atamna youssouef

Scary stories :“When They Stole My Face: The Nightmare of a Man Without an Identity”

I wake up to the sound of rain tapping against the windows of the small studio apartment in Portland that I share with my wife, Amber. The faint smell of coffee grounds and mildew lingers in the air, along with a sour tang I can't place, but it turns my stomach. My phone lies dead beside me on the nightstand—strange, I could’ve sworn I plugged it in last night. I sit up, rubbing the sleep from my eyes, and the ache in my muscles feels deeper than it should, like I’ve been lying still for days. Yesterday's clothes cling to my skin with the stale scent of sweat, as if I’ve worn them for too long. The clock reads 10:42 a.m. I never sleep this late on a weekday. A cold dread creeps in as I stumble out of bed. My car keys aren’t on the hook by the door, and my laptop is missing from the desk. I shuffle towards the kitchen, every step heavy as though my body’s forgotten how to move. As I round the corner, I see our dog, Baxter, standing stiff in the middle of the room. His tail is low, hackles raised, lips curled back to show his teeth in a way I’ve never seen before.