Glenn (Peter Malinowski): A visit with my son

When I became "Peter Malinowski," in Maine, my 17-year-old son ("Mason" for the purposes of this blog,) became a 15-year-old girl from around the area I will call "Brooke Shaner." I only had a brief time with him to digest what had happened to us before Brooke's parents came to collect her. She had disappeared weeks earlier, initially to spend the night with Trevor, and then simply vanished (into whatever limbo where bodies are held... a question I don't want to ponder) until Mason's transformation. That's two weeks without knowing where their daughter was. I'm told she concocted some kind of flimsy cover story that was starting to grow suspicious by the time Mason was transformed. Mason's shellshocked appearance upon "rescue" was likely not helpful.

The way they arrived very quickly after the change leads me to believe someone tipped them off, who would have knowledge of the Inn's magic (Mason doesn't seem to think they have a clue.)

As a result, while I've been Peter Malinowski of Dover, Delaware, my son has been living in Maine for the past several months, as a girl somewhat younger than himself, and I have been tearing my hair out (which I shouldn't do since I gained a good amount of it) trying to keep tabs on him from a distance.

Understand, I hadn't been a full-time parent in years before my wife left him with me to go "do good" in Central America. So I'm a little protective of him, and the idea of leaving him with strangers, to play this new role, was frustrating to me, but I had no choice. I wished I could have been there, especially in those scary early weeks. It might have brought us closer together. Instead, we are further apart than ever.

I contact him often, to ask how he is feeling. Mostly he dodges the question by giving simple answers. He tells me things are fine, and I wonder how that can possibly be.

So I told him, over the Christmas holiday, I was going to use some vacation time to go to Maine and see him. He seemed reluctant, but I told him it was non-negotiable. It was a time for family, and he was important to me. All I asked for was one day of his time. By then, he had behaved himself as Brooke to where his disappearance was forgiven and he was getting a bit more leeway with the Shaners to do as he pleased.

I met Mason at a café not far from his house. I was very early. I kept my eyes fixed on the door. I knew what he looked like, but was not used to seeing it in person, so every young lady who walked through the door got an unfortunate once-over from me before proceeding to the counter to order. I had sent a recent photo so that he wouldn't mistake me for someone else. I was being very cautious.

The last time I had seen my son in person, he was very much traumatized, so the mental image I had was of a tense, shuffling, awkward girl. I had to look twice when a comparatively poised, confident young lady breezed into the coffee shop and, after a moment's glance of recognition, took her seat across from me. I didn't know how to react.

She was wearing a green scarf and a dark coat, undone. She had her dark brown hair pulled back in a ponytail. She didn't appear to be wearing any makeup, that I could tell - a few spots of acne dotted her face, which made me wonder if Mason would be more or less self-conscious from wearing cover-up (as I believe many teenage girls and grown women do) than letting blemishes show.

"Hey," she said softly. Then, collecting herself, she added "Dad" more softly.

"Hi... Brooke." We were in public, so "Mason" wouldn't do, but his new name stuck in my throat awkwardly. I went in for a hug, and he leaned forward only slightly in his seat to allow it.

"Sorry, I didn't know how I should..." he said, before trailing off.

"I understand," I said - even in our normal form our hugs were perhaps not as comfrotable as they could have been. "Are you going to have anything?" Maybe later, he said.

I asked how things had been. I had asked often enough over text, but there he was able to be evasive. I hoped in person he would be forthcoming.

"It's okay," he said. We weren't off to a good start. "School is easy since I took a lot of these classes already, but I get a little tired of repeating stuff. Brooke's friends are good people."

"Interesting," I said, "Do you feel like... you fit in?"

"Sure," he said.

"Is it strange?" I asked, "Having a body so different? Are you okay with it?"

"Yeah, it's fine," he said, "It took some getting used to, but, like, it's been months, so whatever."

I guess I didn't expect him to tell me if he spent his nights crying about it. But his phrasing, that it "took some getting used to," suggested he was now officially "used to it." This would be in line with what I knew about Leon, and Cathy for that matter. The implication that he was as used to it as they were, or most of the people who go through this blog, unsettled my stomach.

