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The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/Braven025 on 2024-11-19 16:28:35+00:00.
Day One Cont’d
(First of all, I want to apologize for having to split up Day One – I don’t have a lot of time to write things down, but there was a lot that happened that I need to explain. I have to constantly be looking over my shoulder. I will try to do better moving forward)
The media was waiting for us when we walked out of the police station. Crowds of people that hadn’t been there when we entered. I walked beside Dylan, my body in a vice grip of cold, hard fear. He grasped the boy’s hand in his, a grin plastered on his face, waving at the camera crews and journalists that had somehow been alerted to the boy’s “return.” I was struck dumb. What was wrong with me? This kid wasn’t ours, but somehow my husband of nine years, the police department, and the media seemed to think he was.
“Mr. Harding, Mrs. Harding, how does it feel to finally have your son back after he went missing three years ago?” a portly man with a bald patch asked. He leaned in, raising his eyebrows, waiting for an answer.
My stomach flip-flopped. I couldn’t answer him. What the fuck would I say, anyway? This isn’t our kid, but my husband thinks he is? The police are mistaken? I want a DNA test? Nothing would sound right coming out of my mouth. So I just clamped it shut and shouldered past all the nosy onlookers. Dylan, on the other hand, was happy to be the center of attention. He pushed the boy in front of him, that shit-eating grin on his face, and said proudly, “This is the happiest day of our lives.”
A young woman stepped forward then. “Do the police have any leads on where Logan has been all this time?”
Dylan shook his head. “Not yet, but we’re hopeful they’ll figure it out. Or that Logan will be able to tell us.”
The first man turned to me and I whipped toward him with a steely glare before he could get another question out of his mouth. “No comment.”
Was I losing my mind? Did I block out the boy’s existence to save some shred of sanity when he went missing? If that was true, why did I feel this inexplicable sense of dread and fear when I looked at him? Shouldn’t I be happy? But no, I was completely out of my mind with confusion and fear. Nothing about it felt right, even as Dylan ushered the boy into his car and turned to me.
“We’ll meet you at home,” he said, breathless. “I can’t believe it, Lyss!”
I made a grunting sound and climbed behind the wheel of my Prius. For the second time that day, I considered running. I wouldn’t have time to stop at home and pack a bag. Or say goodbye to Gus. How could I leave without Gus? Fuck. Whatever was going on, I needed to stay and figure it out.
At home, Dylan’s car was already in the driveway when I pulled in. He was standing on the front steps with the boy, talking in soothing tones to him.
“This is our house, Logan,” he said. “You probably don’t remember it, but not much has changed.”
The boy looked back at me as I approached. His dark fucking eyes pinned me to the sidewalk. They were dead inside. And they didn’t just stare through me. No. Maybe that would have been better. They stared INTO me. Like he could see all the way into my soul, prying open the folds of myself I didn’t even know were there, prodding, poking, digging around. Why didn’t Dylan see that? Instead, he unlocked the door and pushed it open. The boy hesitated.
“May I come in?” he asked, speaking for the first time. His voice was soft and one-toned, lacking any sort of emotion. It sent shivers ripping through me.
“Yes, of course,” Dylan said. “This is your home.”
The boy looked up at me again. “May I?”
I frowned. Dylan just told him he could. Why the fuck was he asking me?
“Lyss,” Dylan hissed. “Answer him.”
“Uh, y-yes. I guess.”
The boy nodded and followed Dylan into the house. Gus bounded down the hallway, his nails tip-tapping on the hardwood floors. He stopped short in the kitchen, the golden hairs on his back instantly standing on end. A low growl rumbled in his chest. I fucking knew something wasn’t right. Dogs always know.
“Hey now, Gus,” Dylan scolded. “It’s Logan. You remember him, don’t you?”
Gus started to back away, bumping into chairs and cabinets as he went, not taking his eyes off the boy. When he was about twenty feet away, he turned and ran, disappearing into the back of the house.
I raised my eyebrows. “Dylan, don’t you think—”
“He just needs to warm up to him again,” Dylan said crossly. “It’s been three years.”
“Sure,” I said, shrugging.
“Your room is down here at the end of the hall, buddy,” Dylan said. “We didn’t really touch it after you left so it might be a little…young for you now.”
