They think I’m crazy. But I’m not. Not even a little bit. I just want things to go back to the way they were.
I just want my son back.
This whole mess started because my wife Shaida and I had been fighting. Like most married couples, we had our fair share of problems.
We’d argue about money. About our son, Jackson. And even about the smallest, most insignificant things, like what we were going to order for dinner each night.
Our heated “conversations” would almost always devolve into shouting matches. Shaida and I would yell late into the night, often until our throats were raw and it hurt to speak. I even had to start drinking hot water with honey and lemon in it because I sounded like I had a permanent case of bronchitis.
Anyway, the fighting really took its toll on Jackson. He was– is only six years old. After our nightly spats, I’d slam our bedroom door shut and find the kid sitting on the dirty, stained carpet in our living room with the TV blasting at full volume.
He was trying to drown out the screams.
Usually, I’d say something along the lines of, “Don’t worry, bud. Mom and Dad are done talking now,” and usually, he wouldn’t respond. He’d just keep staring at the TV and the soft blue glow of the screen would continue flickering on his innocent, round face.
Sometimes when I’d put him to bed, he’d ask questions like: “Are you guys gonna break up?” and “do you hate each other?” and “is it my fault?”
God, that last one really killed me.
So, life went on like that for a while. Shaida and I were both miserable and so was the kid. Then one night, I came up with what I thought was a brilliant solution, at least in terms of cheering up my son a bit. After a particularly explosive shouting match, I walked out into the living room and found Jackson in his usual spot on the carpet.
His eyes were glued to the screen. I turned towards the TV and saw a commercial for McDonald’s. The fast food chain’s clown mascot was smiling wide with his white-painted face and colorful costume. He was holding up a juicy burger that looked so perfect it didn’t even seem real.
That’s when I had the idea.
“Hey, bud. You wanna go to McDonald’s?”
The kid squealed with joy and was out the door before I could even grab my keys. I hadn’t seen him this excited about anything in years. It felt like old times. It felt like being a dad again.
And that’s… how it all started.
As weird as it sounds, this series of events became completely routine for us. Jackson’s mom and I would fight until we wore ourselves out, then the kid and I would drive down to the restaurant for some calorie-dense treats.
Some nights, we’d get cones. Others, a soda and some fries. It really depended on how much cash I could spare at the time. But the one thing Jackson loved more than eating at McDonald’s with his dad was playing in the PlayPlace.
I swear that kid could occupy himself for hours crawling around those endless tunnels. Honestly, it made me wonder how he could have found such immense satisfaction in those simple circles, almost like a hamster going through one of those tube mazes.
Anyway, the night my son disappeared started like all the rest. When Jackson and I arrived at the register, the cashier was smiling so wide that it almost seemed like she was taunting me with her pearly white teeth.
“How can I make you happy tonight?” she asked.
By wiping that grin off your face, I thought.
Jackson ordered a small fry and an ice cream cone and I just asked for a water cup.
“Are you sure I can’t get you anything else?” she asked.
It was obvious that what she really meant was: is that really all you can afford, you bum?
At the soda fountain, Jackson watched me fill my water cup with Sprite. His eyes went wide and he audibly gasped.
“Isn’t that stealing?” he asked.
I put a finger to my lips. “Shhhh.” That made him smile. A secret between father and son.
Anyway, as per usual, the kid ate his food, then ran off to go play in the PlayPlace. I sat at a nearby table, zoned out, trying to figure out what to do about my problems. There were the issues with Shaida, as well as our ongoing financial troubles, and then there was the simple fact that I felt like I was constantly hallucinating because I hadn’t had a good night’s sleep in months.
That’s when I first heard Jackson screaming.
“Dad! Come up here! It’s so cool!”
My son was calling to me from the top level of the PlayPlace. He was standing on one of the colorful bridges, bouncing up and down.
“I can’t come up there, bud. I’m too big.”
“Yes, you can! Come on! Pleaseeeeee!”
He wouldn’t let up. I sighed, then I finally got up and crawled through the entrance of one of the dark tunnels.
It was a tight space for an adult - too tight. I squeezed my way through the space and eventually felt something sticky on my hands that I’m pretty sure was piss. But after a while, I found the exit and finally reached the bridge where Jackson was waiting for me on the second level.
