By Jon Adcock

Mark woke suddenly from a vivid dream, disoriented and unsure of who he was or where he was. It took him a few moments to grasp the fleeting memories that danced out of reach. He could hear someone softly snoring beside him. Cautiously, Mark rolled over to see who it was. It was his wife, Annie, tightly wrapped in the blankets. He remembered that stealing covers was her specialty. As he propped himself up on his elbow and watched her sleep, an old Talking Heads song came to mind.

And you may tell yourself, “This is not my beautiful house”

And you may tell yourself, “This is not my beautiful wife”

His feeling of unease was stronger than ever. It had been building over the past few weeks — an unsettling sensation that he didn't belong here, that this wasn't his life. Quietly getting up to avoid waking Annie, Mark dressed and went to the kitchen. The blinds were open, and the early morning sunlight spilled across the counter like molten gold. He made coffee and placed two slices of bread in the toaster. While he waited for the coffee, Mark checked the front porch. The cardboard boxes full of groceries were there as usual, so he brought them in and put them away.

He drank his coffee and ate the toast while standing at the counter. When it was time for the second cup, he stepped outside and sat on the front porch swing. Brian was out for his morning jog, and Mark waved as he passed. Then, like a sore tooth he couldn’t stop probing, he reviewed the mental checklist of everything that felt out of place. The door opened behind him.

“Hey, hon. Do you want some breakfast?” Annie asked from the doorway, yawning and stretching.

“Had some toast, so I’m good. Do you want to do something today?” 

“We have something to do. Bill’s barbecue is this afternoon,” she reminded him.

“I meant going somewhere, like taking a drive this morning,” he said.

“We can’t, silly. Remember? The car’s in the shop.”

No, he didn’t remember that. After a few minutes, Mark followed her inside, sat at the kitchen table, and watched as she made breakfast. They made small talk as she did so. Mark reached and stole a piece of bacon when she sat across from him. He studied her as she ate. Annie was a middle-aged blonde, pretty and plump, with a quick smile. They were married, but he couldn’t shake the feeling that a stranger sat across from him.

“What kind of car do we have, Annie?” he asked, trying to sound casual.

“What?”

“The car. What kind is it? It’s a simple question.”

“Why are you asking me this, Mark?”

“Because I don’t know, and I should.”

“It’s a…a…oh, I can’t remember. I guess we’re both getting old,” she laughed as she took her dishes to the sink. He got up and stood near as she rinsed them.

“It’s not just the car, Annie. Nothing feels right. Our life is like a jigsaw puzzle with too many missing pieces. I have a thousand questions and no answers. Like, where are our photos?”

“What photos?”

“Any photos. People have photos, Annie. We don’t. No photos of family anywhere in the house. No wedding album. Why?” Mark reached out and slowly turned her towards him, gripping her shoulders tightly.

‘You’re just being silly, Mark.”

“Is it silly not to know where we honeymooned? Where was it, Annie? Can you remember anything before this house?”

“I don’t want to talk about this.” There was an edge of panic in her voice.

“I know it hurts, Annie. Having these thoughts is like brushing against an electric fence, but something is wrong. Help me find out what's going on.” 

She broke away and ran down the hall. He heard the bedroom door slam and finished cleaning the kitchen. It was pointless to discuss it further with her; a kind of mental barrier was in place. Push against it, and it pushed back just as hard. It took him weeks to put his growing unease into words. Just thinking about it had been almost physically painful. Once the kitchen was clean, he left the house. All the homes he passed were eerily similar, and none had cars. He couldn’t remember the last time he had seen a car, not even whatever was delivering the weekly groceries.

It was poised to be a beautiful day, and the suburb buzzed with activity. People were outside mowing lawns, trimming hedges, and planting flowers. Later, there would be barbecues and pool parties. As Mark walked, he waved back at six or seven neighbors. It was all picture-perfect, he thought, but the reality was as thin and brittle as autumn leaves. No one had an outside life; there were no jobs to go to and no children or grandchildren coming over for visits. No one left or entered the neighbourhood, but that would end today.

This was a gated community enclosed by a fifteen-foot wall. The street ended at a closed gate, with a small pedestrian entrance to its right. The door to the entrance was locked, and he didn’t know the keypad code. Mark stood at the gate and looked out for a while. A road ran past the gate, and on the other side, there was a large field. There was no traffic on the road and no sign of any other houses or activity in the distance — nothing but stillness and emptiness past the wall. 

Nearby, one of the houses had its garage door open. A ladder was leaning against the far wall, so he walked into the garage and took it as quietly as possible. Some large hedges were near the entrance; Mark propped the ladder behind them and climbed. Things didn’t look much different from the top of the wall. The road was a black ribbon, and the fields stretched off into the distance.

Mark’s heart raced, and he was drenched in sweat as he pulled himself onto the wall and straddled it. A wave of nausea washed over him as he prepared to lower himself to the other side. He hung there for a few seconds before dropping to the ground. Once down, the nausea and panic started to fade, and he walked toward the field.

Halfway across the road, it felt like he had encountered an invisible barrier of something as viscous as honey. Mark slowly pushed through it, his skin tingling, and suddenly it was night. Large structures surrounded him. He took a few steps and fell to his knees, gasping for breath. The air felt wrong. Looking up, he saw chitinous creatures with too many limbs crowding around him. Above them, four moons hung in the night sky. All he could do was struggle weakly as the keepers muzzled him and dragged him back to the exhibit.

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