The Dark Somnium - My Son Went Missing 10 years Ago. What came back Wasn't Him

Episode Date: April 28, 2024

This Story is by Ryan Major, check out his new book here:https://books2read.com/donebefore Hosted by Simplecast, an AdsWizz company. See pcm.adswizz.com for information about our collection and use of personal data for advertising.

Rhythmic ticking and a high-pitched wine filled the air as I sat on my porch, shading myself from the already hot morning sun. The overwhelming drone had gotten so bad that you could hear it indoors, so the interior of the house offered no relief. I hated being cooped up inside, so I had taken to putting silicone plugs in my ears. If they did the trick to block out the sounds of the coal mines, I figured that they would do the same for that damn droning. A brood of cicadas, noisy, flying insects had crawled out of their underground burrows and seemed to cover the entire town three weeks ago.

They usually only stuck around for four to six weeks, but it was a noisy event. The hum was usually at its peak around sunset, but you could hear them droning throughout the day. I could see at least a dozen clinging to the trees in the front yard, flapping their wings and crawling lazily up the bark. Truth be told, aside from not wanting to sit in the house all day, it was a small break from the increasingly uneasy environment at home for the past month and a half. Ever since Jake came home, I was less and less at ease. Going to work was almost a relief, but my days off were best spent outside to avoid uncomfortable confrontations.

I stared down at the tattered copy of Without Remorse by Tom Clancy, mostly disinterested. It wasn't as good as I hoped it. it would be, but I was never much of a reader. One of those streaming services has a show called Jack Ryan, which I thought was pretty good, based on one of Clancy's characters. Decided to try my hand at a few of the books. The one about the nuclear sub was decent. Not as good as Patriot games, but again, I'm not much of a reader. Just as I sat the paperback on the rough-hewn table beside me, a hand patted me on the shoulder, and I jumped. Looking up, I saw Dan Porter, my next-door neighbor of the last 30 years, smiling and moving his lips. I pulled the silicone plugs out of my

ears and dropped them haphazardly on the book. Dan chuckled as he realized I hadn't heard a word he said. Well, you're smarter than me, Paul. I've been out working in the garden all day and these cicadas a damn near drove me crazy. Molly won't even come outside. Just sits in the parlor with the volume on the TV turned up so loud it'd wake the dead. Says it blocks out the hum. "'Ruinning my ear, as I say.' I laughed as Dan brushed his muddy hands on his worn workpants. It would shock me if the television volume was what was taking his hearing away. He was 85, as best as I could recall, and was one of the only people I enjoyed spending

very much time with. Old-timers were a little more my speed. Not that I was any spring chicken myself. My 52nd birthday had just passed the previous month, and retirement wasn't far off. I had started working for the number nine coal company 30 years before, and my investment account had fared pretty well over the years. Eh, the cicadas are enough to drive you mad. I said, smiling at Dan. He plopped down heavily in the chair on the other side of the table.

Cut Molly a little slack. I have to put these earplugs in to get a little peace and quiet, so I'm sure the loud TV helps keep her sane. Besides, I can't hear it over here, so it can't be too loud. Loud enough for me. He muttered, fishing a crumpled pack of Winston cigarettes out of his shirt pocket and putting the flame of a dented zippo to the end. Thirteen-year cicada. I heard him calling on the news.

The Great Southern Brood. I'll be glad when the sons of bitches move on. August is bad enough with the hot days. Constant buzzing is going to drive me to an early grave. I bellowed laughter at the last part. Not many people would have considered. considered 85 to be an early grave, but I didn't want to say it out loud. He was friendly enough, but it didn't take much to rub him the wrong way, and he wouldn't

come around for a few days. In the past, maybe I wouldn't have worried so much about it, but my wife had died three years earlier, and I had a bad habit of isolating myself. Dan was my cure for that, invited or not. Your boy has been milling around again at night, Paul. Dan said, blasting Acrid Bell. fellows of smoke as he talked. I know y'all have been having a hard time since it came home, but it's starting to upset Molly.

She said he leans against a tree between our houses and looks at the house till the sun goes down. You're going to have to tell him to stop. Don't want to call the law, but it ain't normal. And Jake is having a hard time adjusting. I said, bumping a fat cicada as soon as it landed on my pant leg. Its legs had already gripped into the fabric, and it took a second blow from my middle finger before it fell to the porch. I'll talk to him, though.

I'm glad that he's home, but I'm not really sure what he had in mind coming back. He doesn't seem like himself anymore. I guess the drugs have a big effect on his brain. Doesn't talk much. Staying clean is a tricky thing, I guess. Dan pushed himself from the chair and rolled the smoldering tobacco of his cigarette from the paper before stamping it out. Looking down, he gave him.

the cicada a kick, sending it sprawling into the grass. Sit down and talk to him. Dan said without turning around. Give him a swift kick in the ass. That'll motivate him. I got a spare boot if he needs two kicks. Ah, you're a good fella, Paul. But you've got to get that boy lined out.

