Chapter 6: 1967 - Lost World (main timeline)

As I left the university building, I drove back to my apartment, my mind consumed by the enigma of Anya's disappearance. The streets of Paris were shrouded in the deepening twilight of December's early evening, but my thoughts were as dark as the shadows cast by the lampposts. How could she vanish into thin air? All that is happening does not make any sense. Was it a product of my own fractured psyche, or was there a sinister force at play? The more I pondered, the more I doubted my own sanity. Had I been poisoned, my brain irreparably damaged? Were these glitches in reality I was experiencing, were they some kind of elaborate plot to drive me mad?

I turned onto my street, the sight of my apartment building looming ahead. But as I pulled up to the curb, a jolt of disorientation struck me. The building wasn't the same. In its place stood another building which looked quite different, a little bit derelict, its facade a stark contrast to the charming, old-world architecture of my own. I rubbed my eyes, but when I opened them again, the building remained, an alien presence in my world. I stepped out of the car. Where was my apartment? Panic surged through me as I scanned the street, searching for some sign of familiarity. But everything was different. The shops, the cafes, even the trees seemed to have shifted. I double-checked the street sign, confirming that I was indeed on my own street. The name was right, but the buildings and storefronts seemed to have been rearranged. The neighboring streets, which I knew like the back of my hand, were also distorted, although I recognized the general layout. With a sinking feeling, I approached the building that wasn't my own. I hesitated for a moment, wondering if I should just sit down on the curb and wait for this nightmare to pass. But I needed to take action, to find some semblance of normalcy. So, with a deep breath, I pushed open the door and stepped inside, hoping against hope that my apartment was still there, untouched by this bizarre transformation.

On the third floor I stepped out of the elevator. The door to my apartment was different. It wasn't the familiar one I'd walked through a thousand times before. I reached out to touch it, my hand trembling. The wood felt cold and foreign beneath my fingertips. My key didn't fit in the keyhole. I knocked. "Marie? Zoe? It's me. Are you there?" The silence that followed was deafening. I knocked again, louder this time. The door swung open and I was facing an elderly couple. They looked concerned, but I couldn't muster up any sympathy for them. "Can you tell me where my wife and daughter are?" I demanded, my voice cracking.

"Which wife and daughter, Monsieur?" the man asked, his brow furrowed in confusion. I told him "Marie and my little daughter Zoe". They exchanged a glance, and the woman stepped forward. "Monsieur, we live in this apartment for over fifteen years, and there's never been any Marie or Zoe here." I felt a chill run down my spine as I stared at them, my mind reeling. Who were these people? And where was my family? "What are you talking about? This is my home. I live here with my family." The man shook his head. "I'm sorry, but it's not possible. We've never seen you before. Perhaps you're confused or...or lost?"

I tried to push past them, but they blocked my way. "You need to leave," the man said firmly, his eyes hardening. "This is our home." I tried to reason with them, but they wouldn't budge. This couldn't be happening. I had to find some proof, some sign that Marie and Zoe had been here. I pushed past the elderly couple, my eyes scanning the room for any familiar object. But everything was wrong. The furniture, the decor, even the smell of the place was alien to me. I tore through the apartment, my heart pounding in my chest, my breath coming in ragged gasps. I could hear the couple shouting behind me, their voices filled with anger. Then, I heard the sound of a siren. The police were here. I ignored them, my desperation growing with each passing moment. I had to find something, anything that would prove I wasn't crazy. But there was nothing. No photographs, no toys, no trace of my family. I sank to the floor, my body wracked with sobs. I was losing my mind. I had to be. There was no other reasonable explanation. The glitches in my reality were nothing but a sign of that.

The police officers approached me cautiously, their hands resting on their weapons. I could see the wariness in their eyes, the same wariness I had seen in the elderly couple's. They tried to talk to me, their voices calm and soothing, but I couldn't respond. I was trapped in my own personal hell, a place where my family didn't exist, where my memories seemed to be nothing more than delusions. They led me out of the apartment, their grip firm on my arms. I didn't resist. What was the point? I was a madman, a lunatic who had lost his grip on reality. They drove me to the police station.

At the station, I was asked to hand over my wallet and then led to a small, stark room where I waited. After about two hours a police officer stepped in and sat down across from me, his eyes filled with sympathy. He introduced himself as officer Parent, his voice gentle yet firm. He asked me questions, his pen poised over a notepad. Where did I live? Who was my family? What had happened to me? I tried to answer straight, but the words wouldn't come out clearly. I could see the concern in his eyes deepening, the lines on his forehead growing more pronounced with each passing moment. He leaned forward, his voice low. "Monsieur Lemaitre, you claim that your family is missing?" I shook my head, my throat tight. "No, it's not true. They're not missing. They're...they're gone." He sighed, running a hand through his hair. He continued, his voice gentle yet insistent. "Monsieur, based on your account, it seems to me that you're grappling with a severe shock or distress, likely clouding your judgement." I shook my head, my eyes filling with tears. "No, officer. You don't understand. I'm not crazy. I'm not making this up." He sighed again, his eyes filled with pity.

