Every morning since Laura’s death, I woke up to an empty space in my bed. The place where my wife used to be was now a cold reminder of our lost love. I missed her voice, her laughter, her way of making everything better. But life was not so merciful; it was me and our little boy now.
“Daddy, when will Mommy come back?” Billy would often ask, his innocent eyes wide and hopeful. It always twisted my heart into a painful knot.
“She’s watching over us from the stars, Billy,” I’d answer, trying to keep my voice steady. “She’s always with us.”
Billy was a spitting image of Laura, his bright blue eyes and sandy blonde hair were hers. Even his laughter had the same contagious magic that hers used to. Every time I looked at him, it was like seeing her. It was both heartbreaking and comforting.
I decided to be the best parent I could, not just a father but a mother too. I knew Billy, every bit of him. I knew how he scrunched his nose when he ate broccoli and how his eyes lit up when I read him stories of adventure and knights before bed.
“Daddy,” he’d say, wriggling in his dinosaur-print pajamas, “I want to be brave, just like the knights.”
“And you will be, Billy,” I’d reply, tucking him in, “You already are.”
With each day, I learned something new about him, and with every bedtime story, every shared laugh, every wiped tear, our bond strengthened.
One sunny morning, as I watched Billy quietly doodle at the breakfast table, I realized he needed something more, something other than the confines of our home, which still echoed with Laura’s absence. An idea popped into my head.
“Billy,” I said, “How about we go to the park today?”
His eyes sparkled with excitement, and the doodle was quickly forgotten. “Really? The one with the big slide and swings?”
“That’s the one.”
A day at our favorite park seemed like the perfect diversion. It was a place full of fond memories, where Billy could run and laugh, and we could have a few moments of normalcy.
As we prepared for the day, I watched Billy carefully select his favorite Superman shirt and blue shorts. There was a skip in his step, a lightness that had been missing for a while.
“Ready, champ?” I asked, tying his shoelaces.
He gave me a wide, toothy grin. “Ready, Daddy!”
Driving to the park, I glanced at him through the rearview mirror, his face pressed against the window, eyes drinking in the outside world. It reminded me of our car rides with Laura. She would sing along to the radio, her laughter filling the car while Billy clapped along in his car seat.
I sighed, the memory bitter-sweet, then reached back to ruffle Billy’s hair, mirroring his smile. Our day at the park awaited us, a chance to make new memories, to move forward while cherishing the past, a day filled with the promise of laughter and adventure.
“Daddy,” Billy’s voice piped up from the backseat, “Do you think Mommy can see us?”
I took a deep breath, my grip tightening on the steering wheel. “Yes, Billy. She’s watching us, and she wants us to be happy.”
He nodded, seemingly satisfied with the answer. “Then let’s have a lot of fun today, so Mommy can see us being happy.”
The park greeted us with its familiar vibrancy, children running wild and free, the aroma of food wafting from the picnic area, and the steady rhythm of the nearby basketball game creating a comforting symphony. It was the essence of life – pure, unfiltered, and infectious.
We kicked off our day with a game of catch, a frisbee serving as our shared token of joy. Billy’s laughter filled the air as he missed a particularly tricky throw. “Dad, that’s not fair,” he squealed, the mock pout on his face dissolving into more giggles.
“We’ll see about that, champ,” I chuckled, throwing the frisbee a little gentler this time. He caught it with a triumphant grin and promptly sent it spiraling back my way.
After a hearty session of catch, we moved onto our picnic spread. Billy was a particularly picky eater but, I had mastered the art of crafting a menu that would have him finishing his plate without complaint.
“Billy, no running off until you finish your sandwich,” I warned him, handing him a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, his favorite.
“I know, Dad,” he replied, rolling his eyes, a hint of Laura in the gesture. But he sat down obediently, munching on his sandwich and looking around at the other kids playing nearby.
Once our lunch was done, Billy, renewed with energy, suggested a game of hide-and-seek. Agreeing to his proposal, I began counting, listening to the crunch of gravel under his shoes fade into the distance.
Once I had counted to twenty, I opened my eyes and began searching for him. I looked behind our usual tree, checked the restrooms, the playground, behind the swings, but Billy was nowhere to be found. A trickle of worry began to creep into my mind, but I brushed it aside, telling myself he had just found a really good hiding spot this time.
