially, we do well. We can pick up and travel whenever we want. Besides, I just never had that maternal instinct. And there’s nothing freaking wrong with that, despite what my mother thinks.
“Hello? Ma’am? Did you hear what I said?”
The detective’s voice jarred me from my thoughts. “Um…yeah, but…”
“We need you to come down to the station. Your husband is already on his way.”
Dylan was? Why?
“I think you must have the wrong number, Detective Phillips.”
“Shit,” he swore. “Is this Alyssa Harding, address 563 Pine Tree Court?”
“Yes, it is, but—”
“Phew,” the detective said. “Thought I’d really messed up there. You’re definitely the Mrs. Harding I’m looking for. Please, come down to the station at 555 Wilson Avenue ASAP.”
Before I could get another word out, the call disconnected. I pulled the phone back from my head and stared at it in disbelief. I was the Mrs. Harding he was looking for? It didn’t make any sense. What made less sense was that Dylan was headed to the station, too.
I logged off work, changed out of my “work clothes” (consisting of yoga pants and an old t-shirt), and pulled my hair up into a messy bun. Gus tap danced around me as I hurriedly got ready, then I dropped a treat on the floor so he wouldn’t get mad when I left him. Outside, there was a warm breeze, odd for an afternoon in mid-November. Something about it just felt wrong.
My hands trembled the whole way to the police station as I navigated my Prius through the leaf-strewn streets. I pulled up outside the low brick building and heard my name the second I stepped out onto the street. I turned. Dylan was rushing toward me, a grin plastered on his face. I almost didn’t recognize him.
“Alyssa! God, I tried to call you twice! Why didn’t you pick up?”
“I-I was in meetings all morning,” I said, thrown off by his intensity. “What is going on, Dylan?”
“Didn’t you talk to the detective?” he asked, grabbing my hand. He pulled me toward the glass entrance to the building with such force, I stumbled over the broken concrete a couple of times.
“Yes, but, I don’t understand,” I said, breathing heavy. Something was really wrong here.
“They found him, Lyss!” Dylan cried, prying open the door. “They found Logan!”
Logan. Logan. The word tumbled around in my head like a single item inside a dryer. Logan. They found him. What the fuck was going on?
I stopped short, yanking my hand from my husband’s, this man who looked like my husband anyway, but certainly wasn’t acting like him. “Dylan, stop!”
He stopped walking and blinked at me, confusion clouding his face. “Lyss, what’s going on? Didn’t you hear me? They found Logan! Why are you acting so strange?”
I bit down on my tongue, fighting the urge to unleash a series of swear words. I wasn’t the one acting strange here. Why couldn’t he see that? Who the fuck was Logan? Why were we even here?
I took a deep, measured breath. “Dylan, I don’t know what’s going on. I don’t know who Logan is, and why the fuck we should care that they found him.”
My words were like a slap to the face. Dylan recoiled, a look of disgust coming over him. His eyes darkened and he leaned in close, murmuring to me, hot breath washing over my face. “Please don’t do this right now. Just come with me.”
I wanted to turn around and walk away. But I didn’t. I should’ve. If these past four days have taught me anything, it’s that following Dylan through that police station was the worst mistake I’ve ever made in my life. But something inside me told me to go with him. Curiosity, I guess. Wanting answers. The urgency in Dylan’s demeanor. I should’ve fucking run.
“Fine,” I said quietly.
We took the elevator up to the second floor and pushed through a set of double doors to a reception area. Dylan approached an officer behind a desk.
“Mr. and Mrs. Harding here to see Detective Phillips,” he said.
The officer’s face lit up. “Yes, of course, he’s waiting for you. You can head right back to his office.”
He pointed straight back through a maze of cubicles and Dylan motioned me forward. Dread snaked through me and my legs started to tremble as we walked. Officers in cubicles stopped to stare at us. One was even crying, wiping tears from her cheeks with a wad of tissues. What was with all the fucking dramatics?
The office door swung open before we even got there, and a man in his mid-forties with a slight pot belly and a full beard grinned out at us. “He’s right in here, folks, come, come. He’s been waiting anxiously for you.”
He sounded so excited, it was almost contagious. Until I remembered that there was nothing to be excited about. Whatever was going on was seriously fucked up. Dylan went first, stepping over the threshold and into the small office. I saw his body tense, then relax with a rush of breath.
“It really is you!” he cried, his voice breaking. “Lyss, it’s him! After all this time, our son has come home!”
I stepped timidly into the office. A boy—maybe six or seven—sat perched on a chair, his dark curly hair disheveled and standing up at odd angles on his head. He clutched a juicebox in one hand and a ratty teddy bear in the other. He was pale, but his cheeks were unnaturally rosy, and he looked up at us with the darkest, widest eyes I’ve ever seen.
Seeing him was like a gut punch. Fear course through me like an electric shock. This kid, whoever he was, definitely wasn’t my son. In fact, I was pretty sure he was pure fucking evil.