"Tell me about your new friends, then, what are they like?"

"They're ok. They make fun of me because they think Brooke is going through a serious tomboy phase, not to mention becoming a total amnesiac about her own life, but they're still nice to me. That part is really reassuring. We hang out a lot. I was afraid to ask for girl tips from them but I get a lot of info just from listening to them talk."

"Okay, that's good."

"It's better than when I was living with you, because I didn't have any friends in Illinois."

Ouch. But at least he was finding silver linings. And it didn't really sound like he was blaming me for that...

He named off a few friends... Katies, Melissas, Lauras. They sounded like typical teenage girls, discovering make-up and fashion and, yes, boys.

Then he started naming boys who were friends of Brooke's - Dereks and Lukes and Brads. "Brad and I watched a few football games together. Luke's into Xbox, so we stay up late playing over the headset. Derek is always the first to sit next to me at lunch."

To write it out, it might sound very innocent, but as he described it, he was practically swooning.

I took my time formulating a response to this. I wanted to be fair to this but I also wanted information.

"And how do you feel about the way these boys treat you? Is it... different from how it used to be?"

He scoffed a perfect teenage girl huff. "Obviously."

"And... do you like it?"

"I don't know, kinda," he said, shifting in his seat. "Are you asking if I like boys now?"

"No, well... I would like to know if you have thoughts on it. You don't have to hide that from me."

"I don't know. I don't want to talk about it. It's weird."

So now it was weird. A minute ago he kinda liked it. I'm trying to remember what it was like been a teenager and having lots of confusing feelings.

"I don't want you to judge me," he said, "If I'm not some all American super boy like you want."

"I don't care about that. Who told you I did?"

"Trevor," he said. "He told me you were really rooting for him when he went out for the football team."

"You talked to Cathy?" I said, using 'Trevor's' proper/original name.

"Sure, we have lots in common." I supposed that was true, in a sense. Their experience is... closer to each other's than mine. But it still felt like a betrayal because neither mentioned it before now and I had no idea what they were saying to one another.

"Did you know that she's dating?" I said, maybe a little spitefully.

"Yeah," Mason said. "It's not really dating though. Nothing official."

That didn't make me feel more at ease.

"You should be careful, Mase," I said firmly, "These boys probably are interested in you, at least some of them."

"So?" he sneered petulantly, "I can make my own decisions."

"So... I don't want you to do something you'll regret."

"You don't trust me," Mason said, crossing his arms under his breasts and looking away.

"It's not that. I just don't trust... other people."

"If I was a boy, you would never talk to me this way. You're a sexist."

"You don't know what you're saying!" I snapped back. "It's different for girls and boys, okay? You at least know that much, right?"

"I can handle it. Don't talk to me like I'm an idiot. You don't even know me."

"Apparently I don't."

We sat there silently for a moment, then he murmured, "You're hooking up with Leon, for God's sake, and that guy is digusting. Don't talk to me about urges okay?"

I was aghast. Finally, I sputtered, "What I do, what adults do, is none of your concern. You're still a child, you're my child, and that makes you my responsibility."

"Oh yeah?" he said, standing up to leave, He leaned in and hissed "Why should I listen to you? I'm not your son anymore."

"You think it's that easy?" I said, frustrated, "That some magic curse overrides my parental responsibility? Poof, you're a stranger to me?"

"Why not? You had no problem handing me over to them - and they're way nicer than you anyway."

"I was never mean to you! Don't make a scene. Is this... just your hormones or something?"

That, admittedly, was the wrong thing to say. He left, saying only "Don't follow me."

I felt very bad after he left, especially for the hormones remark. I was very bothered by the fact that my timid, introverted son would never have spoken to me that way. Had estrogen warped his brain, or was he finally about to really let out what he really felt, emboldened by the fact that he no longer had to rely on me for parental support, and no longer had an identity that was tied to mine. That he can declare me a stranger so quickly was startling.