But as minutes turned into hours and there was still no sign of Billy, the trickle of worry turned into a torrent of panic. I began to approach other families, asking them if they had seen Billy. Descriptions of his Superman shirt and his sandy blonde hair tumbled out of my mouth as I desperately scanned the park.
“I’m sorry, I haven’t seen him,” most replied. Some even offered to help look for him, their faces creased with worry. But as the park began to empty out and the sun dipped lower in the sky, Billy was still missing.
The bright, sunny park seemed to grow darker and more ominous by the second. I could feel my heartbeat thrumming in my ears, each thump echoing my growing fear. My Billy, my little boy, was missing, and I felt helpless.
My heart pounded in my chest like a wild drum, my hands trembling as I fumbled to unlock my phone. The park was closing, the sun was setting, and my little boy was still missing. Panic seeped into every corner of my mind. The once-vibrant playground, now bathed in a eerie twilight, seemed to echo my fear.
As I scrolled through my contacts to find the local police station’s number, something caught my eye, a sight unseen in our numerous trips to the park. An opening, nearly obscured by a cluster of thick bushes. A tunnel.
A feeling washed over me, a mix of trepidation and a strange sense of hope. I shoved my phone into my pocket, my eyes never leaving the entrance of the tunnel. Could Billy be there?
As I entered the tunnel, the ambient sounds of the park gradually faded away, replaced by an oppressive silence. The air was cooler, carrying a hint of dampness that left a chill running down my spine. I fumbled for the flashlight on my phone, the tunnel swallowing up the remaining daylight.
The beam of light from my phone cast elongated shadows along the tunnel’s wall. It was empty, devoid of any human presence. The further I ventured, the more my hope began to wane. Until I saw him.
Lying on the ground, tucked into a corner of the tunnel, was Billy. He was unconscious but appeared unharmed. I fell to my knees, relief washing over me like a wave. “Billy,” I croaked out, my voice echoing around the hollow space. I reached out, brushing a few stray locks of hair from his forehead. His skin was cool to touch, but he was breathing, the steady rise and fall of his chest a comforting rhythm in the unnerving silence.
“Billy, wake up,” I pleaded, gently shaking his shoulders. But he remained unresponsive, lost in a deep slumber. “It’s okay, I’ve got you,” I reassured myself more than him, scooping him up in my arms.
As I retraced my steps out of the tunnel, carrying my unconscious son, a sense of unease coiled in my stomach. The tunnel, the circumstances of Billy’s disappearance, his unconscious state - none of it added up. The smile he had worn that morning, his laughter still echoing in my ears, everything felt like a distant dream.
Back at the car, I secured Billy in his seat, his head lolling onto his shoulder. As I started the engine, I glanced back at the tunnel, a silent spectator to my worst fears and eventual relief. There was a chill in the air, a sense of foreboding that I couldn’t shake off.
As I drove us home, the city lights blinked into existence, casting long shadows along the deserted streets. Billy was still asleep, his chest rising and falling rhythmically. I reached out, gently brushing my fingers through his hair. “It’s going to be okay, champ,” I whispered, more to myself than him. “We’re going home.”
We pulled up into the driveway, our home a comforting sight amidst the turmoil of the day. The lights inside were warm and inviting, a beacon of safety. Still, the eerie quietness of Billy weighed heavily on me.
As I unbuckled him from his seat, his eyes fluttered open, the usual spark in his gaze replaced with an uncharacteristic dullness. “Hey, champ,” I said, trying to sound cheerful, “We’re home.”
Billy merely blinked, his lips parting as if to say something but then closing again. He allowed me to carry him into the house, his body limp in my arms.
Inside, I settled him onto the couch, tucking a blanket around him. His favorite superhero plushie, a ragged Superman, was clutched tightly in his arms, the only familiar thing about him at that moment.
“Billy, are you feeling okay?” I asked, my concern mounting at his continued silence. I was met with a nod, but the lack of his usual chatter was disconcerting.
