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TAPE ARCHIVE #002 – "THE BONE TREE" (ALT. TO "DON'T GO TO BLACK HOLLOW –A Warning from Someone..." )
I’ve debated writing this for a long time. It’s been over a year since the events I’m about to describe, and I still have trouble processing what happened. But I need to get this out there because what we encountered in Black Hollow isn’t something you can just ignore, or even forget.
This isn’t some ghost story or urban legend—this is real. And if you’re reading this, I’m begging you to heed my warning. Please, for the love of everything that’s still human in you, stay away from Black Hollow.
It all started like any other camping trip...
I’m Matt Carson, 25 years old. I’m usually the one behind the camera. I’m the guy who plans the trips, makes the jokes, and, apparently, gets everyone into trouble. We’d been talking about doing something off-the-beaten-path for a while—something that wasn’t just the usual hiking trails. I’d heard about Black Hollow National Park from a few locals during a road trip, and something about it seemed... different. They had their warnings, sure, but those are just part of the whole "wild place" charm, right?
I convinced my friends—Erin, Cody, and Vanessa—to come with me. Erin’s always up for anything wild, Cody was just looking for an excuse to take his new camping gear out for a spin, and Vanessa... well, Vanessa wasn’t convinced. I could tell right away something was off with her, but it didn’t stop her from coming along.
The plan was simple: hike the Black Hollow trail, camp for a night, and then head out the next morning. Three miles. That was it. But looking back, I can see now that I should’ve taken Vanessa’s feelings more seriously.
We arrived early, around noon. The sun was too bright, and the parking lot was mostly empty, save for an old, rusted sign that read “BLACK HOLLOW TRAIL – 3.2 MILES.” The moment we stepped out of the car, something felt wrong. The air was thick, too still. And the forest? Completely silent. I tried to brush it off, thinking it was just the heat. But Vanessa, she couldn’t stop staring at the woods, like she was waiting for something to emerge from the shadows.
I started recording, like I always do. "Alright, we’re rolling. Day one of the big camping trip," I said, grinning at the camera.
Erin, ever the jokester, flipped me off and said, “Hi, losers!”
Cody was messing with his backpack, looking like he was getting everything prepared for a trek that I didn’t think was going to be as difficult as it ended up being. Vanessa? She barely acknowledged me, just muttering, “Feels off,” under her breath.
I laughed it off. “What, the haunted woods giving you bad vibes already?”
But she wasn’t laughing. She just kept staring at the trees, her eyes narrowed in suspicion.
I should’ve listened.
The Discovery – When Everything Went Wrong
We hiked for about an hour before things started to get weird. The deeper we went, the quieter it got. No birds. No wind. No nothing. The trees crowded in on us like they were trying to close us off from the world. Then, we stumbled across something... something that should have made us turn around right then and there.
I was recording, like I always do, when I saw it. A tree. But not just any tree. It was wrong. The bark was twisted, gnarled, like it had grown to envelop something... or someone. And then I saw the bones.
Human bones. Bone-white femurs sticking out of the branches. A skull lodged halfway in the trunk. Finger bones that looked like they’d been twisted into place—no way a human could’ve done that.
Erin was the first to speak. “What the actual fuck?”
I couldn’t even respond. I kept the camera rolling, trying to process it. I knew there had to be an explanation. “This is some kind of art thing, right?” I said, half-laughing, though I knew it didn’t make sense. “Like a sculpture or something?”
But Vanessa... she stepped forward. Her hand reached out like it was drawn to the bones.
I don’t know what made me keep recording. Maybe I didn’t believe what I was seeing, or maybe I didn’t want to believe it. But then, as Vanessa hovered her hand over a femur, the camera flickered—just for a second. A glitch. And then came the sound. A snap, but not like a bone breaking. It was like the bone was snapping in reverse, pulling back into place.
That was the first moment I felt the terror.
And that was when the tape skipped.
Nightfall – Everything Went to Hell
It was already evening by the time we made camp. I didn’t want to admit it, but I had the feeling we shouldn’t have stayed. The whole day felt like it was closing in on us, like something was waiting. The fire we built didn’t do much to keep the shadows back. The trees... they seemed to stretch further with every minute we spent in that place.
Cody, who was usually the brave one, spoke first: “We shouldn’t have stayed.” His voice was low, uncharacteristically serious.
I tried to laugh it off, “Where else were we supposed to go? We’re in the middle of nowhere.”
But it wasn’t funny. Not when Vanessa spoke up.
“It’s watching us.”
She said it so quietly, so matter-of-factly. It felt like a punch to the gut. I tried to brush it off, but something was off. The way the air changed. The way the fire flickered. The way the trees didn’t move. There wasn’t even a breeze.
Then I heard it. A creaking noise, like wood bending under weight. Or worse... like something moving in the branches above us.
I didn’t say anything, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that we weren’t alone.
Missing – The Bone Tree Grows
The camera started shaking again, jerking wildly as I filmed the empty space around the fire. My voice was panicked. “Where the fuck is Cody?”
Erin was crying now, her voice raw. “He was right here. He was RIGHT HERE.”
But he wasn’t. And that’s when I saw it—the Bone Tree. It wasn’t the same as it had been earlier. There was something new now. A fresh branch. It didn’t belong. It was raw, white, still wet. And that’s when I saw it—the skull. Another femur. Something else, hanging like the others, twisted into the bark.
And then it started.
The whispering. Low, layered voices, overlapping each other, speaking words that didn’t make sense. The tape distorted, but I swear I heard them.
“More. More. More.”
It was like they were demanding something from us. The Bone Tree wasn’t just there anymore. It was... hungry.
The tape cut right there.
The Last Entry – A Face in the Dark
The last entry... that’s when I knew. When the camera came back on, I was filming from the tent. The tent we’d set up to escape the madness. But we weren’t escaping anything.
“Erin’s gone,” I whispered into the camera, trying to keep my voice steady. “Vanessa... she won’t talk. She’s just staring at the tree.”
I don’t know how long I sat there, listening to the crackle of the dying fire. But it was the sound that broke me. The sound of dragging. Slow. Deliberate. Like something was pulling itself across the ground, towards us.