I sent a very carefully worded e-mail to him afterwards, acknowledging that things had not always been perfect between us - I stopped short of outright apologizing because 1) I firmly believe I did my best, and 2) I think it is a sign of weakness for a parent to apologize to his child so quickly. I told him that no matter his feelings, I had his best interests in mind 100% of the time, and that, with nobody nearby who knows his situation, it is incumbent on me to help him get his normal body back.

Assuming that is what he wants.

If he would rather be a girl? Well, I suppose the chips will fall where they may, but there is a woman in upstate New York who lived the first 16 years of Brooke's life, and I doubt she would be pleased about being cut off from it, and I told him so.

Mason sent me a lengthy e-mail in response, in which he also did not apologize for his behavior but hinted at admitting wrongdoing. He defended his attitude and admitted things "had been difficult" to figure out (re: identity and sexuality, I guessed) and that I hit a nerve by suggesting he was somehow wrong to feel that way.

I told him I didn't mean to give that impression, only to give the advice I would want to give a daughter, if I had one, about boys' intentions. I guess that was both stupid (because he was a boy and knew their intentions) and  a double-standard, because I had never warned him off of girls and in fact encouraged him to do his best to win them over.

Mea culpa on that one.

The last part of my response concerned Cathy/Trevor, who I assured him was NOT the son I wanted. I wanted him, no matter who he is - athletic or nerdy (apparently that's a cool thing to be called now?) boy or girl.

He appreciated my saying so. Once that was smoothed over, we agreed to meet again before I left town. This time he arrived wearing pre-ripped jeans (I had no idea those were back in style, yuck.) I asked if his legs got cold, and he laughed it off. I complimented his hair, which was up in a messy bun.

"Thanks... it's not that hard once you learn the basics."

Things were a lot more warm between us this time. He told me that no matter what, he did want to go back to being himself. He didn't know how to make it work, given that the Shaners were going to be watching their daughter like a hawk come summertime, considering her disappearance last year. He thought maybe he could get one of the girls to claim they were going on vacation together. I don't like the idea of a child having to lie to parents, but obviously we have limited options. I told him to let me know.

Innbox: The Stevensons

Tori here! I thought I would take a break from updating you on the sordid details of my life to dig into our inbox. Since I set up the new account we've had some correspondences with a few fellow Inn victims, some of whom have agreed to share their stories but don't want to make themselves regular contributors here (not that they wouldn't be welcome.) In fact, our first write-in comes from someone who was at the Inn not long after one of our familiar faces...

Don't forget, if you have an experience you'd like to share with us, please contact us at TradingPostStories@outlook.com! All are welcome!

--

Dear Trading Post,

I have spent weeks attempting to decide whether this site is legitimate or not, whether I could feel comfortable sharing my story. But reading over the accounts from this summer, the timing and details line up. I can tell that what happened to me was indeed shared by people who are writing at this site. I feel satisfied that we are in, as much as can ever be expeted from the internet, a safe space. But all the same, I will proceed cautiously.

My name, by birth, is Glenn Stevenson. I work in middle management at a delivery company in Illinois. I am 47 years old, balding, with a wiry frame and angular features. At least, that's the image I have of myself in my mind's eye. The story in the mirror is quite different, albeit not as much so as some of those who write here. I would never compare what I have gone through personally with some of the traumas many of you have faced, but the curse did hit those around me quite badly.

I was a visitor to the Inn in late July 2015, just after Tyler and Meg were there according to this blog. I was visiting with my 17-year-old son, Mason (not his real name, but I will use it henceforth) and a friend of mine, Leon, whom I had befriended at a support group for divorced men. Which is to say, he needed a drinking buddy, and glommed onto me. When someone from our group recommended a trip to Maine to clear my head and bond with my son, Leon tagged along.