The sound that came out of me then caused Dylan to shoot me the dirtiest look. What the hell was he talking about? The only thing at the end of the hall was a guest bedroom that had become a catch-all for boxes and junk we didn’t need in the main house. Certainly not a child’s bedroom.
But when Dylan swung open the door, the breath caught in my throat.
Soft beige carpeting, a sturdy wooden bed topped with a navy blue bedspread, sailboat posters on the wall, and a pile of stuffed animals in the corner stared back at me. I blinked my eyes in disbelief. A wet sound gurgled in my throat.
Dylan raised his eyebrows at me, then placed a hand on the boy’s back. “Go on, buddy, get comfortable. Mom and I are going to get started on dinner,” Dylan said.
The word “mom” uncoiled something inside of me, like a spool of thread coming undone, unraveling all over the floor in a messy, tangled heap. The boy spun around slowly, then perched timidly on the edge of the bed. As we walked out, and the door swung closed behind us, I turned just in time to see a smile spreading across the boy’s face. But it wasn’t a smile of happiness or humor. It was the most unsettling thing. His lips spread wide, wider than I would have thought possible, but his eyes remained dark and emotionless. I shuddered as Dylan moved down the hall toward the kitchen.
Out of ear shot, he spun on me. “Alyssa, what is going on with you? Are you in shock or something?”
I honestly didn’t know how to answer the question. It was obvious that one of us was cracking up and at the moment, I didn’t know which one of us it was. When we made the decision not to have kids, it wasn’t just my decision. Dylan was adamantly against them too. He didn’t even like spending too much time around his nieces and nephews. They freaked him out. Now, all of a sudden he’s Dad of the Year?
“I’m fine,” I said quietly.
I wasn’t ready to let on that something was terribly wrong, because it seemed like I was the problem. What happened if I didn’t keep up the charade? Would Dylan have me hospitalized? The very idea filled my mouth with a sour, metallic taste. Because how could I NOT be the problem? There was a bedroom in our house that I remembered being filled with boxes and random shit. Not a kid’s bedroom. Definitely not that. Why wouldn’t I remember something like that?
“Well you’re not acting fine,” Dylan snapped. “This is all we’ve wanted for the last three years.”
“Is it?”
“What are you talking about, Lyss? God, I can’t believe you!”
“Something is wrong with him.” I couldn’t help it. The words just popped out. I couldn’t hold them inside any longer.
Dylan’s mouth dropped open. “Un-fucking-believable! Of COURSE something is wrong with him! He’s been missing for three years and who knows what he went through during that time! How can you be so insensitive?”
His words stung, bringing heat to my cheeks. He was right, of course. He had to be right. Something was wrong with ME. But deep down in the pit of my stomach, denial clung tight. Insistence that it wasn’t me. It was him. It was them.
“Well?”
I looked up at my husband, the man I’d called my best friend, the man I barely ever fought with, and saw disgust in his eyes. When I didn’t answer, he threw his hands in the air and stormed into the kitchen, rummaging around for something to make. I doubted he was going to find much in the way of kid-friendly food. Unless the kid liked asparagus and grass-fed beef. Dylan settled on a box of pasta and put a pot of water on to boil.
I wandered into the living room and sank onto the couch, dropping my head in my hands. There was a stranger in our house. A dark-eyed stranger who my husband insisted was my son. What the hell was I going to do? A tear slipped from my eyes as I listened to the sounds of Dylan puttering around the kitchen. I glanced down the hallway at the closed guest bedroom door, remembering that wide smile and those big, soul-staringly dark eyes.
When Dylan had finally concocted something suitable for everyone, he brought the pot out to the table, along with a stack of dishes.
“Logan, dinner’s ready!” he called.
I watched with dread as the guest bedroom door swung open. The boy stood silhouetted in the doorway, still, silent, watching. I was frozen in place, waiting to see what he would do. Then, it was like he snapped out of a trance, and he came down the hallway into the dining room.
“There you are,” Dylan said happily. “Take a seat. I made pasta.”
“Okay,” the boy said. He climbed into a chair and sat with his hands folded in front of him.
Dylan turned to me. “Will you be joining us?”
I nodded and rose from the couch, passing a bookshelf as I went. My heart stuttered and skipped in my chest. On the middle shelf, among the photos of Dylan and I, there were some pictures I’...
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