The tent shook. The camera glitched again. And then, the whispering came back. Louder. “You should have never stayed.”
And then... the zipper. The entrance to the tent unzipped on its own. The screen flickered, distorted. And then, there it was. A face. But not a human face.
It was twisted, bark-covered, hollow eyes where a human’s should’ve been. It grinned at me. The teeth were too white, too perfect, too clean. It was familiar. I don’t know why, but it was.
The camera hit the ground. A loud snap—like a branch breaking.
And then... nothing.
I don’t know what happened to Vanessa. I don’t know what happened to Cody. The tape was corrupted, and there’s no more footage. The authorities didn’t believe me. They thought it was just some messed-up prank. But I know what I saw. And I can’t forget it. I don’t want anyone else to go through what we went through.
If you’re reading this, stay the hell away from Black Hollow. Whatever’s there, it’s not something you want to mess with. Please.
You’ve been warned.
DON'T GO TO BLACK HOLLOW – A Warning from Someone Who Survived
I’ve debated writing this for a long time. It’s been over a year since the events I’m about to describe, and I still have trouble processing what happened. But I need to get this out there because what we encountered in Black Hollow isn’t something you can just ignore, or even forget.
This isn’t some ghost story or urban legend—this is real. And if you’re reading this, I’m begging you to heed my warning. Please, for the love of everything that’s still human in you, stay away from Black Hollow.
It all started like any other camping trip...
I’m Matt Carson, 25 years old. I’m usually the one behind the camera. I’m the guy who plans the trips, makes the jokes, and, apparently, gets everyone into trouble. We’d been talking about doing something off-the-beaten-path for a while—something that wasn’t just the usual hiking trails. I’d heard about Black Hollow National Park from a few locals during a road trip, and something about it seemed... different. They had their warnings, sure, but those are just part of the whole "wild place" charm, right?
I convinced my friends—Erin, Cody, and Vanessa—to come with me. Erin’s always up for anything wild, Cody was just looking for an excuse to take his new camping gear out for a spin, and Vanessa... well, Vanessa wasn’t convinced. I could tell right away something was off with her, but it didn’t stop her from coming along.
The plan was simple: hike the Black Hollow trail, camp for a night, and then head out the next morning. Three miles. That was it. But looking back, I can see now that I should’ve taken Vanessa’s feelings more seriously.
We arrived early, around noon. The sun was too bright, and the parking lot was mostly empty, save for an old, rusted sign that read “BLACK HOLLOW TRAIL – 3.2 MILES.” The moment we stepped out of the car, something felt wrong. The air was thick, too still. And the forest? Completely silent. I tried to brush it off, thinking it was just the heat. But Vanessa, she couldn’t stop staring at the woods, like she was waiting for something to emerge from the shadows.
I started recording, like I always do. "Alright, we’re rolling. Day one of the big camping trip," I said, grinning at the camera.
Erin, ever the jokester, flipped me off and said, “Hi, losers!”
Cody was messing with his backpack, looking like he was getting everything prepared for a trek that I didn’t think was going to be as difficult as it ended up being. Vanessa? She barely acknowledged me, just muttering, “Feels off,” under her breath.
I laughed it off. “What, the haunted woods giving you bad vibes already?”
But she wasn’t laughing. She just kept staring at the trees, her eyes narrowed in suspicion.
I should’ve listened.
The Discovery – When Everything Went Wrong
We hiked for about an hour before things started to get weird. The deeper we went, the quieter it got. No birds. No wind. No nothing. The trees crowded in on us like they were trying to close us off from the world. Then, we stumbled across something... something that should have made us turn around right then and there.
I was recording, like I always do, when I saw it. A tree. But not just any tree. It was wrong. The bark was twisted, gnarled, like it had grown to envelop something... or someone. And then I saw the bones.
Human bones. Bone-white femurs sticking out of the branches. A skull lodged halfway in the trunk. Finger bones that looked like they’d been twisted into place—no way a human could’ve done that.
Erin was the first to speak. “What the actual fuck?”
I couldn’t even respond. I kept the camera rolling, trying to process it. I knew there had to be an explanation. “This is some kind of art thing, right?” I said, half-laughing, though I knew it didn’t make sense. “Like a sculpture or something?”
But Vanessa... she stepped forward. Her hand reached out like it was drawn to the bones.
I don’t know what made me keep recording. Maybe I didn’t believe what I was seeing, or maybe I didn’t want to believe it. But then, as Vanessa hovered her hand over a femur, the camera flickered—just for a second. A glitch. And then came the sound. A snap, but not like a bone breaking. It was like the bone was snapping in reverse, pulling back into place.
That was the first moment I felt the terror.
And that was when the tape skipped.
Nightfall – Everything Went to Hell
It was already evening by the time we made camp. I didn’t want to admit it, but I had the feeling we shouldn’t have stayed. The whole day felt like it was closing in on us, like something was waiting. The fire we built didn’t do much to keep the shadows back. The trees... they seemed to stretch further with every minute we spent in that place.
Cody, who was usually the brave one, spoke first: “We shouldn’t have stayed.” His voice was low, uncharacteristically serious.
I tried to laugh it off, “Where else were we supposed to go? We’re in the middle of nowhere.”
But it wasn’t funny. Not when Vanessa spoke up.
“It’s watching us.”
She said it so quietly, so matter-of-factly. It felt like a punch to the gut. I tried to brush it off, but something was off. The way the air changed. The way the fire flickered. The way the trees didn’t move. There wasn’t even a breeze.
Then I heard it. A creaking noise, like wood bending under weight. Or worse... like something moving in the branches above us.
I didn’t say anything, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that we weren’t alone.
Missing – The Bone Tree Grows
The camera started shaking again, jerking wildly as I filmed the empty space around the fire. My voice was panicked. “Where the fuck is Cody?”
Erin was crying now, her voice raw. “He was right here. He was RIGHT HERE.”
But he wasn’t. And that’s when I saw it—the Bone Tree. It wasn’t the same as it had been earlier. There was something new now. A fresh branch. It didn’t belong. It was raw, white, still wet. And that’s when I saw it—the skull. Another femur. Something else, hanging like the others, twisted into the bark.
And then it started.