It was important to me to spend quality time with my son this summer. His mother and I split up when he was very young, and I did not see him very much because they moved often. Then a year ago, she accepted a position working with underprivileged communities in Central America and he wanted to stay in the States, so he moved in with me. Suddenly I was a full-time father again for the first time in nearly a decade - and my son was practically a stranger. It was a very difficult school year for him - he is (or was) quite overweight, shy and introverted, and while I don't necessarily oppose the way his mother raised him, I would like to think I would have helped him learn to get out of his shell if I was around, a valuable skill when you are always the new kid in town. Instead, he seemed behind, a bit immature for his age, smart but not socially comfortable yet.

From the moment we arrived, I struggled getting much interaction with him - he is very enamored of screens and not so much the beach - and neither of us were particularly fond of the rustic, almost haunted stillness of the Inn. Leon seemed unfazed, though, and started drinking as planned as soon as we arrived. It became clear that I had to spend more time attending to my friend than my son, especially when he would leer and make comments at some of the female beachgoers. There was a single woman in our age group, Cathy, in one of the rooms, but Leon dismissed her (a shame since she seemed interested in him and I didn't see him doing any better,) and focussed on younger ladies to the point of almost starting a fistfight at one of the bars in town with some college boys whose girls he was chatting up. I did my best to run interference and not encourage him.

It was a few days in. I had taken to letting Leon sleep in my room so that I could keep an eye on him, and Mason was sleeping in Leon's room a couple of doors down. I woke up at 4 AM to various cries for help and some shuffling in other rooms. I tried to shake Leon awake, to no avail. Sensing something amiss, I immediately rushed to my where my son as sleeping to make sure he was ok.

I knocked on the door and called in, "Mason? It's dad..." I started to turn the knob and softly open the door, in case he was asleep. "Mason? I'm coming in."

"Dad?" answered a decidedly unfamiliar voice. "What's happening?"

I clicked on the light and I did not see my son. I saw a very thin girl with curly brown hair propped up in bed wearing my son's Wolverine tee shirt.

"Who are you? Where's Mason?" I was in some proportion angry and scared, but mostly confused because it wasn't like my son to invite strange girls to sleep in his bed.

Especially when the next words out of her mouth were "I'm Mason. Who are you?"

I was about to say "No you're not," which seemed absurd to have to say, but she seemed shocked at the sound of her own voice. She held out a long strand of hair in her fingertips, pulling its curls straight, which she gaped at in awe and horror, like it was the first time she had ever seen it. I could see a strange wave of understanding come over her face.

She whipped the covers off her legs and examined them, as if for the first time. I wasn't sure what I was looking at at all, but she was wearing my son's boxers, which were way too big for her. She pulled the elastic band away and gaped for a moment at what she found, in further surprise.

"No way, no...!" she gasped. "What? What happened?"

I turned my head away, modestly.

She stood, grabbed the shorts to hold them up, then sat down woozily. She just stared in space.

"Listen, I want an explanation," I demanded. "Where is my son? Where is Mason Stevenson?" Around this moment, when I raised my voice, I started to notice its timbre wasn't quite right. And neither was the hand I was waving at him, which lacked my telltale wristwatch tan and (ahem) hairy knuckles. I got distracted examining it.

"Is it you? Dad?" the girl asked. "Are you Glenn Stevenson?"

"How do you know my name?" I asked with suspicion and irritation.

"I'm your son," she said, looking at me, seemingly on the brink of tears, "I'm Mason. Is this a dream, or did this really happen?"

And so, the day proceeded. It took me a moment to fully process, but seeing the face of one Peter Malinowski in the mirror (so the matching I.D. later informed me,) a rather ruggedly handsome individual with a strong hairline and jaw, if a bit of a paunch that I was starting to become aware of as I moved about more during the day. My concern was for my son - something strange had happened to all of us at the Inn, and as a young man now in the unfamiliar body of a female, he was at the most vulnerable, emotionally. I mustered every bit of parenting I could to get him through that day. And he just sat there, quietly detached, with this blank look on his new face, trying to process it. And I had to pretend like I knew everything would be ok.

I returned to my room and held my breath as I flicked on the light, unsure what I would find: there lay a middle-aged woman sprawled face-down on the side of the bed where Leon had been sleeping. Leon was now Peter's wife, Meredith. And when he woke up, he was not pleased about it.

