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What the fuck happened last night?
I’m lying in bed–alone. There’s a terrible taste in my mouth, like I’ve been sucking up swamp water through a straw. My head is pounding, and when I try to open my eyes, my left lid won’t budge. Every muscle in my body aches as though I went toe-to-toe with a semi-truck and lost.
Groaning, I roll out of bed in spite of my body’s protests. I’m so thirsty. All I can think of is downing a nice, cool glass of water.
I stumble into the bathroom, half-blind, and after one glance in the mirror, it’s immediately apparent why I can’t see properly. One of my eyes is bruised and blackened, the lid entirely swollen shut. When I press my fingertips to my cheekbone, I wince in pain.
“What the fuck?” I mutter, squinting at my reflection. The shiner isn’t the only injury I have. There’s blood caked around my mouth and down my chin, and my lip is split. Below that, mottled purple bruises creep over the skin of my neck and collarbone.
I feel like I’ve been in a fight, but I can’t remember a goddamn thing.
Gripping the sides of the sink, I stare myself down as I try to recall what happened. I have a clear memory of working at the house, of going out to my truck to get a respirator, but everything after that is black velvet, fuzzy and bottomless.
God, I’m so thirsty. It’s like I haven’t drank in days. Not even bothering to find a glass, I turn on the tap and cup my hands under the water. The clear liquid pools in my palms, and I gulp it down greedily.
When I’ve had my fill, I splash the cool water up onto my face, watching as the crusted blood flakes off into the basin. My lip stings where the skin is split. How did it happen? The gap in my memory is unsettling, and I’ve got a dreadful feeling that I did something horrible during that time.
Once my face is clean, I shuck off my clothes. Everything smells like the marsh, cloying and fetid. Dry, crumbling mud cakes the bottoms of my jeans up to the knee. My boots are in no better shape. I’m going to have to hose them down in the driveway to get them any semblance of clean.
I finish stripping down and then step into the shower. The hot water stings against the bruises on my neck and face. I’ve certainly taken my fair share of punches throughout my life, and I’m pretty sure that the shiner is a direct result of somebody’s fist getting friendly with my eye. Had they somehow hit me hard enough to give me a concussion or something? Maybe that would explain the other injuries and the lost time.
It doesn’t hit me until I’m out of the shower that I woke up alone.
Where is Bailey?
Worry gnaws at me as I peer out into the bedroom. The bed is unmade. Bailey’s charge is plugged into the wall, but her phone is gone. There’s no sign of her, even though the daylight streaming through the windows tell me that she should be home from her night shift by now.
Had something happened to her too?
“Babe?” I call, hoping that she’s simply in another room. But there’s no response.
I finish drying off and throw on the first clean clothes I can find. Wearing jeans and an old T-shirt, I poke around, looking for my phone so I can call her. As I search, I try to convince myself that she’s probably stepped out to do some errands or to grab a coffee
After tearing apart the house looking for my phone, I finally think to check my truck. Sure enough, it’s sitting on the passenger seat.
Relief floods through me but is quickly staunched when I unlock my phone to see several missed messages, including one from Bailey.
Where are you? Are you okay?
It says it’s from yesterday.
My heart drops as I double check today’s date on the device’s calendar.
“A whole day?” I breathe in disbelief. “How can I be missing an entire day?”
Bailey must be so fucking worried about me. Almost automatically, I dial her number. The line rings and rings, and then finally her voice chirps that she’s not able to make it to the phone right now and to leave a message after the beep.
“Come on, pick up,” I urge as I click on the name again. But the result is the same.
Desperation building inside of me, I tap out a text to her and send it immediately.
Where are you babe? Answer your phone please. I’m worried.
Almost immediately, a ping alerts me to a reply.
This is Bailey’s mom. I know what you did to her. Don’t contact her again, or I’ll go to the police.
“What the fuck?” I exclaim. A tremor of fear slices through me at the words. Could I have done something to harm Bailey? Had I scared her? Is she okay?
Panicked thoughts swirl through my brain as I try to figure out what to do next. My first instinct is to drive to Bailey’s mom’s house and get some answers, but the text indicates that they’ll probably call the cops the moment they see my truck pull up in the driveway.
Unsure of what to do, I scroll through my other messages to see if there are any clues to help me understand my missing time. One from Jose piques my interest. Yesterday morning, he had texted several times to ask if I was going to come to the job site or if I was sick. It was easy to conclude that I hadn’t made it to work that day.