The whispering. Low, layered voices, overlapping each other, speaking words that didn’t make sense. The tape distorted, but I swear I heard them.
“More. More. More.”
It was like they were demanding something from us. The Bone Tree wasn’t just there anymore. It was... hungry.
The tape cut right there.
The Last Entry – A Face in the Dark
The last entry... that’s when I knew. When the camera came back on, I was filming from the tent. The tent we’d set up to escape the madness. But we weren’t escaping anything.
“Erin’s gone,” I whispered into the camera, trying to keep my voice steady. “Vanessa... she won’t talk. She’s just staring at the tree.”
I don’t know how long I sat there, listening to the crackle of the dying fire. But it was the sound that broke me. The sound of dragging. Slow. Deliberate. Like something was pulling itself across the ground, towards us.
The tent shook. The camera glitched again. And then, the whispering came back. Louder. “You should have never stayed.”
And then... the zipper. The entrance to the tent unzipped on its own. The screen flickered, distorted. And then, there it was. A face. But not a human face.
It was twisted, bark-covered, hollow eyes where a human’s should’ve been. It grinned at me. The teeth were too white, too perfect, too clean. It was familiar. I don’t know why, but it was.
The camera hit the ground. A loud snap—like a branch breaking.
And then... nothing.
I don’t know what happened to Vanessa. I don’t know what happened to Cody. The tape was corrupted, and there’s no more footage. The authorities didn’t believe me. They thought it was just some messed-up prank. But I know what I saw. And I can’t forget it. I don’t want anyone else to go through what we went through.
If you’re reading this, stay the hell away from Black Hollow. Whatever’s there, it’s not something you want to mess with. Please.
You’ve been warned.
94’ Danny's Birthday – “THE BLACK BALLOON”
[Recovered VHS Recording – June 18, 1997]
(The following recording was found in the remains of a burned home in Willow Creek, Ohio. The tape was partially damaged, with several segments corrupted. The contents have been transcribed for archival purposes.)
TAPE START: 06/18/97 – 2:32 PM
(A flicker of static. Then, the screen stabilizes. A grainy, oversaturated image appears—a backyard filled with children, the sky a harsh blue from the VHS’s poor white balance. The sound is slightly distorted, warped by the microphone’s limitations. Laughter and shouting blend into an overwhelming noise.)
[Male Voice – Identified as Michael Reeves]
"Alright, Danny, blow out the candles! Make a wish!"
(The camera tilts down, centering on a birthday cake with six candles flickering in the breeze. A little boy, Danny, leans forward and inhales deeply. He blows them out in one breath, and the crowd of kids cheers. A woman—presumably Danny’s mother, Jessica—claps in the background.)
(The camera tilts up, panning across the yard. A cluster of balloons bobs in the air, tied to chairs and the wooden fence. Reds, yellows, blues—colors meant to bring joy. But there’s one that stands out, floating slightly higher than the rest.)
A black balloon.
(It’s not tied down. It drifts just above the others, seemingly unaffected by the wind. The camera lingers on it for a few seconds, then shifts away.)
TAPE CUT: 06/18/97 – 6:45 PM
(The sun has lowered. The party is over. The camera is handheld, shakier now, as if exhaustion is setting in. Kids have left, and the yard is mostly cleaned up. Wrappers and half-filled cups remain on the patio table.)
[Michael] (muttering to himself)
"Alright… last check before bed."
(The camera turns, pointing at the fence. The balloons are deflating, some drooping against the wood. But the black balloon remains exactly where it was, still floating, still watching.)
[Michael]
"Huh. That’s weird."
(He zooms in. The balloon twitches against the wind, moving in a direction opposite to the breeze. The footage distorts—just for a moment. A single frame of something dark flickers into view. Then—static.)
TAPE CUT: NIGHT 02 – 2:12 AM
(The footage is dimly lit, the camera now inside the house, pointed out a second-story window. The backyard is visible, bathed in weak moonlight. The camera zooms in on the balloon.)
It’s still there.
[Michael] (whispering)
"Why hasn’t it moved?"
(There’s a long silence. Then—slowly, deliberately—the balloon shifts. But not drifting, not swaying. It moves, with intention, toward the tree line at the edge of the property.)
(The camera shakes as Michael exhales sharply. A distant creaking noise comes from the woods. The footage distorts. The tape skips.)
TAPE CUT: NIGHT 03 – 3:33 AM
(Heavy breathing. The camera is outside now, in the backyard. The black balloon is barely visible among the trees, its shape blending into the darkness.)
[Michael] (hoarse whisper)
"Okay… okay… I just wanna see."
(A step forward. Then another. The crunch of dead leaves beneath his feet. The balloon remains still, waiting. Something rustles deeper in the woods.)
(The audio distorts—warping, stretching. A faint whisper bleeds through the static, too low to make out. The camera flickers.)
(Then, for one frame, a tall, thin figure appears between the trees. Featureless. Watching.)
(Michael gasps. The tape skips violently.)
TAPE CUT: NIGHT 04 – 4:44 AM
(The footage is in complete darkness. The camera shakes as Michael breathes erratically. The lens pans wildly, revealing a mound of disturbed earth, half-dug up. Loose dirt spills over the sides.)
[Michael] (frantic, whispering to himself)
"Oh God… oh God—something’s buried here."
(The black balloon floats just above the mound, still tethered to nothing.)
(Then—a crack. A wet, splintering sound from behind the camera.)
(Michael whimpers. The camera turns. Something is standing right there, barely visible in the shadows.)
(A whisper cuts through the static, clearer this time—)*
"You found me."
(The balloon pops. A hard cut to black.)
TAPE CUT: NIGHT 05 – 3:00 AM
(The screen flickers. The camera is now inside the house, in Danny’s bedroom. The child is sleeping soundly. The camera lingers for too long, a shaky breath heard behind the microphone.)
(Then—slowly—the lens shifts toward the window.)
(Outside, the black balloon is pressed against the glass. And behind it—)
(The figure.) It’s closer now. Too close. Motionless, faceless. Watching.)
[Michael] (shaky whisper)
"I locked the doors… I locked the doors…"
*(The whisper returns, right next to the microphone.)
