Welcome Home

We’ve been on this road for hours. We’re alone out here. There hasn’t been a single other car, gas station, or even a road sign since we left the city.

Michael is different, too. He’s been different since he came back from wherever he went, but this is really different.

He hasn’t said a word. When I asked, for the fiftieth time, where we’re going, he just looked at me with his expressionless eyes before fixing them back on the road.

Everything was fine until six months ago. We were sitting at the kitchen table having lunch when it happened.

He got up to grab some cheese for his sandwich. He opened the refrigerator door and stooped behind it, disappearing from view.

“Look in the top drawer,” I said.

He didn’t answer.

“Is it not there?” I asked.

Nothing. Not even the sounds of him rummaging around.

“Michael?” When I stepped around the table, I could see inside the fridge and, worse, the empty space where he should have been crouched. “Michael!”

I searched the house, screaming his name. The police searched the neighborhood, knocking on doors and asking if anyone had seen him. Most of our neighbors joined the search in the woods, and the authorities even dragged the pond near our house.

It was useless. There was no trace of him. I knew there wouldn’t be. He practically disappeared in front of my eyes. He wasn’t anywhere near a door or window, and I certainly would’ve seen him if he had left that way.

The police eventually had to move on to other cases, although they assured me that Michael’s case was still open and actively being investigated. I didn’t really believe that, but I don’t know what else they were supposed to do.

Then, two weeks ago, he was back—not that he came back—he was just back. I was in the living room when I heard his voice from the kitchen. At first, I assumed it was a trick of my grieving mind, but then I heard the refrigerator door close and his voice again.

“I guess I forgot to buy it. Hey, where did you go?”

I ran into the kitchen, and there he was, standing in front of the fridge, wearing the same jeans and checkered shirt he was wearing when he vanished. He even had the same scratch on his cheek that he had gotten trimming the shrubs that morning.

Without even thinking about it, I jumped into his arms and kissed his face. I had no idea how, but he was back. I had my husband back, and nothing could upset me. But that was then.

He had no answers for me. To him, he reached into the refrigerator on a hot July afternoon, and when he stood up again, it was a cold January morning. He didn’t believe me until I opened the curtains and showed him the snow on the ground.

The first few days were a blur. He seemed to have renewed energy, almost like he was in his twenties again. His boss was thrilled to have him back, and he went back to work right away. Every evening, instead of relaxing before dinner, he found something to tinker with: a loose cabinet door, cracked sheetrock, a leaky faucet.

At night, he was insatiable. Before, we had a healthy sex life, but now, now I can’t satisfy him. On the third night, after a particularly tiring session, he woke me up saying that he couldn’t get to sleep unless we did it again. Of course, I did. I was so grateful to have him back, I would do anything he wanted, even if it meant I wouldn’t sleep.

Then, a few days ago, I woke up in the middle of the night, and he wasn’t in bed. When he didn’t come back, I went looking for him. He was standing in front of the kitchen window, staring at the closed curtain, whispering to himself.

He seemed not to hear me when I said his name. I assumed he was sleepwalking, so I touched his arm, intending to guide him back to bed. When l did, he spun around and stared at me.

I swear, it wasn’t him. It was his face, but the look in his eyes belonged to someone else. I’m not even sure it was a look, more like the lack of a look- expressionless, dead.

He didn’t speak; he just stared at me with no discernable expression. Honestly, it scared me. I tried to get him to say something, but he wouldn’t respond at all, other than that awful stare. When I backed away, he turned back to the window and started whispering again.

I didn’t sleep again that night. It was hours later when he came back to bed, and I pretended to be asleep. He climbed under the covers and snuggled up next to me with his arm draped over me. Just like normal. But he wasn’t normal.

Over the next few days, I saw that dead look a lot. It’s like he’s somewhere else, and only his physical body is here. I stay away from him when he’s like that.

He’s like that now. He hasn’t spoken for hours. I don’t even know where we are. The familiar road we left town on has become something desolate and strange. We shouldn’t be able to drive more than half an hour in any direction without coming to another town. But, like I said, it’s been hours.

Not a single sign of life out here. Even the trees passing on either side of the road look dead somehow. They’re evergreens, so even now, in the middle of winter, they’re green, but there’s no vibrancy. Muted, like if you look at a bright light and then back at something colorful.

Michael slows the car and turns onto a dirt road that I couldn’t even see. A minute later, we’re parked in the parking lot of a tiny motel. There isn’t a sign for it, and it doesn’t seem to have a name.

At least thirty people are milling around the parking lot and the area in front of the lobby. Through the windows, I can see even more people inside. They move like zombies, slowly walking around, not seeming to notice each other. They all share the same dead expression as Michael.

I almost scream when a woman bumps into my door. She doesn’t even look at me. She looks familiar, though. I know her from somewhere. I look around at the others, and a lot of them look familiar, too.

A teenage boy wanders out of the lobby and shuffles toward the parking lot. I recognize him. His name is Colby. He disappeared from his back porch a few months ago. His mom stepped inside to refill her drink, and when she came back, he was gone. That’s how I know him. I helped in that search.

That’s how I know all these people. They’re all missing. Their pictures have been circulated all over town.

My chest is too tight to take a full breath, and my hands are too shaky to open the car door, not that I want to. I turn to Michael to beg him to take us home, but he’s already turned off the car.

He turns toward me, and for the first time in hours, he speaks. “Welcome home.”