With no other avenues to consider, I decide the most practical thing I can do is retrace my steps starting with the last thing I can remember.
That strategy means going back to the house. After all, looking for the spare respirator in my truck was the last thing I can recall before the missing time. Maybe I’ll find some answers back at the job site?
I waste no time driving over to the old Gregory place. Navigating with only one working eye proves to be a bit tricky, but I manage to pull up the old cyprus-lined drive with no major problems.
The house, silent and empty, stares down at me as I step out onto the gravel. Insects sing a riotous chorus in the swamp beyond, which is wreathed in a greenish haze beneath the midday sun. The air is heavy with humidity. I can already feel beads of sweat gathering on my forehead and between my shoulder blades.
For a moment, I’m confused why there’s nobody here working, but then I realize that it’s Saturday today. The vacant job site only bolsters my unease that I can’t remember an entire day of my life.
Steeling myself for whatever I may find, I enter the house. I remember that I had been working on the section of drywall in the kitchen, but I hadn’t started working on the wall because I couldn’t find my respirator. Therefore, the kitchen is the best place to start.
But when I make my way to the room in question, I’m puzzled to find that the wall has already been neatly removed. Did I do that, or did my crew take care of it? I eye the sheets of fresh drywall leaning against the kitchen counter, which is covered with a drop cloth. Nothing in here is sparking any memories. The gaping hole in the studs I meant to fix remains.
I’m even more confused now than I was when I woke up this morning. Troubled thoughts needle my mind as I head back outside to examine the driveway. But that search turns out to be fruitless, too.
By the time I’ve scoured every inch of the gravel, I’m ready to give up. I sigh and slump against the side of my truck, tilting my face up to meet the blistering summer sun.
“Rough night?” a smooth, serpentine voice asks from beside me.
Startled, I whip around to face the speaker. A figure, more familiar than I’d care to admit, stands next to me, casually leaning against the truck. A shard of a memory flashes back to me–this person, this thing, grinning at me in the kitchen.
“You,” I hiss.
The thing smiles. It’s a wonder that I ever mistook it for Dalton, or even for a human being, in the first place. In the bright light of day, it looks almost faded. Its ashen face is shadowed in spite of the sun overhead. It looks like a wax figure brought to life, too uncanny to possibly be real.
“Call me Amos,” it insists, its tone dripping with false politeness. “Since we’re so close.”
“Did you do this to me?” I demand, gesturing to the marks on my neck and face.
Amos chuckles. “Don’t you remember?”
I ball my hands into fists, fuming. “No,” I say through gritted teeth. “I don’t.”
“I do,” it grins, revealing yellowed, pointed teeth. “We had a lot of fun yesterday, you and I. Bailey didn’t seem too keen, though.”
Anger surges through me at the mention of the woman I love. My mind snaps back to her mother’s text, demanding I leave Bailey alone. Had I hurt her? Had Amos hurt her?
“What did you do?” I snarl.
“Not enough,” it laments. “But I’ll fix that soon.”
“No, you won’t,” I assure it, my fingers balling into fists at my sides.
Amos laughs again, and I struggle against the urge to clamp my hands to my ears at the sound. “One way or another, Bailey will be mine.”
“Like hell she will!”
The thing steps forward until its face is only inches from mine. When it speaks, putrid breath fans across my face. “You think you can stand against me?” it challenges. “Better men have tried and failed. Now they’re rotting at the bottom of the swamp.”
I’m seething with rage, too angry to even reply. All I know is that even if I’m doomed, I will not let this thing have Bailey. I love her, more than anything. I won’t let him have her. Not while I’m alive.
“She’s mine,” I growl. “She will always be mine.”
“We’ll see about that,” Amos smirks.
The dam inside me bursts. Without conscious thought, a roar of anger erupts from my throat. I swing my fist at the thing, longing to feel its waxy, unnatural skin split beneath my knuckles.
But my fist sails only through air.
The thing is gone.
I stagger forward a few steps before regaining my balance.
“Show yourself, you fucking coward!” I howl toward the swamp.
But nothing moves.
The only indication that Amos was ever there at all is the grating, horrible laugh that drifts through the cypress trees and fizzles out beneath the blistering summer sun.