Looking in people's windows and not is a good way to get shot. I ain't saying it'll be me or Molly. But Dan, it is peculiar. I gave a nervous look to break the tension, but the unsettling feeling nestled back into the core of my chest as Dan disappeared around the corner leading between our houses. Talking to Jake was the right thing to do, of course, but it wasn't easy. He had only been home for three weeks. It was the first time we had seen each other in over a decade. Jake hadn't even come home when his mother died, but I hadn't expected him to.

Out of contact, there was no way he would have known she was even sick. We had hardly spoken since he showed up on the porch all those weeks ago, but when we did, it was rarely pleasant. I still loved him, but he didn't seem like the same kid Amy and I raised. Jake Combs was born on August 2nd, 1994, at 9 pounds and 6 ounces. He came kicking and screaming into the world, and things never slowed down. He hit every milestone ahead of schedule and was just as damn smart as any parent could want a kid to be. His mother, Amy and I, were over the moon.

Jake was everything we always wanted. Life with Jake was smooth sailing until his first year of high school. A growth spurt hit him the summer before his freshman year, and it seemed to bring a whole new sense of confidence, and it seemed to bring a whole new sense of confidence that had never been there before. Gone was the bookish academic kid of his younger years. Almost overnight he seemed to develop an undiscovered interest in sports, girls, and late nights with friends.

When he came home, he told me he wanted to try out for the football team. I was excited beyond words. Amy was an incredibly smart woman, having earned a doctorate in education, but school had never been my strong suit. I managed to scrape through high school and even knocked out a few semesters of college, but sports and the outdoors had always been more my taste. Amy had relished Jake's years on the academic team, but I was eager to develop a connection with him through the same sport I had played.

Turns out the boy was a pretty damn good cornerback. I made it a priority to be at every one of his games, trading shifts when I had to, and taking comp days when I couldn't. Watching him out on the field gave me pangs of guilt that I hadn't made the same time for his academic meets in middle school. Better late than never, though. We would go out to Mel's diner for burgers immediately after every game, usually celebrating a victory.

But occasionally washing away the sorrow of a loss with a large chocolate milkshake. It was some of my happiest times with him. But things started to take a turn as he entered sophomore year. Eating with me at Mel's was a thing of the past by the second season. He would go with me now and again, but more often he would ask to go hang out with some of the other players. It stung a little bit, but I understood. Jake was young and tasting his first serving of popularity, hanging out with your dad in a greasy spoon diner just didn't stack up with spending time with your teammates.

I assumed they snuck a few beers in around their celebratory bonfires, but I had done the same and didn't worry too much about it. It was around this time that he started pushing the boundaries. Jake had always been a polite, respectful, rule-abiding kid through the years, but his pleasant demeanor seemed to fade a bit. He used to listen to just about anything his mother and I told him, but why became the more common response when we asked him to do a few chores around the house. It wasn't anything major, just the angsty teen attitude cropped up without warning.

I caught him smoking a few times, which also didn't seem like a big deal. He would give a half-assed apology and promise not to do it again. We didn't find any more cigarettes in his jacket pocket, but it wasn't uncommon for him to come in from a night out with friends reeking like an ashtray. Amy would give him a knowing look, but he would always reassure her a friend. friend had been smoking in the car on the way home. It was average teenage rebellion, I told her. She wasn't so sure, but I reminded her I had raised a fair amount of hell in my younger years

too. When his team won the regional championship at the end of the year, Amy and I couldn't have been more proud. I had already bought a pack of steaks to cook when we got home to celebrate. He ran to us in the stands afterward and scooped his mom up in a huge hug. I swatted him on the back and smiled. gave me a playful punch in the arm, too embarrassed to hug me in front of his friends. What do you say we head home and toss some steaks on the grill?

I said, grinning from ear to ear. I got fillets. Nothing too good for the champ. He sat his mother back on her feet and turned around to me. Maybe tomorrow. He said, half a question, the other a statement. Brandon Vickery just told me his dad gave him the keys to her lake house and said we can have a bonfire out there. You mind if I go? I could see the concern in Amy's eyes.

Brandon Vickory, a senior, was a decent kid with a reputation amongst the other football parents for providing beer to their kids. He was respectful when he needed to be, but he was the kind of kid you felt was always putting on the right face to adults. Honey. Amy started, frowning a little. Your dad really wants to celebrate as a family. Do you think you could go with them another night? Jake's shoulders slumped and his happy expression faded into a brow drooping frown. You've got to be shit.

He said, and Amy gasped. We just won the championship, Mom. There won't be another night like this for a long time. I don't understand why you don't want me to go have a good time. Amy looked at Jake. Her eyes filled with hurt at the venomous response. You always come home smelling like beer when you go out there, Jake. She responded, her voice verging on tears.

I'm just not sure it's a good idea. I already told you I don't drink when I go out there. be a bitch. Jake broke off suddenly, but I was certain he was about to call his mother a bitch. My blood was boiling. I put my hand on Amy and Jake's back to guide them off the field, so I could speak to them in private. But his mother started talking to him again. Let me talk to your father. Amy stammered, still in shock. Maybe you can... No. I said firmly.