"You let me in."
(The tape distorts violently. The screen warps, bending as if something is pressing through the footage itself. The audio screeches, then silences. Cut to black.)
FINAL ENTRY – NIGHT 06 – 5:06 AM
(No visuals. Just audio.)
[Michael] (weak, barely a whisper)
"I made a mistake."
(A scraping noise—something dragging across wood.)
[Michael] (ragged inhale)
"Danny isn’t Danny anymore."
(A child's giggle. But it’s wrong. Wet. Layered. Like multiple voices speaking at once.)
(The sound distorts again—more aggressive this time. A deep, guttural hum pulses beneath the static.)
(Then, faintly—almost too quiet to hear—a final whisper.)
"You should have never followed."
(The tape glitches violently. The screen erupts into flashing, incomprehensible imagery—shapes twisting, limbs bending the wrong way—and then, without warning—)
(Silence. A hard cut to black.)
[ARCHIVE STATUS: FILE CORRUPTED]
[DO NOT REPLAY]
DO NOT TURN THE KEY – Recovered Attic Tape
A Recovered Transcript
SOURCE: Unknown VHS Tape
DATE: Undetermined
VISUAL QUALITY: Corrupted
AUDIO: Distorted, warping in and out
DESCRIPTION: A man speaks directly to the camera. He looks tired, unshaven, and frantic. Behind him, a dimly lit attic space. Boxes stacked haphazardly. A single bare lightbulb flickers overhead.
[BEGIN TRANSCRIPT]
ENTRY ONE – DISCOVERY
(The tape flickers. Static. The screen jumps, then stabilizes. A man sits cross-legged in front of the camera, his breath uneven. He keeps looking off to the side, eyes darting toward the dark corner behind him.)
MAN: If you’re watching this… if you found this tape… don’t go looking for it.
(He exhales sharply, running a shaking hand through his hair.)
MAN: Three nights ago, I woke up to a sound in the attic. At first, I thought it was the wind. Houses settle, right? But… it kept happening. Little creaks, little scratches. I told myself it was mice. Or the house shifting. That’s what I told myself.
(He pauses, swallowing hard.)
MAN: But then… then I found the key.
(He reaches off-screen, fumbling with something. When his hand returns, he holds up an old iron key, rusted and worn. It looks ancient. Too old to belong to this house.)
MAN: It wasn’t there before. I swear to God, I’ve lived here for five years, and I never—never—saw it. It was under a loose floorboard in my bedroom. Just sitting there. Waiting.
(The tape distorts. For a moment, the man’s face stretches unnaturally, his mouth widening like a scream, but there’s no sound. The video snaps back to normal.)
MAN: I should’ve left it alone.
(Silence. He rubs his eyes, shoulders hunched.)
MAN: There’s a door in my attic.
(A long pause. His voice lowers to a whisper.)
MAN: It wasn’t meant for us.
(Static.)
ENTRY TWO – THE DOOR
(The man is closer to the camera now. The attic behind him is darker, the single lightbulb swinging slightly, casting unnatural shadows across the walls.)
MAN: I opened it.
(His voice is hollow. Empty.)
MAN: The key fit perfectly. The door… it wasn’t like the rest of the attic. The wood was different. Older. I swear I could hear something moving behind it before I even touched it. But I turned the key anyway.
(He lets out a sharp, dry laugh. It doesn’t sound right.)
MAN: Inside, it was… wrong.
(He licks his lips, eyes unfocused, like he’s remembering something he shouldn’t.)
MAN: The space behind the door wasn’t part of the house. It shouldn’t have been there. The walls were too long, stretching farther than the attic could possibly go. The air smelled stale, like something had been trapped there for years.
(His hands are shaking now.)
MAN: There were… things in the walls. Not rats. Not bugs. Things.
(The tape distorts again. For a brief moment, there’s another shape in the background—a tall, thin figure standing in the shadows. It doesn’t move. The distortion ends. The man doesn’t seem to notice.)
MAN: I—I heard whispering.
(He squeezes his eyes shut, gripping his head.)
MAN: Not words. Not in any language I know. Just… sounds. Clicking, scraping, breathing. Laughing.
(A loud thud echoes from somewhere behind him. The camera feed glitches violently.)
MAN: I tried to close it. But… but something was behind the door.
(His voice is breaking now, frantic.)
MAN: It held the door open. It didn’t want me to leave.
(Silence.)
MAN: I don’t think I ever really left.
(The lightbulb overhead flickers violently. The shadows in the attic start to shift. They stretch, reaching toward the man. He doesn’t react.)
MAN: If you find the key… if you find the door…
(He leans in close, his face inches from the screen. His eyes are wrong now. Too dark. Too empty.)
MAN: Don’t turn it.
(The screen distorts. His face warps, stretching unnaturally again. This time, it stays that way. His mouth opens wide—too wide. The video feed cuts to static.)
ENTRY THREE – FINAL RECORDING
LOCATION: UNKNOWN
VIDEO CONDITION: EXTREME CORRUPTION
AUDIO: GARBLE, ECHO, AND DISTORTION
(The screen flickers back to life. This time, the man is sitting in the dark. No lightbulb. Only the camera’s night vision creates a greenish glow around him. His breathing is ragged, like he’s been running. His shirt is torn. His left hand is clutching his shoulder, where deep scratches run down his arm.)
MAN: It knows I’m here.
(His voice is different. Lower. Almost layered, like something else is speaking beneath his words.)
MAN: I don’t know how long I’ve been here. It doesn’t feel right. Time doesn’t work in this place. The door closed behind me, but I don’t think it ever really closed.
(A long pause. The camera feed distorts, flickering in and out. The attic walls seem… wrong. Too stretched. Too alive. Something moves behind him, but he doesn’t react.)
MAN: I hear it now. Scraping. Clicking.
(The tape jumps. The man is now closer to the screen, eyes hollow, face pale. His lips barely move as he speaks.)
MAN: It’s not a room. It’s not even a door.
(Another pause. His head tilts slightly, as if listening to something beyond the camera.)
MAN: It let me talk to you. It wants you to know.
(A loud, unnatural click echoes through the speakers. The shadows behind him shift, forming long, clawed hands reaching toward his shoulders. He doesn’t react.)
