The Thatchers had been arguing all night, keeping the whole campground up with their never-ending exchange of insults and complaints. This was nothing new for the couple; they fought often, circling around each other like cats, too afraid to strike where it truly hurt. But this fight was different.  

         “John, all you do is sit around drinking,” Debbie complained. “You wouldn’t even take your own family hiking!”  

         “Well, maybe I didn’t want to listen to you whine the whole time,” countered her husband as he stumbled around the flickering fire, clearly intoxicated.  

         She scoffed at this. “Well, maybe I wouldn’t have a problem if you didn’t drink all the time,” she retaliated, noticing the silver flask he always carried in his shirt pocket.  

        He made no response and continued laughing to himself. 

        “Is something funny?” 

        He looked at her for a moment, with that crazed look he sometimes got, and began throwing his arms in the air, yelling, “God, Deb, if you want me to change so bad, why don’t you just leave?” 

        She hesitated, “Well…well, maybe I will.” She stammered out, backing away and watching him turn towards the darkened campground. 

         “I’ll do you one better and leave now! You can even keep the station wagon!” He shouted, lumbering down the dirt road, laughing, and fading out of the firelight.  

         She waited for his figure and haunting cackles to disappear before returning to the safety of the quiet streamliner. Debbie stayed up for most of the night in anticipation of her drunk husband’s return, but eventually succumbed to her heavy eyes.  

         That morning, Debbie woke to see a cheery man outside her window, capering about their campsite, preparing breakfast. Immediately when she stepped outside, he turned to greet her with a wide grin and spatula in hand. It was strange; her husband had never been enthusiastic about anything. 

         She considered addressing last night’s quarrel, questioning where he had gone, why it was so easy for him to leave, but decided against it. Something about the singing birds, mixed with the harmony of “Coney Island Baby,” streaming from the radio, had moved her mind elsewhere. He had strolled over and grabbed her waist, swaying to the melody of the music, still with that peculiar smile. 

         As John spun her around, he asked, “Would you like to go down to the lake today? I feel like a walk.”  

        She paused and stopped dancing for a moment as he turned back towards the grill, “That sounds lovely,” she said, and then reluctantly remarked, “but I thought you had said you didn’t enjoy hiking?”  

         But maybe he had a change of heart; she had noticed right away that he didn’t have that taunting flask in his shirt pocket, something she saw more than her own husband. Perhaps their little feud actually meant something.  

         He was still prancing about the campsite, humming to himself, and she patiently waited for a response. Eventually, he turned to face her again, with that same grin, and replied, “I guess I did say that, didn’t I?”  

         She nodded.  

         “Well, what can I say? I’m a changed man,” he pronounced, looking overly proud of himself. He continued to hum along to the radio, flipping eggs as he went. After a moment, he turned to her again and appeared to hesitate before saying, “That reminds me, I need to get ice!” and gleefully walked over to hand her the spatula, “Do you mind taking over?” 

         “Not at all!” she exclaimed, watching him stride towards the dirt road.  It was odd how smiley he’d been, how elated he was to see her, and the way he danced and hummed to the music. She knew it felt wrong, but she just wanted to have this version of him for as long as possible. 

        After some time, Debbie looked up to see her husband stumbling down the road towards her. As he got closer, she saw that the flask she thought was finally gone—was in his hand. After a moment, he noticed her behind the grill and began to walk faster, with a menacing smile on his face. 

        “I left you, just like you wanted!” he yelled as he neared her, “And you don’t even try to find me?” He staggered around the campsite, waving his hands in the air, not waiting for her response, “Y’know, during my time in that motel room, I finally realized something. No matter what I do, you’ll still hate me, so I might as well stick around and keep you miserable!” He began cackling like he did the night before, amused by his own hurtful speech.  

         Debbie was at a loss for words, and she had no idea what was happening to her husband. Immediately, she felt someone come up behind her and grab her waist. She looked down, instantly recognizing his neatly tucked-in shirt; it was the captivating husband she had awoken to this morning. She had completely frozen with his arm around her, watching the drunk husband in front of her continue to yell and thresh about. Making sense of the situation was useless; her heart wanted the man beside her to be her real husband, but she knew deep down it was the angry man stomping around in front of her.  

         Finally, she cut the angered husband off and asked him, “If you spent the night away,” and hesitated, with fear in her eyes, “then who is this man beside me?” and she pointed to him with a shaky finger. The angry husband froze in his tracks and, for the first time since his return, took in his surroundings. At once, his eyes widened, causing Debbie to slowly turn towards this mystery man still gripping her waist. The face looking back at her was no longer that of her husband, but much worse.

         Before she even had time to scream, she felt his fingertips rip into her side, pulling her into a fate much worse than she could have ever imagined…