Let me clear up that maybe for you now. You're not going to talk to your mother that way. I'm getting fed up with this newfound attitude. Get your gear. and head to the car. You and I will talk about this when we get home. But dad? Jake started, but I held my hand up to stop him from continuing. Do you want to do this in front of your friends? I asked, but he remained silent, walking toward the car with his head down like a pouting child. The three of us drove home without talking. Amy turned on the radio to break the crippling silence, and I heard her start to cry. I reached my hand over for hers, and she gripped it tightly. Every kid goes through phases, my father had told me, but it was the first time Jake had spoken

that disrespectfully to his mother, and I was so angry I thought I could scream. It never came to that, though. As soon as we pulled the car into the driveway, Jake jumped out and ran upstairs to his room. He locked the door and turned on his television, cranking up the volume so loud I could hear it from the front door. Angry, I stomped up the stairs and knocked on his door, telling him to open it so we could discuss his behavior. He didn't answer, and I began knocking louder than before. The volume of my voice was beginning to rise and sharpen when Amy put a hand on my shoulder and guided me toward our

bedroom. Hesitantly, I went with her. Let's give everyone the night to cool off, Paul. I think cooler heads will prevail in the morning. God, I wish she had been right. I went to bed as mad as I had ever been that night. Jake had always been such a mellow kid, and it took me by surprise. It wasn't even an over-the-top outburst, rude as it was. Sometimes when your kid does something foolish, years of good memories and excellent behaviors seem to slip out of your mind. All I could think of was him cursing at his mother until the minute I went to sleep. That night, I woke to the sound of the landline phone ringing on the bedside.

Looking at the clock beside me, I saw it was 3.30 a.m. It took a moment for my brain to register what was happening before I answered the phone. A man was on the other end, asking for Paul Combs, and I told him in a pissed off tone that he was speaking to him. Sir, my name is Gregory Allison, and I work with the Hancock County Sheriff's Department. We have your son, Jake, in the back of one of our cruisers right now. He wrecked his car near Honey Locust Lake. We were responding to complaints from local residents about a kegger some kids were having down the road. While en route to the scene, we saw your son staggering on the side of the road.

His car was on its side in a ditch. There is a strong scent of odor on your son, and he subsequently refused to take a breathalyzer. I asked the officer for the location and got out of bed to get myself dressed. Amy woke up as I was putting on my shoes, and I explained the situation to her as calmly as I was able. Jake had snuck out after we had gone to bed, and had drunkenly driven his car into a ditch on County Road 992. The deputies were waiting for me to come pick him up. She offered to come, but I asked her to stay, and she agreed. tearful as she was.

When I arrived, the deputies helped me walk Jake to the back of my car before lowering his wobbly frame into the back seat. I took the citation with the court date from the deputy, and he told me where the tow company would take the ruined Honda Civic my son had dumped into the ditch. Jake snored loudly in the back seat as I drove him home, rage boiling, and hauled himself inside to bed. He was too drunk to talk. It wasn't until the next day that Jake tried telling me through tears that he snuck out,

and only planned to stay at the party for an hour or so, but he had one too many beers. When he saw the time, he was scared we would notice he was gone and tried to drive home quickly. A deer had jumped in front of him, and he overcorrected into a ditch. That night was just the first in a long series of ordeals for Jake. He appeared before a juvenile court judge, who placed him on six months probation for DUI. The coach cut him from the team, and his grades started to slip substantially. Amy and I didn't let him leave the house for nearly a month after the accident, and he seemed to be remorseful about it.

But that didn't last long. Not even two months after the wreck, Jake was back in front of the judge. Drug possession this time, a school resource officer had walked in on Jake and some of the other football players snorting something in the boy's bathroom at the high school. One of the other kids flushed it before the officer was able to see what it was, but with Jake still on probation, his PO drug tested him before the day was over. He was positive for meth. Amy and I didn't have a chance to talk to him before the judge ordered a bailiff to remove him from the courtroom and be transferred to the juvenile detention center to counties over.

He was ordered to serve the remainder of his probationary time at the facility and would be released to our custody in four months. His mother wailed, but I could only stand there feeling ashamed and embarrassed. She visited him twice a week, but I was too angry to go. Jake was in and out of Juvie until he turned 18. when he moved on to the county jail system. I'm not sure exactly how or when drugs had taken control of him, but he fought against every attempt his mother and I made to help him get clean. He rotated between home, jail, and various rehabilitation centers

until we had nearly drained our savings dry trying to help him. The addict has to want for themselves what you want for them. A counselor told us once, You can't force change. It comes with time and self-accountability. That never came, though. After a three months stay in jail, I picked him up, and we drove home in near silence. His body had wasted away to a wery frame, and his skin was covered in half-heeled sores.

As we pulled into the driveway, I finally broke down. Tears were running down my face, and I was gasping for air. I couldn't reconcile the boy I loved so much growing up with the shattered young man in the seat beside me. Jake put his hand on my shoulder and started crying, too. I'm sorry, Dad. He said through tears. I'm going to get better. This was the last time.

I sighed and looked toward him. He tried to smile, and for a moment, I could see the kid Jake had been before. My heart ached. We can't do this anymore, Jake. I said, breathing heavily. Mom and I have enough cash saved up to send you to one last treatment facility. After that, we're done. We love you, but we literally can't afford to keep doing this.

