The Returned

Five weeks have passed, and the country is still trying to grasp how 200 people could appear out of nowhere. To this day, speculations range from religious origins to supernatural happenings and everything between. The attention around the story had even created rumors of an impromptu cosplay convention thanks to a recent season of a cult horror show that played last fall. It’s been a mess.

Despite everything, my desire to dig for whatever story at the core of this re-emerged colony was overwhelming. I had to go see it for myself. 

I had to go to Roanoke. 

Initially, the government sequestered the “Returned”, as they were initially labeled,  into camps to perform psychiatric evaluations and general health checks. They were cordoned off from the public, with zero access given to anyone but medical professionals. Nevertheless, I knew I had to go. The problem was the masses that descended upon the island of North Carolina had created such a travel nightmare, that the only motel I could find room in was an hour’s drive away. I made the reservation anyway, and flew across the country to join everyone else in the hunt for…something. 

Sadly, my trip was uneventful. I’m not sure what I was expecting but the lack of anything concrete was a letdown. With the arrival of so many out-of-towners, the locals scurried under every rock they could find to avoid the obnoxious social media influencers looking for their next big post. Journalists have a tough time being taken seriously these days and this situation only amplified that. Funny enough, cosplayers did invade North Carolina in the hopes of achieving internet fame, so at least I had some entertainment at the bars while I struck out with every lead I had. I left for home empty-handed.

As time went on, my singular trip to Roanoke turned into one of many as I hunted for the article hidden amongst the metaphorical weeds. The government began opening the camps to outsiders, slowly at first, but my press badge was enough to get me in early. Any meeting with someone of the “Returned” was to be held in an interrogation-type room with a full-blown monitoring system. If anyone became distressed or overwhelmed, the interview would be stopped immediately. 

Eventually, a few of us that started making frequent visits were granted more exposure to the group of people. Rather than individual meetings, we were able to sit and chat in social settings with them. It allowed for more candid conversations, which helped me understand the dynamic between everyone. I had many questions to work through. 

Do these people know each other?

Where do they call home?

Is there a leader or some type of hierarchy?

As I sat and listened, it became clear they all do know each other, and they believe this area to be their home. However, no one recognized the location. In fact, they kept referencing changes of some sort to places once familiar to them. And their leader became evident as well. An older man that I never witnessed speak. The reverence for him among the people was obvious early on. I was never able to get close to him. 

It was after the third trip to the community that aspects of my visits started to inject themselves into my dreams, itching at the back of my mind as if to point to something. One face in particular constantly haunted my dreams; the old man, the leader. He never speaks. He just stares at me with these hollow eyes that I can only imagine have seen horrors from some distant time or place that’s foreign to me. What’s strange is how familiar he seems to me. Before long, the nightmares became a nightly occurrence. 

This morning, the horror finally hit home. 

After my morning run, I came into a hot pot of coffee and turned on the news. As I sipped and wondered what my calendar looked like for the day, I glanced at the TV screen and almost dropped my coffee mug. There was the face of the man, the leader, being interviewed by a local news reporter on national television. Immediately I grabbed the control and turned the volume up.

“…and you feel that the country, maybe even the world, would benefit from hearing what you have to say today?”

Before speaking, the old man closed his eyes slowly, and instantly all the natural background noise in the world dissipated. Dead silence. No birds chirping, no bugs clicking, not even a breeze. His eyes opened, and the words that soon filled my ears did not match the movement of his lips.

“I am speaking to you now in a language you may hopefully understand. Please, do not be frightened. The change we bring to this world will be a welcome one,” he pauses momentarily, “but only for those who survive the coming tests.”

With that, he raised his arms and all the electricity in my house seemed to be sucked into some supernatural vacuum. I scrambled for my phone only to find no signal. Walking outside I expected my neighbors to be in the same panicked state, but rather than questions I just heard the same deafening silence from the interview. It was then that my phone somehow vibrated in my hand. Caller unknown. 

I answer the call. 

“I hope my demonstration was enough to capture your attention. You were always my favorite….”