I know nobody’s going to believe what I’m about to write. Honestly, if I wasn’t the one living it, I wouldn’t believe it either. Exactly one month ago, my husband Michael went missing.

We were having problems. And not the kind you fix with a couples’ retreat or a box of chocolates. I cheated on him. With my best friend, Sarah. It was one time. A drunken mistake. But somehow, he found out. He didn’t yell. Didn’t throw anything. He just looked at me like I was a stranger, turned around, and walked out.

That was two weeks ago. He never came back.

At first, I thought he just needed space. Couldn’t blame him. I called and texted, but he never responded. Two days passed. Still nothing. I reached out to his parents. They hadn’t heard from him either—which wasn’t like Michael at all. That’s when I knew something was seriously wrong.

His mom, Pamela, and I filed a missing person’s report together. She told the cops he mentioned going camping the night he left. Said he needed to clear his head. He always went to the same spot—Carver Woods, out by No Man’s Ridge.

The police searched the area for two days straight. They found his truck. His tent. His cooler, still packed with beer and snacks. His sleeping bag was laid out neatly inside the tent. But about twenty feet away… was a huge bloodstain in the dirt.

We were devastated. We imagined the worst. Maybe a psycho had come across him. Or an animal attack. Hell, maybe he’d taken his own life and wildlife got to his body after the fact. All we knew was… he wasn’t coming home.

Until three nights ago.

I opened my front door, getting ready to leave for work—and there he was. Just standing there. On the porch. Smiling at me. Not just any smile. A full-faced, eerie grin. He was practically naked, wearing only a torn pair of boxers. I froze. My heart slammed against my sternum so hard I nearly dropped my keys.

I should’ve ran. Instead, I cried. I threw my arms around him. Relief mixed with confusion. I brought him inside and called off work, told them my husband had come home. But deep down, I wasn’t sure that was true.

He didn’t remember where our bedroom was. Didn’t remember where his clothes were. He didn’t even know my name. I checked him for injuries, for head trauma—anything that might explain the memory loss. But there were no bruises. No cuts. No blood. Nothing.

He sat at the table while I made him food, just pushing it around with his fork. That smile never left his face. It didn’t shift. Didn’t blink. I asked what happened out in the woods.

“It was a nice camping trip,” he said. Or, “You wouldn’t understand.”

I wanted to ask more. Press him. But I couldn’t. Because if I’m being totally honest… I was scared. Terrified. Something about him felt off. And I don’t just mean emotionally shut down or traumatized.

I mean wrong.

I called Pamela over. She was overjoyed. Hugged him and cried and refused to acknowledge that anything was strange. When I pulled her aside, told her to really look at him, she snapped at me. Said I was being insensitive. That Michael had clearly gone through something traumatic and this was his way of coping. That it wasn’t up to us to decide how he heals.

Maybe she was right. Maybe I was selfish. So that night, when he asked to sleep in the guest room, I didn’t argue. I gave him space.

But that’s when shit got really weird.

Around 3 AM, I heard noises coming from the guest room. Not footsteps or murmuring. No. It sounded… wet. Like someone squishing raw hamburger meat through their fingers. Thick, sloshing, messy sounds. Then ripping. Tearing.

And then… a voice.

It wasn’t Michael’s. It was deep. Guttural. Inhuman.

I ran.

I bolted down the hall so fast I nearly faceplanted. Slammed the bedroom door, jumped into bed, and yanked the covers over my head like a terrified kid. I stayed like that until daylight. Too scared to sleep. Too scared to even blink.

The next morning, he looked different. The smile had shifted—it drooped a little. There were dark bags under his eyes. I asked if he was hungry. He just stared into the distance and said no. Still smiling.

I slowly backed out of the room and barricaded myself in mine.

This morning, while he was eating breakfast, I snuck a camera into the guest room.

It’s 12:30 PM now. Which means I’ve got about nine hours until bedtime.

Nine hours until I find out—once and for all—what’s really sleeping in my guest room.

Because I don’t care what Pamela says… I know, without a doubt, that thing isn’t my husband.

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Part two coming soon!