You've got to make it work or go somewhere else. I can't watch you waste away. I'll make it work, Dad. He said, and through all my doubt, I believed him. This time is going to be different. He left the treatment facility three days after we dropped him off, vanishing without a trace. I was irate, but the rehab director explained to me that Jake was an adult and couldn't be kept there against his will.

They just gave him all his belongings in a backpack and let him walk out. Months turned into years, and we never heard from him. Amy would scour the internet, searching arrest records to try to find any trace of Jake, but he had just vanished. I called his cell phone every night and left a message, asking him to just call back and let us know that he was okay, but the call never came. After a few weeks, it just went straight to voicemail. I kept paying the bill, hoping he would turn it back on and take my call, but he never did.

It was a strange transition for Amy and me, knowing we had a son we loved but never spoke to. We had no clue if he was alive and well. At least once a month, sitting in the living room watching television and silence, my wife would look at me and ask if I thought Jake had died. I reassured her that he was fine wherever he was, but in my heart I felt like something had likely happened to him. Dead, maybe, but almost definitely homeless and in the grips of addiction.

She would smile, though. Lies can be comforting. Amy died two years ago. I'm still believing my sweet lies. Her cancer moved quickly, and I spent every day by her bedside, holding her hand and trying to take in every moment. Towards the end, she looked at me, tears in her eyes, and made her last coherent statement. Paul, fine Jake.

Promise me that. I promise. I choked out. I'll bring him home. Two months ago, as I sat in the recliner eating chips and drinking beer, the house phone began to ring. After Amy passed away, I usually let it go to the answering machine. Anyone who really needed to talk to me called my cell, but I kept the landline active

anyway. It was the only phone number Jake would have any chance of knowing. Any time I thought about calling the phone company and shutting it off, I remembered the promise I made to my wife. I couldn't shut off the only means of communication he still had. Amy's voice poured from the speaker, cheerfully asking the caller to leave us a message after the beep. My heart skipped a beat any time I heard the message. Listening to her voice was a terrible mixture of pain and comfort.

I had never worked up the nerve to replace the outgoing recording. After her voice faded, a young man began to speak. Uh, hello? Mom? Dad? Anyone there? It's... It's Jake.

I guess you're not home and I'm on a pay phone. I'll try to call back later and catch you. Jake? I asked my heart hammering. Is that you, buddy? Where are you? Are you okay? Hey, dad.

He said, his voice soft and uncertain. I'm okay, I guess. Is mom there? I kind of want to talk to both of you. My throat went dry when he asked for his mother. I tried to find the words to tell him she was gone, to lighten the blow. but I came up empty.

The only option was to lay it out. Your mother died two years ago. I said, my voice scratchy. Lung cancer. She fought it hard, but it had already spread through her body before the doctors found it. I thought of consoling him, but having to relive that horrible memory over the phone with someone I hadn't seen in ten years made a low anger simmer in my mind. Through the muffled receiver, I could hear him whimpering.

The anger began to drift away as I remembered Amy's last words. Bring him home. Promise me that. I'm sorry, Dad. He finally said, anguish clear in his voice now. I should have been there. I'm so sorry. Where are you, Jake?

I asked, trying to push through my grief. Tell me where you are and I'll come get you. The phone was silent. Are you still there? I asked, has sudden panic lifted in my voice. Just tell me where you are. I'm pretty far away. He said ambiguously.

But I'm coming home. I'm going to hitch a ride from the West Coast and it should only take me a few more days. A few guys from the shelter found work in the next state over, so I'll start out with them. I'll come get you, Jake. Shit, I'll fly you home. Just tell me where you are and I'll leave now. No, Dad. I've taken too much from you as it is.

He said and paused for a moment, gulping in a deep breath. I've been clean for a few weeks now and I'm ready for a fresh start. Let me finish making my way back home. I'll be there soon. Why won't you let me come get you? I asked desperately. Hitchhiking isn't safe, Jake. I dug this hole, Dad.

I'll be there in a few days. Don't worry. I was about to start arguing with him again, but suddenly I heard another man's voice in the background. Jake began arguing with him in a heated voice, but the muffled sound of cloth rubbing on the phone receiver made it so I couldn't hear what they were saying. Growing nervous, I shouted his name a few times, but he didn't answer, instead continuing the

argument with the other voice. Sorry, Dad. He said finally. There's just crazy asshole that's been following me. He showed up at the homeless shelter a few weeks back and always seems to be hovering around, creeping the hell out of me. But the staff there won't make him leave since he hasn't hurt anyone. Anyway, I'm almost out of call time.

This track phone only had a few minutes left to begin with. I'll see you soon, Dad. I love you and I'm The line cut out I tried to do a callback But the automated voice of a pay by minute cellular service Repeated that the caller I was dialing was unavailable at the time It was a worrying few weeks as I waited for Jake to call

Or show up at the house Any attempt to track down where his call had come from was fruitless The police said they weren't able to help Since my son was an adult And had the right to go where he wanted I understand why they weren't able to help but it didn't stop me from slamming the phone and kicking over a kitchen chair in response. I would sit on the porch most evenings, absently scanning the pages of a paperback book.