MAN: The key. The door. The thing inside.
(A smile creeps across his face, slow and unnatural, like something is pulling his lips apart.)
MAN: It’s waiting for you now.
(A final distortion. The screen warps, colors bleeding together. The last frame shows his face—empty, stretched into an impossible grin. His eyes black voids. Then—STATIC.)
[END TRANSCRIPT]
FINAL NOTES
The VHS tape was recovered from an abandoned house scheduled for demolition. No records of the homeowner exist. The attic was searched—no additional door was found.
The key was missing.
SOURCE: Unknown VHS Tape
DATE: Undetermined
VISUAL QUALITY: Corrupted
AUDIO: Distorted, warping in and out
DESCRIPTION: A man speaks directly to the camera. He looks tired, unshaven, and frantic. Behind him, a dimly lit attic space. Boxes stacked haphazardly. A single bare lightbulb flickers overhead.
[BEGIN TRANSCRIPT]
ENTRY ONE – DISCOVERY
(The tape flickers. Static. The screen jumps, then stabilizes. A man sits cross-legged in front of the camera, his breath uneven. He keeps looking off to the side, eyes darting toward the dark corner behind him.)
MAN: If you’re watching this… if you found this tape… don’t go looking for it.
(He exhales sharply, running a shaking hand through his hair.)
MAN: Three nights ago, I woke up to a sound in the attic. At first, I thought it was the wind. Houses settle, right? But… it kept happening. Little creaks, little scratches. I told myself it was mice. Or the house shifting. That’s what I told myself.
(He pauses, swallowing hard.)
MAN: But then… then I found the key.
(He reaches off-screen, fumbling with something. When his hand returns, he holds up an old iron key, rusted and worn. It looks ancient. Too old to belong to this house.)
MAN: It wasn’t there before. I swear to God, I’ve lived here for five years, and I never—never—saw it. It was under a loose floorboard in my bedroom. Just sitting there. Waiting.
(The tape distorts. For a moment, the man’s face stretches unnaturally, his mouth widening like a scream, but there’s no sound. The video snaps back to normal.)
MAN: I should’ve left it alone.
(Silence. He rubs his eyes, shoulders hunched.)
MAN: There’s a door in my attic.
(A long pause. His voice lowers to a whisper.)
MAN: It wasn’t meant for us.
(Static.)
ENTRY TWO – THE DOOR
(The man is closer to the camera now. The attic behind him is darker, the single lightbulb swinging slightly, casting unnatural shadows across the walls.)
MAN: I opened it.
(His voice is hollow. Empty.)
MAN: The key fit perfectly. The door… it wasn’t like the rest of the attic. The wood was different. Older. I swear I could hear something moving behind it before I even touched it. But I turned the key anyway.
(He lets out a sharp, dry laugh. It doesn’t sound right.)
MAN: Inside, it was… wrong.
(He licks his lips, eyes unfocused, like he’s remembering something he shouldn’t.)
MAN: The space behind the door wasn’t part of the house. It shouldn’t have been there. The walls were too long, stretching farther than the attic could possibly go. The air smelled stale, like something had been trapped there for years.
(His hands are shaking now.)
MAN: There were… things in the walls. Not rats. Not bugs. Things.
(The tape distorts again. For a brief moment, there’s another shape in the background—a tall, thin figure standing in the shadows. It doesn’t move. The distortion ends. The man doesn’t seem to notice.)
MAN: I—I heard whispering.
(He squeezes his eyes shut, gripping his head.)
MAN: Not words. Not in any language I know. Just… sounds. Clicking, scraping, breathing. Laughing.
(A loud thud echoes from somewhere behind him. The camera feed glitches violently.)
MAN: I tried to close it. But… but something was behind the door.
(His voice is breaking now, frantic.)
MAN: It held the door open. It didn’t want me to leave.
(Silence.)
MAN: I don’t think I ever really left.
(The lightbulb overhead flickers violently. The shadows in the attic start to shift. They stretch, reaching toward the man. He doesn’t react.)
MAN: If you find the key… if you find the door…
(He leans in close, his face inches from the screen. His eyes are wrong now. Too dark. Too empty.)
MAN: Don’t turn it.
(The screen distorts. His face warps, stretching unnaturally again. This time, it stays that way. His mouth opens wide—too wide. The video feed cuts to static.)
ENTRY THREE – FINAL RECORDING
LOCATION: UNKNOWN
VIDEO CONDITION: EXTREME CORRUPTION
AUDIO: GARBLE, ECHO, AND DISTORTION
(The screen flickers back to life. This time, the man is sitting in the dark. No lightbulb. Only the camera’s night vision creates a greenish glow around him. His breathing is ragged, like he’s been running. His shirt is torn. His left hand is clutching his shoulder, where deep scratches run down his arm.)
MAN: It knows I’m here.
(His voice is different. Lower. Almost layered, like something else is speaking beneath his words.)
MAN: I don’t know how long I’ve been here. It doesn’t feel right. Time doesn’t work in this place. The door closed behind me, but I don’t think it ever really closed.
(A long pause. The camera feed distorts, flickering in and out. The attic walls seem… wrong. Too stretched. Too alive. Something moves behind him, but he doesn’t react.)
MAN: I hear it now. Scraping. Clicking.
(The tape jumps. The man is now closer to the screen, eyes hollow, face pale. His lips barely move as he speaks.)
MAN: It’s not a room. It’s not even a door.
(Another pause. His head tilts slightly, as if listening to something beyond the camera.)
MAN: It let me talk to you. It wants you to know.
(A loud, unnatural click echoes through the speakers. The shadows behind him shift, forming long, clawed hands reaching toward his shoulders. He doesn’t react.)
MAN: The key. The door. The thing inside.
(A smile creeps across his face, slow and unnatural, like something is pulling his lips apart.)
MAN: It’s waiting for you now.
(A final distortion. The screen warps, colors bleeding together. The last frame shows his face—empty, stretched into an impossible grin. His eyes black voids. Then—STATIC.)
[END TRANSCRIPT]
FINAL NOTES
The VHS tape was recovered from an abandoned house scheduled for demolition. No records of the homeowner exist. The attic was searched—no additional door was found.