I made him a cup of hot cocoa, hoping the familiar taste might bring some life back into him. “Here, drink this,” I said, handing him the mug. He accepted it with a nod, his grip on the handle weak but steady.
As he took a sip, I observed him closely. His features were relaxed, his eyes distant. He seemed lost in thought, a far cry from the energetic boy who couldn’t sit still.
Deciding to give him some space, I went to the kitchen to prepare dinner, keeping a watchful eye on him from the corner of my eye. I made his favorite, spaghetti with meatballs, hoping the familiar aroma might trigger something.
“Dinner’s ready, Billy,” I called out, setting the table. He set down his now empty mug and padded over to the dining table. He sat down, the Superman plushie still clutched in his hand.
“Dad,” he said, his voice a mere whisper. It was the first time he had spoken since we had found him.
“Yes, Billy?” I answered, my heart skipping a beat.
“Can I go to bed after this?” His voice was small, almost lost amidst the clatter of cutlery.
“Of course, champ,” I said, ruffling his hair gently, “You’ve had a long day.”
As we ate dinner in silence, the reality of the situation started to sink in. My vibrant, cheerful son was replaced with this quiet, almost ethereal version of him. But I convinced myself it was temporary, a result of the traumatic day we had had.
Once dinner was done, I helped Billy up to his room, tucking him into bed. His room, adorned with posters of superheroes and planets, usually a hub of his ceaseless energy, felt eerily silent. “Goodnight, Billy,” I said, leaning in to give him a kiss on the forehead.
“Goodnight, Dad,” he mumbled, his eyes already drooping shut.
I walked out of the room, his soft breathing the only sound in the quiet house. A sense of dread settled over me, the day’s events replaying in my mind. As I stared at Billy’s closed door, a sinking feeling gnawed at the pit of my stomach.
The days that followed Billy’s recovery were a quiet whirlwind. I tried to get us back into our routine, but something was decidedly different. It was as if our home, once filled with Billy’s vivacious laughter and innocent mischief, was now under the shadow of a chilling silence.
Billy no longer devoured his peanut butter and jelly sandwiches with his usual enthusiasm, nor did he squeal in delight when he scored a goal during our backyard soccer games. His laughter, once music to my ears, was now a hollow echo that hung heavily in the air.
The eyes that looked at me from across the breakfast table were the same ones I had seen every day for the past seven years, yet they held an icy coldness that made my skin crawl. I kept telling myself it was the stress, the shock of the traumatic event that had changed him, but my heart knew better.
One particular evening, I had just settled into bed, the day’s worries weighing heavily on my mind. It was then that I felt a presence, a feeling of being watched. I opened my eyes to find Billy standing by the foot of my bed, his silhouette illuminated by the faint moonlight filtering in through the window.
His eyes were fixed on me, his gaze unsettling. He was mumbling something, words that didn’t belong to any language I knew. His voice was no longer the soft, child-like tone I was accustomed to. It was deep, resonating with an unknown power, a menacing undercurrent that sent a shiver down my spine.
“Billy,” I said, my voice barely above a whisper. But he didn’t seem to hear me, his eyes unblinking, his chant uninterrupted.
I sprang out of bed, my heart pounding in my chest. “Billy, what are you doing?” I asked, the reality of the situation hitting me like a ton of bricks. This wasn’t my son. This wasn’t the Billy I had raised, the boy who loved superheroes and hated broccoli.
As if snapping out of a trance, ‘Billy’ abruptly stopped speaking. He looked at me, his eyes suddenly lucid and brimming with an emotion I couldn’t comprehend. “Goodnight, Dad,” he said, his voice returning to the softer tone, but it was devoid of the warmth it once held.
With that, he turned around and walked back to his room, leaving me standing in the middle of mine, the echo of his unknown chant lingering in the air.
That night, as I lay wide awake, my mind raced with unsettling thoughts. The changes in Billy, his sudden strange behavior, the haunting chant in the unknown language – all of it pointed to something far more sinister than mere post-traumatic stress.
As I replayed the events of the past few days, a dreadful realization set in. My son had not come back from the park that day. Something else had taken his place. As the weight of this understanding bore down on me, I was filled with a paralyzing fear and an overpowering resolve. Whatever was happening, I had to get my son back. No matter the cost.