Some nights Dan and Molly would wander over and keep me company. The idle conversation helped pass the time, but I spent almost every minute worried sick for my boy. Most nights I sat alone, scanning the darkening streets for headlights. It was nearly midnight, and I was starting to nod off in my porch chair when I caught the silhouette of someone standing beneath the street lamp down the road. They weren't moving, just standing in the electric glow. Their head upturned and staring into the abrasive light. Now and again, I thought I saw their body shuddered before falling still again.

After a few minutes, they lowered their head and began walking down the street again. As they entered the circle of light washing over the ground, they stopped again and tilted their head toward the light. The process repeated with every street light until the street light until the stranger was standing less than a hundred feet from me. You doing okay? I called, keeping my voice low to keep from waking the neighbors. Look like you may be lost, my friend. The man turned his head away from the light and looked toward me.

His clothes were dirty and hung loosely from his thin frame. Greasy strings of shaggy hair tumbled from the top of his head nearly to his shoulders. Shark cheekbones stretched painfully against his skin and his eyes sat in deep sockets. A shudder jolted through his body as our eyes met. Dad? I stood from my chair, but my knees buckled and I fell back onto the seat. The man on the sidewalk stepped out of the light and walked clumsily through the yard towards the steps. His body convulsed as he moved, making each step unsteady.

He held to the stair rail like an old man as he walked up. The porch light washed over his face, and somewhere in that emaciated face, I saw my son. It was Jake. He didn't talk much that night. It was more my issue than his, though. I asked where he had been, and he just sort of shrugged. He was clearly exhausted, and I was in a shock stupor. After nearly a decade apart, all we could do was sit in silence.

I let him in the house, and offered to find him some fresh clothes and let him take a shower, but he said he just wanted to go to bed. The weeks of traveling had been hard on him, and he just wanted some sleep. I don't think I slept a minute that night. At least once an hour I would get out of bed and wander down the hall, opening the door as quietly as I could and looking in to see if he was still in the bed. It was a relief each time I saw him. I never quite expected to see him again, but there he was.

He's home, Amy, I said into the quiet of the night. I didn't find him, but he's home. Even under a pile of blankets, I could see his body tremble every few moments. It worried me how violent the jerks could be. Years of drug abuse had taken a toll on his body, I told myself, but the worst of it was probably withdrawal. He said he had been clean for a while, but I didn't really know how long the symptoms would last. The next few days were an uneasy adjustment.

Jake stayed in his room most of the time, though he would talk when I knocked on the door. Most of my questions received hazy responses at best, where he had been, how he had survived, how long he had been clean. He wouldn't commit to a direct answer. It's just been a hard few years, Dad. He would say over and over. I'm home now and want to make a fresh start. Dredging all of that up doesn't seem like it would help very much. I did the best I could to accept that he needed time, but it was getting frustrating.

If I didn't initiate a conversation with him, he just didn't talk. He rarely asked me any questions or seemed concerned about what had happened in my life for the last decade. More than anything, it angered me that he didn't even ask about his mother. Amy spent every day since he went missing worrying after him. Not an evening past that she didn't ask where I thought he was and how he was doing, but Jake never even mentioned her. He just accepted that she was gone. No signs of sorry, no signs of mourning. He just sat in his room for days in near silence. The evening after Dan and I talked about how Jake had been scaring Molly, I sat on the porch, soaking in the last of the afternoon warmth. The sun was beginning to settle.

I closed my eyes, feeling the heat wash over my face, and I began to nod off. I hadn't slept well since Jake came home. The air in the house was full of tension, even without any kind of heated conversation. A combination of silence and a busy mind kept me from feeling settled. Every day, I waited for Jake to break the silence and tell me everything about what he had gone through over the last decade, but it never came. Just seconds before I would have slipped off into a peaceful sleep, I heard a screen door slammed from the back of the house in the creek of the old wood stairs leading from the back porch

into the yard. Opening my eyes, I watched as the last ray of sun slipped behind the houses across the street and vanished. It was dusk, and Jake had just slipped out to the backyard. Standing from my chair, I walked to the railing and leaned over, looking around the corner of the house. Molly Porter was standing in front of the kitchen window, eyes cast down, likely washing the dishes from an early supper. Dan walked behind her and gave her a kiss on the cheek, leaving her with a wide smile. There was a low but audible clicking noise, almost like the sound of a cooling engine block drifting from the corner of the house.