The key was missing.
A Recovered Tape, Catalogued as UNEX-731
TAPE BEGINS: 07/12/97 – 11:43 PM
(The recording starts with a shaky video feed. The camera is handheld, the viewfinder flickering. The person behind the camera—later identified as Daniel Mercer—speaks in a low, slightly nervous tone.)
"Alright. Uh… I’m about twenty miles off Route 16, just outside Ashwood Forest. Set up camp maybe an hour ago. It’s just me out here. No service, no radio. Just… quiet."
(He pans the camera, showing the campsite. A small tent, a fire pit, the surrounding trees. The darkness beyond the fire’s glow is deep, unnatural. The trees almost seem too close together.)
"It’s weird. The forest is too quiet. No birds, no wind. Just my breathing and this damn camera."
(He turns the camera back to himself, forcing a smile.)
"I came here to get away for a while. Just me and nature. So far, it’s… fine. I guess."
(Static interrupts the feed for a second. A brief, flickering distortion. When the video returns, Mercer is sitting by the fire, staring past the camera.)
"I swear I saw something move out there."
TAPE: 07/13/97 – 2:18 AM
(The video is now handheld, shaky. The fire has burned down to embers. Mercer whispers into the camera.)
"I woke up because I felt something… watching me. Thought it was an animal at first. But then I saw the light."
(He turns the camera toward the trees. There, in the distance, a faint glow pulses behind the thin fabric of a tent. A second tent. But Mercer is alone.)
"That wasn’t there before."
(The camera zooms in. The light flickers. A shadow moves behind the fabric.)
"Someone’s in there."
(He swallows hard. The sound of his breathing is sharp, uneven. He grips the camera tighter.)
"I—I should call out, right? Ask who they are? But… I can’t."
(A long pause. Then, barely above a whisper:)
"I don’t think they want me to know they’re here."
(The camera shakes as he pulls the tent’s zipper up, enclosing himself inside. The feed cuts to static.)
TAPE: 07/13/97 – 7:42 AM
(The recording resumes with Mercer stepping outside. The second tent is gone. No sign it was ever there.)
(His voice is strained, panicked.)
"Okay. Alright. Maybe I was dreaming. Maybe it was a trick of the light. But… I don’t think so."
(He pans the camera over the ground where the tent had been. No footprints. No disturbed dirt. Nothing.)
"I’m leaving. Packing up and getting the hell out of here. This place is wrong."
(As he turns the camera back toward his own tent, a distortion flickers across the screen. A shape. Human-like. Watching from the tree line. But Mercer doesn’t seem to notice.)
TAPE: 07/13/97 – 9:57 AM
(The camera is now mounted on Mercer’s dashboard. The road stretches ahead, empty.)
"I don’t remember falling asleep last night. I don’t remember dreaming. But I woke up feeling… different. Like something crawled into my head and stayed there."
(He grips the wheel, knuckles white.)
"The car won’t start. I don’t know why. Battery’s fine. Gas tank’s full. It just—"
(The audio distorts. A whispering sound bleeds through the speakers.)
"What the hell was that?"
(Mercer turns the camera to the rearview mirror. In the reflection, past the back windshield—standing in the road, half-hidden by the trees—is a figure. Motionless. Staring.)
(He spins in his seat. The road is empty.)
(The whispering grows louder.)
(The tape cuts to static.)
TAPE: 07/14/97 – 12:06 AM
(The camera feed is unstable. Mercer is back at the campsite, his face pale, eyes sunken. His voice is hollow.)
"I walked for miles. Should’ve found the main road. Should’ve seen another car. But the forest just… kept going."
(He laughs, short and humorless.)
"I came back here because I had to. There’s nowhere else to go."
(The camera flickers. In the background, behind Mercer, the second tent is back. The light inside pulses, slow and rhythmic, like breathing.)
"I don’t want to look. I can’t look. But I can feel it watching me."
(A long pause. Then:)
"I think it’s waiting for me to open it."
(The tape cuts to black.)
TAPE: 07/14/97 – 3:33 AM
(The video is shaky. Mercer is standing in front of the second tent. His breath is ragged.)
"I have to know."
(His hands tremble as he reaches for the zipper. The whispering rises. The air distorts around him. The moment he unzips the tent—)
(The feed is overwhelmed by static. Screeching audio. A burst of flickering images: Mercer’s face twisted in horror. The trees bending at impossible angles. A figure stepping out of the tent—tall, wrong, its face a smear of shifting darkness. The whispering becomes a roar. The video tears.)
(Then, silence.)
LAST RECORDED ENTRY: UNKNOWN TIME
(The final recording is in complete darkness. Heavy breathing. Mercer’s voice is barely a whisper.)
"I can’t move. I don’t know where I am. Everything is wrong."
(A long pause. Then, with absolute certainty:)
"I was never supposed to leave."
(A sharp inhale. The whispering returns, deafening. The tape abruptly ends.)
POST-INCIDENT REPORT: FILED 07/19/97
SUBJECT: DANIEL MERCER – STATUS: MISSING
EVIDENCE RECOVERED:
CAMERA: Found outside an abandoned vehicle, battery inexplicably drained.
CAMPING GEAR: Scattered, weathered beyond reasonable exposure.
NO SIGNS OF MERCER.
WITNESS TESTIMONY:
Multiple hikers report seeing an empty tent deep within Ashwood Forest.
No one who enters it is ever seen again.
(The recording starts with a shaky video feed. The camera is handheld, the viewfinder flickering. The person behind the camera—later identified as Daniel Mercer—speaks in a low, slightly nervous tone.)
"Alright. Uh… I’m about twenty miles off Route 16, just outside Ashwood Forest. Set up camp maybe an hour ago. It’s just me out here. No service, no radio. Just… quiet."
(He pans the camera, showing the campsite. A small tent, a fire pit, the surrounding trees. The darkness beyond the fire’s glow is deep, unnatural. The trees almost seem too close together.)
"It’s weird. The forest is too quiet. No birds, no wind. Just my breathing and this damn camera."
(He turns the camera back to himself, forcing a smile.)