Driven by desperation, I began seeking answers. Through online forums and local libraries, I stumbled upon a lead, an expert in local folklore named Eleanor. Her articles about mythical entities and her deep understanding of local legends convinced me that she might be able to shed light on my predicament.
I called Eleanor, my hands trembling as I explained my situation. There was a long pause, then a sigh. “This isn’t the first time I’ve heard such a story, John,” she said, her voice weighed down with a serious tone.
Within the hour, I was sitting in her office, a cozy room filled with stacks of old books and artifacts. A large map of the town was spread across the table, pins and notes marking various significant points.
As I narrated my ordeal, from our day at the park to the uncanny transformation of Billy, Eleanor listened intently, her eyes narrowing in thought. Once I finished, she took a deep breath and looked at me, her gaze filled with sympathy and resolve.
“John,” she began, “I believe what you’re dealing with is a changeling.”
I blinked, taken aback. “A changeling?” I repeated, my mind racing to catch up.
Eleanor nodded. “In folklore, a changeling is a monstrous entity that takes the place of a human child. It adopts their form, their identity. But it’s not them. It’s not your Billy.”
A cold dread seeped into my veins, but I forced myself to focus. “How do I get Billy back?” I asked, my voice steady despite the panic threatening to consume me.
Eleanor pursed her lips, considering. “It’s not going to be easy,” she warned, “But the first step is to understand that Billy might still be out there. He might be trapped wherever this entity came from.”
The implications were overwhelming, yet they provided a glimmer of hope. Billy could still be out there, waiting for me to find him.
“I’ll help you, John,” Eleanor promised, her eyes filled with determination. “We’re going to get your son back.”
That night, as I locked up the house, I took a long look at the attic door. I thought of ‘Billy’ upstairs, asleep in his room, and the real Billy, who was out there somewhere. A newfound resolve filled me. This entity might have fooled others, but it couldn’t fool a father’s love for his son. I was going to get Billy back, whatever it took.
Over the next few days, my determination for answers led me to unearth several unsettling clues. ‘Billy’s’ drawings, which once depicted superheroes and playful scenes, now showcased intricate, otherworldly symbols that made my skin prickle with unease.
One day, when ‘Billy’ was downstairs, I slipped into his room. In the quiet of the space, I discovered something disturbing. Tucked beneath his bed, hidden away from prying eyes, was a collection of small, dead animals - a squirrel, a few birds, their lifeless bodies perfectly preserved, their eyes vacant.
A chill ran down my spine. What kind of entity was capable of such gruesome actions, and why?
My nights were tormented by nightmares, visions of a haunting realm that seemed both distant and incredibly close. I saw Billy in those dreams, his small figure lost amidst the twisted landscape, his voice calling out to me from the abyss. I would wake up drenched in sweat, his name on my lips, his absence in our home a stark reminder of the reality I was living.
One evening, as I was struggling to make sense of the cryptic symbols ‘Billy’ had been drawing, a sudden thought struck me. Could these symbols be a form of communication, a link between the changeling and its home realm? I took a picture of the drawings and sent them to Eleanor.
She called me back almost immediately. “John,” she said, her voice filled with urgency, “These symbols, they’re not random. They’re an ancient language. I can’t translate it all, but some of the recurring symbols mean ‘portal’, ‘exchange’, and ‘equilibrium’.”
The information hit me like a ton of bricks. A portal. An exchange. My mind raced with the possibilities. Could it be that the tunnel at the park was a portal to another world, where Billy was now trapped?
Eleanor’s voice broke through my thoughts. “John, these symbols suggest a connection between the two realms. It’s a kind of equilibrium. The changeling was exchanged for Billy. It also suggests that the same portal used to bring the changeling into our world can be used to bring Billy back.”
A glimmer of hope sparked within me, fuelling my resolve. As terrifying as the prospect was, I knew what I had to do. I had to go back to the park, back to the tunnel. I had to get my son back.
That night, as I lay in bed, my mind filled with thoughts of strange symbols, hidden portals, and monstrous changelings, I felt a sense of urgency. Every moment I spent in the comfort of my home was a moment Billy spent in a terrifying, alien world.