“You made it!” he shouted. “Now follow me!”
Before I could even stretch out my aching back, Jackson crawled into another brightly colored tunnel. I crouched down and followed him. I could hear the kid giggling as I chased him through the dark - he was so damn giddy that his old man was inhabiting a space meant for kids.
He made quick turns - left, right, left, right - but I kept up. Always just behind him. Just behind those fast-moving little dinosaur socks that I bought him for his sixth birthday.
“You’ll never catch me!” he screamed.
“Slow down,” I responded, laughing.
That’s when it dawned on me. For the briefest moment in time, I felt something I hadn’t felt in a long time. I realized that right there in those sticky (and probably not very sanitary) tunnels… I was happy.
“I’m gonna get you!” I yelled, a big smile on my face.
Then, after one last hard, sharp turn… something happened.
I was forced to stop crawling–
Because I’d reached a dead end.
That can’t be right, I thought. I just saw him. He turned right here…
But he wasn’t there. He wasn’t anywhere.
My son was gone.
All that remained was a cheap painting of the chain’s mascot on the dead-end wall, smiling at me. There was suddenly something very sinister about his eyes and his makeup and his toothy grin. It was like he knew something I didn’t.
“Bud? Where’d you go?”
My voice echoed through the tunnel. At first, I assumed I’d made a mistake. Perhaps I missed a turn or there was some secret slide that Jackson took back to the ground.
“Jackson? I’m serious.”
Nothing.
I started to panic.
I crawled as fast as I could - back through the tunnels and back to the outside world.
“I’m not playing around! Where are you?”
A few patrons in front of the restaurant heard me raising my voice. They looked over at me with judgy eyes, like I was some lunatic making a scene.
“JACKSON!”
I looked over to the nearby EXIT door. Did he… leave the restaurant? I ran towards the door and burst through it, only to find that the parking lot was still and empty, save for the buzzing of an overhead fluorescent lamp.
I think I collapsed or went into shock or something because the next thing I remember was talking to the cops and then it only felt like seconds later that I saw my wife, Shaida, pulling up in her car. Suddenly, she was standing right in front of me, screaming and crying and pointing a finger in my face.
“What happened, Cal?! You were supposed to be watching him! Why weren’t you watching him?”
I can still hear her screams at night. Asking those same questions, over and over.
I tried to tell her the truth. I tried to explain. But she didn’t believe me.
No one believed me.
The officers tore the place apart, but they couldn’t find my son. Then they started asking questions about my drinking. I still resent them for that. For turning me into the villain. I mean, I’d had my fair share of beers that night, but I wasn’t drunk.
The breathalyzer said otherwise.
I sat there in a booth, dazed, waiting for something to happen. That’s when I overheard one of the cops talking to my wife. The phrase “someone abducted your son” came out of his mouth.
Those words bounced around in my brain, but I knew they weren’t right. I was with Jackson in the tunnel. No one could’ve “abducted” him. But I had no explanation for what I experienced.
The previous screaming matches I’d had with Shaida were nothing compared to the next few nights. It was beyond clear that she blamed me for what happened. This was my fault. And there was nothing I could say to change her mind.
It’s now been three months since my son disappeared, but I refuse to lose hope. Unfortunately, the cops turned Shaida against me and she says she wants a divorce. She also says it’s best that I stay in the motel down the street for now.
So I sit here, night after night, on this hard motel mattress, watching the news and waiting for something.
Anything.
Every time a McDonald’s commercial comes on the TV, I feel like I’m going to have a panic attack. That stupidly happy clown’s face seems to get more terrifying by the day and his twisted smile reminds me of the painting on the dead-end wall where my son seemingly vanished into thin air.
And by the way, I’ve gone back to the restaurant every single day since the incident, but the manager has just recently started to give me trouble. According to him, I make the other parents “uncomfortable” when I eat near the PlayPlace.
But he doesn’t understand.
I told him that I have to sit near the tunnels and watch the children play. Because one of these days…
It’s going to happen again.
And when it does, maybe they’ll finally believe me.
I’ll post an update when I can, but for now, I need to log off and get back to the PlayPlace. If any of you have any ideas about where my son might be, please let me know.