I stepped back and walked down the stairs toward the noise. I had heard it before during the nightly symphony of the cicadas, but never quite so loud. It was growing steadier as I reached the gap between my house and the porters. Standing beside a gnarled old tree trunk was Jake. His chest was leaning against the tree and his hands were wrapped around the trunk. Vibrations ran up his body as he gazed up toward Molly through her kitchen window. I began walking toward him, and as I did, the clicking. grew louder. I was almost upon him when I realized the clicking was coming from Jake. Gripping his

shoulder, I turned him around gently, but firmly. He shuddered with panic and staggered backwards, bumping against the wooden siding of the porter's house. A twig with a brilliant green leaf stuck out of his mouth, and he spat it on the ground. I looked up to see Molly jump in the window. Through the thin glass, I could hear her shouting for her husband. A few seconds later, I heard their back door open and the strained voice of Dan in the distance. You bastard! He shouted, the audible sound of a shell settling into a shotgun not far behind. I told your father this morning to keep you the hell away from my house, but I guess you

just can't. Dan stopped walking when he saw me standing before Jake. There was a 12-gauge shotgun in his left hand. The look of anger was fading away as he realized I had caught my son in the act. Jake looked towards him, eyes darting between the gun and the old man's face. You got this taken care of, Paul? I nodded, and he went back in the house without another word. Get in the damn house and go to bed. I said, taking Jake by the collar of his shirt and leading him into the house. We're going to talk in the morning. The next morning, my temper was flaring. I hadn't

slept the night before. Instead, I sat in my recliner, listening for Jake to wake up and try to leave his room. There wasn't a sound in the house the entire night, only the endless droning of the cicadas. woke Jake early, sat him down in the living room, and told him we had to talk about a few things. There would be no more silence if he wanted to stay in this house. I would, to the best of my ability, respect his privacy on some matters. Others, I needed him to explain. Dan nearly shot you last night, I said flatly. I don't know what the hell you're doing, but that shit stops now. Do you understand? Jake nodded. Where have you been all this time? I asked. My tone more stern than I was hoping.

I just, Jake, I need to try to understand what's going on with you. You've been gone for ten years and I'm so happy you're home, but you've got to fill in some of the blanks. You don't talk. You're looking in the neighbor's windows like some kind of fucking peeping Tom. You shake constantly. I need to know what the deal is. He sat on the couch, eyes cast on the floor and twitching slightly.

His skin was richly tanned, almost a darker tone than when he had arrived. Large patches of dry skin seemed to cover his body. As far as I knew, Jake had only showered once since he had been home, which concerned me, but I was constantly worried that badgering him about those little things would drive him away. California. He said, his voice low and droning. He drew the word out uncomfortably long, almost as if he was searching for the correct punctuation.

I spent most of the time in California. The climate is nice there. It's warm. What made you come home? He shrugged his shoulders, shifting loose folds of skin on his neck. Small pieces of flaking skin scattered onto his t-shirt. I was so happy to have him home that his terrible physical health hadn't settled in on me until that day. His limbs looked far too thin, but his stomach and joints seemed mildly swollen.

I just felt like it was time. Haven't you ever felt like a place was calling to you, Dad? Like there were some instinct driving you back to where you came from. It just felt right like I had to. I've never really been away long enough to feel that, Jake. I said, trying to sound understanding. Did you get in some kind of trouble out there? He shook his head, but continued staring at the floor.

You said there was another homeless man following you. Did he do something to you? I don't want to talk about that. He said, his whole body twitching in response. I started to ask him again, but I stopped myself, afraid he would shut down. His reaction made it clear that that memory still made him uncomfortable. How long have you been clean? I asked, only mildly certain that he actually was.

You said you'd been off the junk for a few weeks. How long now? The shakes and convulsions made me suspect that he was still using, but I wasn't sure. It wasn't my proudest moment, but I had gone through the meager belongings he had brought with him more than once since he came home. There were a few bottles of water, a stash of dirty clothes, and a small notebook filled with phone numbers, but I hadn't found any drugs. Maybe a month? Things are pretty cloudy before that. Could be longer.

He shook violently before falling still again. His eyes never left the floor. I'm going to make an appointment for you tomorrow to see Dr. Sanderson. I replied, You don't look well, and I want to make sure you're in good shape. You need to put some weight on, and it looks like you have some kind of skin infection. We'll go grab some burgers at Mel's diner once we're done, okay? For the first time in the conversation, Jake lifted his head and met my concerned eyes.

As a child, his eyes had always been a vibrant hazel. But now they were encased in a deep, unforgiving brown. Thin red veins almost seemed to throb in the whites of his eyes as he furrowed his brows. The right corner of his mouth curled, and there was an angry click coming from his throat. He stood quickly and back toward the stairs to his room. No, doctor! He spat, furious eyes locked on mine. I'm not going to the doctor!

You're using, aren't you? I said without thinking. It was careless and prone to push him away, but the words were out of my mouth. before I could stop myself. You're afraid I'll find out you're still using. Jake walked up the steps backward, staring at me and making that strange, angry clicking sound. Give me a test, but no, doctor. I'll leave again.

With that, he darted up the stairs and slammed the door. I dropped my head into my hands and fought back angry tears. That afternoon, I drove to the pharmacy and bought a pack of four-panel drug tests. In my mind, I had already come to peace that he wasn't going to let me take him to the doctor, but I wasn't going to let him stay in my house if he was still using drugs. The entire drive there and back, I worried he wouldn't be there when I got home. Jake! I shouted as I opened the front door.

Come downstairs. If you'll take this test, I'll drop the doctor's visit for a while. You'll need to go eventually, but we can wait. There was no answer. Jake? I called the panic swelling in my voice. When he didn't answer my question, My second call, I dropped the pharmacy bag on the table by the door and darted up the stairs.

