Suddenly, I heard a noise upstairs. Panic surged through me, and I debated running back to my car. But I had to know. I had to understand what was happening to my husband. I crept up the stairs, each step creaking ominously underfoot.

At the top of the stairs, I peeked into our bedroom. There, sitting in the middle of the room, amid more cryptic notes and diagrams, was my husband. He was hunched over, muttering to himself, surrounded by what seemed like a makeshift laboratory. Various jars and gadgets lay scattered around him, glowing with an otherworldly light.

He looked up, his eyes wild but also relieved to see me. “I didn’t want you to see this,” he said quietly, a note of desperation in his voice. “I’m so close to finding the truth, but it’s all slipping away.”