I tried to break it to him gently, watching over him until he stirred, and asking "Leon, are you awake? I've got some bad, weird news, so brace yourself." He seemed to understand and accept that we had transformed, pretty quickly all things considered, (after a lengthy round of "What the fuck, what the fuck, holy shit, I've got a p*ssy," etc.) He would not stop complaining about it, saying I should be the "chick" and he the "dude." I told him I didn't know how we ended up like we did.

A couple of girls - the real Lauren and Tasha, who had arrived at the Inn under the guise of a young married couple (I had seen them but paid no mind) - took us aside and explained the finer details, after we had picked up most of the broad strokes. While we were conferring, I caught my son fidgeting and examining parts of his body.

"Mase!" I hissed, "Don't touch--- uh, I mean, go someplace private, okay?" He went back to the room, sullen and embarrassed. I wasn't sure what the protocol should be, but I didn't want to give him the impression that his body wasn't his to touch. Still, if I had a daughter, I wouldn't want her fidgeting with her breasts in a crowd of strangers. Leon as doing the same, but I couldn't stop him from doing so. I just wanted him to set more of an example.

"Okay, I'm a chick but do I have to be such an ugly one?" Leon said, examining Meredith's face in the mirror. I wouldn't describe her as ugly, only that she looked her age, which incidentally was still younger than Leon by a bit. She was in her early 40's, with short, light-colored hair, and a few frown lines, bags under her eyes... with a thin waist, but very round hips and thighs, and breasts that Leon described, disturbingly, as "Sag-a-licious."

"Leon, I understand we're all shocked, but could you keep your attitude more appropriate while my son is around? Try to be positive? He doesn't need to dwell on the negatives situation."

Leon scoffed and used some more vulgar language to describe his new appearance. He started drinking quickly.

Tasha and Lauren instructed us that we could probably find some kind of letter or note explaining who the Malinowskis were and what had become of them, and an impassioned plea to safeguard their lives. It seemed the responsible thing to do, if burdensome. But their letter made no mention of a daughter, only a son - Trevor. I had seen a strapping teenage boy around the Inn over the morning but hadn't had time to ask who he was or anything. That turned out to be Cathy, whose appearance inspired jealousy in Leon. She didn't seem too fazed by it either, all things considered.

The note that Trevor had left her was the one that chilled me... because the Malinowski didn't have a daughter. The girl my son now appeared to be was a local girl who snuck away from her parents to spend the night with Trevor. That explained why the baggage we found there wasn't for her, and there was only the barest minimum of personal effects for her stashed away in Trevor's room: one clearly worn set of clothes, and a clutch purse containing a hastily-written note that agreed with Trevor's. It identified her as Brooke Shaner.

I had even seen a posting asking for information on her whereabouts. People were looking for her, and if my son was now her, then taking him across state lines, either to the Malinowski's home in Delaware or mine in Illinois, would be a felony. My heart completely stopped as I realized my only options were to break the law or surrender my son to strangers, leaving him alone and vulnerable and trapped in a strange body that didn't match his mind.

I mulled it over for a bit and concluded Mason was old enough to be involved in the discussions. So at the end of the day I sat him down on the bed. He was a sad sight, shoulders hunched, hair tangled over his girlish face, which was red and streaked by dried tears he clearly didn't want me to see.

"Hey, buddy, listen. We are in a really tough situation right now. You understand, right? What's happened to us?"

"Uh huh," he sighed. "I'm... I turned into a girl."

"Right," I said, "A specific girl. Someone who is missing, someone whose parents are worried right now. And as a parent, I understand what they're going through. And if you walked through their door right now, they would be very happy, very relieved. But if I let that happen, I would feel like I was abandoning you. I have a responsibility to you. And if you don't want to go, I will do my best to protect you and keep you safe."

"I'm so confused," he sniffed, choked up, "You want me to go live with strangers?"

"No I don't want that at all," I insisted, "But like I said, it's a tough choice. And we're going to make it together. I can't get us back to our own lives, our own bodies, but that doesn't mean... I don't think it means we're stuck. Not forever. I'm going to get us out of this."

