Chapitre 1
The first thing that reached him was the buzzing. A dull, metallic ringing pierced his temples, throbbing in sync with the erratic beat of his heart.
Marc opened his eyes. The ceiling of his bedroom was nothing more than a hazy white expanse swayingly slowly above him. A wave of violent nausea surged in his throat, forcing him to squeeze his eyes shut and clench his jaw.
He was dizzy. Deeply, unnaturally dizzy.
As he rubbed his face, his fingers brushed against his right temple. He let out a low curse: a painful bump and a sticky, shallow cut marked the top of his forehead. An injury he had no memory of receiving.
He tried to recall the previous evening. Absolute void. He remembered coming home from work, kissing his wife before she left for her night shift at the agency, and pouring a bowl of cereal for his son, Jake. And after that? Nothing. A clean break in his memory.
Suddenly, for a fraction of a second, a fleeting image flashed through his mind: the continuous sound of running water from a tap in the dark, and a massive shadow looming over him. Then nothing. A black hole.
Taking a slow, deep breath, he swung his legs over the edge of the bed. The shock of the cold hardwood floor sent an icy shiver up his spine.
He stood up on unsteady feet, his head heavy with an invisible poison. His watch indicated a little past seven in the morning. He walked slowly down the hallway, brushing his hand against the walls to keep his balance.
It was upon reaching the kitchen that the first anomalies struck him.
The large window blind was pulled askew, letting in a sharp blade of raw sunlight. On the counter, an overturned glass of water had formed a stagnant puddle. And floating in the air was an odor... a heavy, lukewarm, metallic smell that had no business being in a family home on a Tuesday morning.
Marc frowned. His eyes fell to the floor near the front door: the safety chain was engaged, and the deadbolt was completely locked from the inside. Yet, right next to the mat, a wet boot print—far too large for his own feet—stained the light oak parquet.
His chest tightened. His heart began hammering against his ribs with terrifying violence.
He abandoned the kitchen and turned back toward the hallway. The door to Jake’s bedroom was standing ajar. Normally, the little boy always slept with his door shut tight.
“Jake?” Marc whispered, his voice coming out raspy and uncertain.
No answer. No rustling of sheets, no sleepy child’s yawn.
Marc stepped forward, gently pushing the wooden door open.
The metallic smell overwhelmed him, suffocating and thick.
His brain instantly refused to process what he was seeing. At the foot of the bed, near a small red plastic truck left untouched, a body lay on the rug. The blue superhero pajamas Jake had been wearing the night before were dark and soaked through.
“No... no, no, no...”
Marc collapsed to his knees. His hands trembled so violently he could barely support himself on the floor. His mind screamed, refusing to connect this motionless body with reality.
“Jake! Wake up! Jake!”
He grabbed his son’s small shoulder, repeating his name like a desperate prayer, his voice shattered by terror. The body was ice-cold and rigid. When Marc turned him toward the light, sheer despair struck him like lightning. Jake’s big blue eyes, usually so bright, stared blankly at the ceiling, open and empty. In his tiny right hand, clenched tightly in death, the child was still clutching the corner of his teddy bear blanket.
It was this shattered innocence that finally broke Marc.
“Oh God... not you... not my boy,” he pleaded, pulling the lifeless body against his chest, his face flooded with tears. “Jake, look at me! Daddy’s here!”
In his head, another flash erupted, brief and disorienting: the sound of a muffled gasp right beside his ear, followed by a deep voice whispering, “Don’t move.” Had he dreamed it? Had an intruder come in?
Grasping for survival, Marc let go of the body for a few seconds to grab his phone. His trembling fingers slipped across the screen. He dialed 911, screaming his address between suffocating sobs before dropping the receiver onto the wooden floor.
The screech of tires echoed outside. A car door slammed shut.
His wife.
Marc froze. A key turned in the lock, unlocking the deadbolt from the outside. Light footsteps hurried into the entryway.
“Marc? Jake? I finished early, I brought croissants...”
His wife’s voice trailed off as she caught sight of the dark marks trailing along the hallway floor.
“Marc...? What is that?”
“Don’t come in! Don’t look!” Marc yelled, scrambling to his feet, but she was already there.
She crossed the threshold. Her eyes fell from the bakery bag slipping through her fingers down to the bedroom floor.
“My little monster...?” she whispered in a child-like voice, her mind rejecting reality. “Jake? Is this a joke? Get up...”
She took a step forward. Her gaze landed on Marc’s stained hands, then shifted to the fresh wound on his face. Her eyes slowly traveled up to meet her husband’s terrified gaze. A horrifying shift took place across her features. Grief transformed instantly into a wild, animalistic suspicion.
“What did you do?” she breathed, her voice trembling with rage and shock. “Marc... what did you do to him?!”
“Nothing! I swear! Someone hit me, the door was... I don’t know!”
But she was no longer listening. She collapsed beside her son’s body, letting out a scream of such absolute agony that it seemed to tear through the very walls of the house.
Outside, the wail of police sirens drew near, closing the trap on an apartment locked tight from the inside, leaving Marc completely stranded in the terrifying fog of his own memory.