When I turned the handle to his bedroom door, it clicked but wouldn't give way. I hammered on the door a few times, calling his name, but he still wouldn't answer. My heart felt like it was in my throat, as a million terrible images of him lying dead on the floor with a syringe in his arm swam through my head. Jake! I shouted a final time. Open the damn door, I'm going to kick it in. Silence.

I kicked the heel of my head. foot into the door three times, but it only rattled in place. For a moment, I considered running to the garage for a pry bar, but every moment the past, I was more certain that my son was inside, dying or dead from an overdose. Anxiety rushed through every inch of my body. On my sixth try, the frame splintered and the door bolted inward. I lost my balance and tumbled to the floor. My head connected heavily with the hard wood, and my vision became a field of white flashing lights painted across a black backdrop. My shoulder throbbed and my left cheek was lying in something cold and wet.

I scrambled blindly to push myself from the ground, only for my hand to land on a slick piece of plastic, causing my arm to slide out from under me. I hit the floor for a second time and lost consciousness. When I came to, a warm breeze was blowing across my face. The wet mess on my left cheek had dried into a hard crust and I brushed at it absent-mindedly with my hand. My vision had returned, and I looked at my fingertips to see green flecks. The plastic bag I slipped on was printed with a cartoon logo of celery. A pile of green slop sat on the opposite side, congealing in the early evening heat. Suddenly, the nightmare visions of my dead sun came stampeding back.

In my days, I had momentarily forgotten my frenzied attempt to enter his room to see if he was safe. I didn't know how long I'd been conscious, but as I scanned the room, there was no sign of him. His bed was disheveled and empty, but his duffel bag was sitting in the corner by the closet. I gave a momentary sigh of relief, assuming it was a sign that he hadn't taken his possessions and run again. The sound of the cicadas was nearly deafening as I looked toward his open bedroom window. Fading sunlight fell through onto the floor, revealing more piles of what I assumed was chewed celery. I carefully pushed myself from the floor and stepped around the wet mess to look outside. The branches of a gnarled tree scraped the site of the house, adding a layer of percussion

to the maddening symphony of cicator cries. As I reached the window pane, I rested my hands on the edge and leaned over, staring toward the ground. For a moment, I feared that I would see my son's broken body on the dying lawn two floors below, but there was nothing but a dry flower bed surrounded by browning grass. The shrill cries of the cicada had reached a fever pitch, and I was pushing myself back inside when I heard an aggressive clicking noise coming from a few feet away. Clinging to the body of the old tree branch outside of the window was Jake.

His fingers were buried in the thick bark and his legs were wrapped around the trunk. Greenish-brown twigs jutted out of his mouth as his jaw moved side to side, chewing them feverishly as a rapid clicking noise seemed to pour from his throat. Every few seconds his body would shudder and the shriek of the cicadas would reach a crescendo with each convulsion. Jake? I asked. My words coming out almost as a whisper. What the hell are you?

His head snapped toward me, the bones in his neck cracking with the sudden movement. His eyes, bloodshot and vacant, blinked rapidly as if in response to the sound of my voice. A green wad of mashed leaves and twigs tumbled from his mouth as his jaw went slack. The point of his chin fell horrifyingly low, resting against his neck. A rumbling series of clicks poured from his three. throat, and his body began to rattle again. I reached my hand out the window toward him, and he jolted, scurrying down the tree like an animal. In horror, I watched as he landed on the flower bed and ran on his hands and feet to the edge of the back porch. He grabbed onto the lattice

work and began to pull it violently, sending it flying onto the lawn behind him and crawling into the opening. Bolting from the window, I shot through the bedroom door and stumbled down the stairs. My equilibrium hadn't readjusted, and I had to catch myself on the banister a few feet from the bottom. There was the rough sound of something slamming against the duckwork in the crawl space below the house. I could hear something, Jake, scurrying beneath my feet as I opened the front door and ran out into the warm autumn evening. My breathing was ragged by the time I made it to the back of the house and crawled through the opening under the porch. I could hear the rhythmic clicking pouring out of the darkness, but I couldn't see anything through the overwhelming dark. darkness below. The sounds of the scurring lunges echoed off the cylinder block foundation

as I scanned desperately, trying to find my son. It wasn't until that moment that I realized I had no clue what I would do if I could pull him out. I rested on my left knee and fished my cell phone from my pocket. There was nothing I could do for Jake in whatever manic state he was in, and I knew I needed help. Maybe the police would come and take him to the hospital for an involuntary psychiatric evaluation. At least then he would receive. some medical and mental health treatment. Thumbing the call button, the line for emergency services began to ring in my ear. I almost didn't notice that the sound from beneath the house had died away.