"I came here to get away for a while. Just me and nature. So far, it’s… fine. I guess."
(Static interrupts the feed for a second. A brief, flickering distortion. When the video returns, Mercer is sitting by the fire, staring past the camera.)
"I swear I saw something move out there."
TAPE: 07/13/97 – 2:18 AM
(The video is now handheld, shaky. The fire has burned down to embers. Mercer whispers into the camera.)
"I woke up because I felt something… watching me. Thought it was an animal at first. But then I saw the light."
(He turns the camera toward the trees. There, in the distance, a faint glow pulses behind the thin fabric of a tent. A second tent. But Mercer is alone.)
"That wasn’t there before."
(The camera zooms in. The light flickers. A shadow moves behind the fabric.)
"Someone’s in there."
(He swallows hard. The sound of his breathing is sharp, uneven. He grips the camera tighter.)
"I—I should call out, right? Ask who they are? But… I can’t."
(A long pause. Then, barely above a whisper:)
"I don’t think they want me to know they’re here."
(The camera shakes as he pulls the tent’s zipper up, enclosing himself inside. The feed cuts to static.)
TAPE: 07/13/97 – 7:42 AM
(The recording resumes with Mercer stepping outside. The second tent is gone. No sign it was ever there.)
(His voice is strained, panicked.)
"Okay. Alright. Maybe I was dreaming. Maybe it was a trick of the light. But… I don’t think so."
(He pans the camera over the ground where the tent had been. No footprints. No disturbed dirt. Nothing.)
"I’m leaving. Packing up and getting the hell out of here. This place is wrong."
(As he turns the camera back toward his own tent, a distortion flickers across the screen. A shape. Human-like. Watching from the tree line. But Mercer doesn’t seem to notice.)
TAPE: 07/13/97 – 9:57 AM
(The camera is now mounted on Mercer’s dashboard. The road stretches ahead, empty.)
"I don’t remember falling asleep last night. I don’t remember dreaming. But I woke up feeling… different. Like something crawled into my head and stayed there."
(He grips the wheel, knuckles white.)
"The car won’t start. I don’t know why. Battery’s fine. Gas tank’s full. It just—"
(The audio distorts. A whispering sound bleeds through the speakers.)
"What the hell was that?"
(Mercer turns the camera to the rearview mirror. In the reflection, past the back windshield—standing in the road, half-hidden by the trees—is a figure. Motionless. Staring.)
(He spins in his seat. The road is empty.)
(The whispering grows louder.)
(The tape cuts to static.)
TAPE: 07/14/97 – 12:06 AM
(The camera feed is unstable. Mercer is back at the campsite, his face pale, eyes sunken. His voice is hollow.)
"I walked for miles. Should’ve found the main road. Should’ve seen another car. But the forest just… kept going."
(He laughs, short and humorless.)
"I came back here because I had to. There’s nowhere else to go."
(The camera flickers. In the background, behind Mercer, the second tent is back. The light inside pulses, slow and rhythmic, like breathing.)
"I don’t want to look. I can’t look. But I can feel it watching me."
(A long pause. Then:)
"I think it’s waiting for me to open it."
(The tape cuts to black.)
TAPE: 07/14/97 – 3:33 AM
(The video is shaky. Mercer is standing in front of the second tent. His breath is ragged.)
"I have to know."
(His hands tremble as he reaches for the zipper. The whispering rises. The air distorts around him. The moment he unzips the tent—)
(The feed is overwhelmed by static. Screeching audio. A burst of flickering images: Mercer’s face twisted in horror. The trees bending at impossible angles. A figure stepping out of the tent—tall, wrong, its face a smear of shifting darkness. The whispering becomes a roar. The video tears.)
(Then, silence.)
LAST RECORDED ENTRY: UNKNOWN TIME
(The final recording is in complete darkness. Heavy breathing. Mercer’s voice is barely a whisper.)
"I can’t move. I don’t know where I am. Everything is wrong."
(A long pause. Then, with absolute certainty:)
"I was never supposed to leave."
(A sharp inhale. The whispering returns, deafening. The tape abruptly ends.)
POST-INCIDENT REPORT: FILED 07/19/97
SUBJECT: DANIEL MERCER – STATUS: MISSING
EVIDENCE RECOVERED:
CAMERA: Found outside an abandoned vehicle, battery inexplicably drained.
CAMPING GEAR: Scattered, weathered beyond reasonable exposure.
NO SIGNS OF MERCER.
WITNESS TESTIMONY:
Multiple hikers report seeing an empty tent deep within Ashwood Forest.
No one who enters it is ever seen again.
The Wailing Ceremony
02.13.06
After years of silence, of watching and listening from the sidelines, I’ve finally earned the right to write. The elders gave me a paper and pencil today—nothing extraordinary, but to me, it feels like everything. It's a mark of trust, a sign that I’m ready to understand what they’ve always known, what they’ve kept hidden behind their cryptic, endless whispers. They didn’t say much, just a few words about the weight of knowledge and the importance of recording what I would soon learn.
So, here I am—starting this journal. It’s not just a place to write down thoughts, but a way to keep my sanity intact. I don’t know if I’m ready, but I have no choice. The cries outside my window are growing louder, and I can’t ignore them anymore. The town's secrets are becoming mine, and this journal will be my only way of holding onto myself as the truth unfolds.
It started last night. It wasn’t anything new, not at first. Every full moon, like clockwork, the town gathers to sing the Wailing Hymn. The song that keeps the Wailing at bay. Everyone knows the rules. No one questions it. I’ve lived here all my life. My family has lived here for generations. We all know the song. It’s tradition, a necessity, or so we’re told.
But last night, I... I didn’t sing.
I don’t know why. Maybe it was a slip. Maybe it was rebellion, though that’s a ridiculous thought. Rebellion against a song? But I didn’t sing. I stood in my living room, just watching the moon as it hovered in the sky, full and heavy. Something about it felt wrong, and instead of singing, I just stared.
The house around me was quiet. The whole town was quiet. I could hear the familiar creak of the floorboards under my feet and the hum of the refrigerator in the corner. But there was no sound from the streets, no hum of voices, no echo of the hymn. Nothing.