No matter how dangerous or terrifying the task was, I would venture into the unknown to save my son.
The following day, Eleanor and I spoke at length about how to handle the changeling. She explained that in folklore, one way to make a changeling leave is to make it believe it’s unwanted and unloved. The thought of doing this, even to an imposter, was deeply unsettling.
“Eleanor,” I said, my voice shaking, “You’re asking me to treat this… this thing as if it’s unwanted. That it’s not loved. I… I don’t know if I can do that.”
“John,” Eleanor replied, her voice steady and calming, “I know this is hard. But remember, this isn’t Billy. Your son is somewhere out there, needing his father to come and save him. We’re doing this to get Billy back.”
She was right, but the thought of what I had to do made my stomach churn. That night, I took a deep breath and did the hardest thing I’ve ever done. I took ‘Billy’ to the attic, a place he’d never been allowed to go before.
“I’m sorry, Billy,” I said, my voice almost breaking, “but you have to stay here for a while.”
He looked at me, confusion and something resembling fear in his eyes. I hated myself for doing this. I locked the door behind me, the sound echoing in the emptiness of our home.
I kept the door locked, going up only to leave food and water. The house filled with the sound of ‘Billy’s’ otherworldly cries. It was an inhuman sound, full of pain and anger, a constant reminder of the monstrous entity within my son. Every wail tested my resolve, gnawing at my heartstrings.
At night, I would lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, ‘Billy’s’ cries echoing through the house. “This isn’t Billy,” I would remind myself over and over, trying to drown out the guilt and the fear. “You’re doing this for Billy.”
Days passed. The cries from the attic continued, growing louder, more desperate. I found myself speaking to a picture of Billy, explaining to him what I was doing. “I’m so sorry, Billy,” I’d say, tears streaming down my face, “I’m doing this for you. I’m doing this to bring you back.”
Through it all, I held onto Eleanor’s words. This wasn’t my son. My Billy was still out there, alone and scared. And I would move heaven and earth to bring him back.
On the seventh night, the house was bathed in an unnerving silence - the anguished cries from the attic had finally ceased. My heart pounded in my chest as I ascended the creaking staircase, gripping the cold iron key that unlocked the door to the room where my son’s doppelganger was confined. Fear gnawed at the edges of my mind, but I steeled myself, ready to face the aftermath of the unspeakable torment.
The dimly lit attic was a landscape of shadows, the only light source a solitary bulb hanging precariously from the ceiling. There, amidst the dusty cardboard boxes and long-forgotten trinkets, lay ‘Billy’, motionless and silent, a cruel echo of that day in the tunnel. As I approached, his eyelids fluttered open, revealing two terrified eyes.
“Dad?” he mumbled, his voice weak and shaky, but unmistakably Billy’s. Relief washed over me in waves, and I choked back a sob.
“Billy, it’s okay. It’s over now,” I whispered, cradling him in my arms. His small fingers clung to the fabric of my shirt, a physical reminder that this was my son, my Billy. He was back.
In the weeks that followed, life seemed to regain some semblance of normalcy. Our shared ordeal had bound us in ways I couldn’t explain, creating a sanctuary of safety and reassurance in each other’s presence. We had survived. The changeling was banished, and my son was safe. Or so I thought.
A few months later, as I cleaned Billy’s room, a piece of paper, tucked away in one of his notebooks, caught my attention. Drawn with a child’s hand was a dark figure with inhuman eyes, standing ominously at the foot of a bed. Its long, skeletal arm was outstretched towards a small, terrified boy. The image sent a shiver down my spine.
“Billy,” I called out, clutching the drawing. He entered, his innocent eyes wide with curiosity.
“Dad, what’s…,” he started, but his words trailed off when he saw the drawing. As I was about to ask him about it, I froze. Billy’s feet had lifted off the floor. He hovered in the middle of the room, his eyes wide with fear.
“Billy!” I screamed, lunging towards him. But I was too late. His body contorted unnaturally, ripping apart to reveal a swirling vortex. An ungodly scream echoed through the room as the portal swallowed him, then snapped shut, leaving behind nothing but an unbearable silence. My son was gone, taken back into the horrific world from which we thought we had escaped.