It was eerily quiet. Then as the phone pulsed in my ear, a woman's voice answered just as a bellowing shriek erupted from the darkness in front of me. 911, what is your emergency? She said as I dropped the phone. The frantic sound of someone clawing their way through the space beneath the house startled me, and I stumbled backwards. My phone was face up, breaking the newly fallen darkness of the night. I scrambled forward, trying to pick up the phone when Jake appeared at the edge of

the fading light. A feral expression stretched across his face and a terrible, rapid, clicking rattle coming from his gaping mouth. I braced myself for the impact as he slammed into me, sending me reeling backwards. His thin frame lumbered over me, fingernails and knees pressing into the flesh on my stomach. In desperation, I tried to grab a hold of him to slow him down, but he shook like a wild animal and broke free of my grip. Helplessly, I watched as he darted into the woodline behind the house. Dan and Molly were on their back porch by then, drawn by the commotion, looking toward Jake as he vanished amongst the trees. Molly, her voice filled with fear, was already on the line with emergency services as Don trotted down the old wooden steps of his back porch.

You okay, Paul? He asked. Dan stood over me, offering a veined and wrinkled hand, which I gladly accepted. He hoisted me to my feet and turned to look toward the tree line. What the hell is wrong with that boy? I don't know, Dan. I muttered through haggard breaths. I don't think that's Jake.

It was nearly ten at night when the police and paramedics finally left the house. I had tried to tell Molly I didn't need medical attention, but she hadn't listened. Turns out it was for the best they came. My chest was covered in deep scratches from where Jake crawled over my body during his escape. The paramedics said the cuts looked like they had been caused by an animal. I sat at the kitchen table until the morning hours, sipping whiskey and waiting for the police department to call with some news about Jake, but no word came. There would be cruisers on the lookout, they said, but I wasn't hopeful he would turn up.

Honestly, I was worried that if they found him in his frantic state, they might kill him. As the sun began to pour through the windows, I made myself a cup of coffee and headed out onto the front porch to gather my thoughts. The cicadas, usually vocal at night, were singing their terrible song already, and my head felt like it would split open. I looked down at the table and saw my Tom Clancy paperback that I had been reading the night before.

Two silicone earplugs were still sitting on top, so I grabbed them and sat back in the chair. Working the putty-like plugs, I was about to put them back in my ears when a woman's scream joined the chorus of insect buzzing. I jumped from my seat as the woman screamed again. It was coming from next door. Molly. I ran from the porch and knocked on the porter's front door, but no one answered. Molly screamed again, sounding weaker than before. Rattling the doorknob and banging again, I felt my pockets from my phone to call the police.

Only then I realized I'd left it on the kitchen table. My mind bounced between finding a way into the house and running home, but as Molly wailed again, I knew I had to get inside. I left the front door and turned between our houses past the old oak tree. As I rounded the corner, the back door burst open and a naked man jumped out. He landed gracefully on the ground and turned his head toward me. Blood and gored dripped down his face, and his body glistened in sweat. His mouth opened, and his jaw almost seemed to unhinge and loud clicks poured out.

It was Dan Porter. His eyes were dark and vacant. With speed and agility, his body hadn't known for decades. He sprinted toward the tree line had vanished, just where Jake had the night before. For a moment, I thought to go after him, but a fading whimper was coming from inside the house. I ran inside and fell almost instantly over a pair of denim-covered legs. Scambling to my feet, I looked down and saw it. Dan Porter, there was an open wound on his neck and his skin was milky.

His skin was drawn tightly over his body, looking more like a skeleton than a man. Beside him was Molly, the same wound on her neck, but all around her, a pool of deep red blood was forming. She was silent now, her milky eyes staring at the ceiling. Her right hand was outstretched, only inches away from Dan's face as though she was reaching out for him. Clinging to the kitchen doorframe was a third person, almost transparent. A seam split open down the back, leaving a jagged opening.

In shock, I wandered forward, looking at the face, Jake's face. It wasn't Jake, just a husk, an empty shell that something horrific had crawled out of, something that had just vanished into the woods. I spent more time talking to police in the last month than I ever cared to again in my life. They asked questions by the dozen, but I haven't gotten any answers from them. The porter's house next door has been surrounded by police tape since that awful night. I feel like I'm going mad every time a new detective shows up, asking me to just explain it one more time.

They want to think I'm crazy, and I understand. But they saw the same thing I did. A kitchen filled with carnage, the empty husk shaped just like my son. It's something out of a nightmare, but you can't escape it when you're already awake. I thought I would never know what happened to Jake. but it turns out I was wrong about that. A detective from Los Angeles called me two days ago, asking for help to identify a body. It had been discovered in a drainage culvert not terribly far from Skid Row.

The remains were nearly mummified. It's like something drained all the fluid from the body. The detective said in an oddly indifferent tone. We found a yellow Velcro wallet in the back pocket. No idea inside, but there were a few pictures in a Hancock County Library Carbone. with the name Jacob Combs on it. Is that your son, Mr. Combs? I was sitting on the porch like always when I hung up the phone.

The sun was beginning to settle behind the houses across the street. I cried like I had so often these last few months. The cicadas were almost gone, though. Nighttime was quiet and serene again. That maddening brood was settling in below ground again, leaving behind nothing but their brown, forgotten husks. Their piercing cry would die off, a few years again. For that, I was grateful. I'll be flying to Los Angeles tomorrow to bring

home what is left of my son. Not that hellish thing impersonating him. My son, Jake. I found him, Amy, and I'm going to bring him home.