He froze for a moment, then said quietly, "I don't want to go."

I wrapped my arms around him. He resisted at first - hugs were always kind of an awkward moment between us and now he was in a body that wasn't his and clearly uncomfortable just being touched - but he wrapped his thin arms around me, and I said into his ears "It's going to be okay, I love you, it's going to be okay."

I didn't sleep at all that night. Partly was that after waking up to such a shock, you find it difficult to get comfortable in the Inn. Partly, I was head-to-toe with Leon and had his Meredith-feet in my face (he first demanded I sleep on the floor but I told him that wasn't feasible.) Mostly I was trying to come up with ways to smuggle my son out of the state. Would we go to Illinois first, or Delaware? Would they be looking for her at the airport, or would we have to drive? What if we cut her hair, disguised her with make-up... would we have to hide her in the trunk?

KNOCK KNOCK.

A loud rapping at the door at 6 am. Oh, no, I thought, what now.

My worst fears: a pair of police officers were canvassing the Inn holding a picture of Brooke. "Sorry to wake you sir, but we got a tip that this girl might be at this Inn."

I had to think quick and stammered, "I, um... I think..." I sighed, reluctantly, "Yeah, I think I saw her but I don't know if she's still here."

"But she was here?"

I tried to backpedal "I don't know, there was a girl here but I didn't get a... uh, good look at her."

"Do you mind if we search your room? Just as a precaution."

"I, um... yeah, sure." I gritted my teeth, trying to figure out a way to stall them.

Leon stirred, deeply hung over, "What the fuck, Glenn?"

"These cops are looking for a missing girl... honey," I said, playing husband.

One of them asked, "Your name, sir?"

"P-Peter..." it took me a moment to recall "my" new last name, "Melanski." I got it wrong, but they didn't check. They also didn't ask why my "wife" had called me "Glenn." Leon just laid there, muttering "Fuckin' pigs" under his breath while I tried to hush him.

As soon as they left I scrambled for my phone to text Mason, but I paused... if I warned him, it could be incriminating. If I did anything I could be in trouble. I froze.

I watched them bring my son outside to the Shaner family, who were waiting for their daughter.

I had failed.

When Mason turned to look at me, with a look of fear and confusion on his face, I mouthed, "I tried, I'm so sorry. I love you."

I felt like the worst father, the worst person ever.

I had waited a day to contact the real Malinowskis, currently in Albany, because I didn't know what my plan was going to be. Now it felt like nothing I did mattered, so I agreed to take Leon and Cathy to Delaware. The real Peter is an amenable person, which probably is partly due to currently feeling helplessly trapped in the body of a ten-year-old girl. We started working on plans right away to get everyone back where they belonged, but I could only think of my son.

I worried the whole way about how I was going to contact him, how I was going to rescue him. I didn't have a phone number for Brooke, and he had left his phone in his/Leon's room. But Cathy reminded me that kids today have a huge social media presence, and he would probably still check his own Facebook profile.

I sent him a message from mine: "We are in Delaware. Tell me if you're OK. I still want to help you, to fix this."

It wasn't until the next day that I got a reply: "I'm ok."

I didn't press him for more details, but if I'm being honest, I wanted to shake him until he told me everything he had been through. I had a hard enough time getting two words out of him when things were normal, and now we were separated and there was a chance I'd never see him again. I asked for more details as politely as I could and he just said "Don't really wanna talk about it. Sorry."

I want him to feel like he can come to me, but now there's this huge wedge between us... he's going through something that I can't fully comprehend, and we're so far apart it's like I'm not even his dad. I don't know what to do... but I'm determined to do something.

Anyway, that's my story. So far. Thanks for hearing me out.

-Glenn, "Peter Malinowski" Stevenson

Postscript: I have invited Mr. Stevenson to take part in our blog, and would extend that invitation to any member of his "family." His response was that it took him so long to compose this letter that he didn't see regular contributions as practical, but would consider checking in when he was able to, hopefully when there is good news. Best of luck! -T.