The police officer continued, his voice softening, "Monsieur Lemaitre, we've found a university ID in your wallet and we have spoken to the university. They confirmed that you are indeed a physics professor there. However, they also informed us that you've never been married, nor do you have any children." I shook my head vehemently, my mind reeling. "No, no, this can't be true. I remember them, I remember everything." Officer Parent's expression always sympathetic, became firmer. "We recommend you see a psychiatrist to help you work through this." He handed me a note, which I took with trembling hands. It was an note from with my name and an address. The address was unfamiliar to me.

The police officers escorted me to an old house on the outskirts of the city. Overgrown bushes and weeds crept through the crumbling bricks of the facade and around broken windows, casting eerie shadows that danced macabrely in the cold moonlight. The area was desolate, with no other houses in sight, and the silence was so profound that it seemed to hum in my ears. As we entered, I felt like I was stepping into a stranger's life. The interior was completely foreign to me, devoid of any personal touches or memories, as if the very soul of the house had been sucked out. The floorboards groaned under my weight, each creak a mournful echo in the suffocating silence. It wasn't my house. Not the one I knew, not the apartment filled with the laughter of my daughter Zoe, the love and beauty of my wife Marie. This house was a hollow shell. "Your home, Professor Lemaitre," the lead officer had said, his voice flat, devoid of empathy. I collapsed onto the floor, my body wracked with sobs. The officers exchanged a look, then left me alone in this strange, soulless home. I lay there, my mind reeling, as the weight of their words sank in. Was I truly alone? Had I fabricated an entire family, a life that never existed? The thought was unbearable, and I wept until my body was spent, my mind numb with despair.

Midnight had bled into the early hours. The only sound was the relentless ticking of a grandfather clock in the hall, each tick a hammer blow against my sanity. Despair, like a cold, clammy hand, squeezed my chest, threatening to extinguish the last flicker of hope. I was adrift in a sea of uncertainty, the shore of reality receding with every passing moment. A floorboard creaked, a subtle sound it could have been the house settling. It came through a door on my right which I assumed led to a basement. I wasn't alone. Someone was here with me in this mausoleum of a home. Fear propelled me, each step a hesitant prayer against the encroaching darkness.

The door, warped and swollen with damp, stood ajar, a sliver of inky blackness beckoning from within. I heard another sound originating from down there, a muffled scratching, like claws on wood. I found a light switch and turned it on, it emitted a feeble yellowish light. I descended the creaking steps, each one protesting with a groan that mirrored the agony in my soul.

The basement air was stagnant with the scent of mildew and decay. Cobwebs, like spectral shrouds, draped everything, catching the meager light and transforming it into a macabre, dancing spectacle. The scratching grew louder, accompanied by a low, guttural growl that sent shivers down my spine. I pressed on, the weak light illuminating dust-covered tools, rusted machinery, and forgotten relics of a bygone era.

Then I saw it. Another door, concealed behind a stack of rotting crates, its paint peeling like scabs. The growl emanated from behind it. With trembling hands, I pushed the crates aside, the stench of decay assaulting my nostrils. The door creaked open. Inside, I found an old wooden desk, its surface scarred and worn, surrounded by a layer of dust so thick it looked like powdered snow. On top of the desk lay a single black and white photograph, faded and brittle with age, its edges curling like dried leaves. It showed a man, his face etched with a familiar weariness, holding a young girl with light curly hair, her eyes wide and innocent. Beside them, a woman, her smile radiant, her hair styled in an elaborate updo.

As I gazed upon the vintage snapshots, a shiver coursed through me. 'My Marie, my Zoe,' the words echoed in my mind, but the attire, the stances, and the very aura of the images recoiled from my 1967 reality, transporting me to an era when photography was in its embryonic stages. My veins turned to ice as the shocking truth hit me like a battering ram: These were images of myself, Marie, and Zoe, forever immortalized in a time that defied logic, a time before I was conceived. The horror of it seeped into my bones, leaving an indelible chill that would not abate.

The growl intensified, a primal, hungry sound behind me. I whirled around, the light catching a movement in the shadows. But before I could scream, before I could comprehend what was unfolding before me, the darkness swallowed me whole.