The Wailing Ceremony should have started long before then. By the time the moon reached its zenith, the streets should have been filled with people—everyone singing in perfect harmony. The whole town. It always felt like a wave, building and cresting and rolling over you. The sound of our voices blending together. We’d never missed it before.
Except, I did.
I didn’t feel compelled to join in. The weight of the silence felt strange, but I didn’t want to break it. I don’t know how to explain it. I stood there, staring at the moon, feeling this odd emptiness, this tugging inside me like something was missing. I could hear the faintest of sounds, but I dismissed them, telling myself it was nothing. The wind. An animal. The town is quiet at night—sometimes unnervingly so.
But then I heard it again. A soft cry. Not like the wailing song. Not like the song we sing every full moon. This was different. It was distant at first, almost a whisper carried on the breeze. I thought it was my imagination, or that it was just the wind playing tricks. It was such a small thing, so faint that I almost convinced myself I hadn’t heard it at all.
But then it came again. Louder this time. No, not louder—closer.
It wasn’t like the usual wail. There was something more desperate about it. I pulled the curtain back and looked out into the night. The street was empty. Not a soul in sight. I half expected someone to walk by, maybe just a stranger, maybe a latecomer to the ceremony. But there was no one.
Still, the cry came. And it wasn’t stopping. It wasn’t fading away. It wasn’t the wind. I knew it. I felt it in my bones. I had to get closer.
The cold air hit me when I opened the door, but I didn’t care. I stepped outside, standing on the stoop, trying to make sense of what was happening. There was something haunting about that cry—something almost... personal. Like it was calling me, tugging at me, drawing me in.
I looked toward the street again, listening, straining to hear it better. It wasn’t coming from the usual direction. It wasn’t coming from the town square. It wasn’t coming from anywhere I knew. But I couldn’t pinpoint where it was coming from. It seemed to be... surrounding me, just out of reach.
I shut the door behind me, the darkness pressing in. I walked to the edge of the yard, trying to find the source. I moved toward the road that led into the woods, the one that no one ever used after sundown. The one that everyone avoids, the one that doesn’t even look like a real road. It’s a place we all stay away from. The elders always said the road leads nowhere good, that no one should go beyond the last house on the street after dark.
I don’t know what made me walk that way. Maybe I was drawn to it, or maybe I just needed to prove that there was nothing to be afraid of. But the further I walked, the more the cry seemed to get louder. Closer. It was so soft at first, but now it was almost unmistakable—a sound that pierced the silence, like something calling from far away, something desperate.
When I reached the edge of the woods, I stopped. I didn’t dare step any further. The trees looked twisted in the moonlight, black and looming like jagged teeth waiting to devour. I could feel the cold air creeping along my skin, the weight of something watching me from the shadows.
The cry—it wasn’t a cry anymore. It had transformed into something else. A whisper? A song?
I don’t know. I can’t explain it. But it felt like it was pulling me closer, like the woods were alive, coaxing me in. I hesitated for a moment. The air felt thick with something I couldn’t name, and my feet felt rooted to the spot.
But then I heard something else. A soft shuffle behind me, the crack of a branch. I spun around, expecting to see someone, anyone—maybe a neighbor, maybe someone else who had forgotten. But there was no one there. Just the dark road stretching out before me, the trees stretching up into the sky. And yet the air felt heavy, as if the woods themselves were holding their breath.
I quickly turned and ran back to my house, heart pounding in my chest. I slammed the door shut behind me, locking it as if that would keep whatever was out there at bay.
I tried to convince myself it was nothing—just the wind, just my imagination. But I knew better. Something was wrong.
I stood at the window for what felt like hours, but the crying didn’t stop. I heard it, soft and distant, like the faintest of whispers, but it was always there. Every time I closed my eyes, I heard it, just outside.
The whole town should’ve been singing. But no one did. And I didn’t.
I don’t know if I was supposed to forget. Maybe forgetting is what caused it. Maybe... maybe it’s too late.
The full moon will rise again tomorrow. I can’t stop thinking about the sound. It’s getting closer.
It’s not my imagination anymore. Something is out there.
And I think I may have already started to lose track of what’s real.
02.14.06
I barely slept last night. It was the sound—the crying—that kept me awake. It wasn’t the kind of crying I’d heard before, not the soft, distant sobs that some might say were just the wind. No. This was different. There was a desperation to it, like someone—or something—was being torn apart by its own grief. I tried to block it out, but the sound was relentless, as if it was calling to me. Each time I closed my eyes, it was louder, closer.
By morning, I felt like I hadn’t rested at all. The elders seemed unfazed when I approached them with my discomfort, as if this was an old story they had long grown tired of. “You’ll get used to it,” one of them told me with a knowing look. “The wailing isn’t meant to be ignored. It’s part of the cycle.”
I didn’t press further. There’s always this sense of... distance between us. A wall of experience and knowledge that I can’t break through, not yet. Instead, they handed me a small, worn book—no bigger than the palm of my hand. I thought it might be something important, but they simply said, “Study it. Let it guide you.” It didn’t feel like an invitation. It felt like an order.
The cover of the book is plain, just a faded brown leather, but inside, there are strange symbols. I can’t make sense of most of them, but there’s a rhythm to the way they’re written, like a language I should know but don’t. I started trying to copy some of the symbols into this journal, but they don’t look right. They don’t feel right.
And that’s when I realized—the crying from last night? It didn’t stop. The moment I started writing, it returned. Louder than before, like it was outside my door, just beyond the threshold, calling to me. The words on the page seemed to blur, twisting in and out of focus as if the ink was being pulled into something darker. I had to close the book, hide it under my pillow, before the pull became unbearable.
The elders didn’t warn me about this. They never do. But I’ve learned something today—this journal, this book they gave me, and whatever it is I’m supposed to be learning, it’s all connected to the wailing. And I don’t think I can ignore it anymore.
I’m supposed to keep writing, I know that much. But what if the words start to turn against me, like everything else? What if I become the one wailing next?
I won’t let myself forget. I won’t stop. Not yet.
02.15.06
I woke up to the sound of wailing. Again.
But this time, it was different. It was sharper. Not just a distant cry from the wind, not just the faint echo of sorrowful souls. It felt like the sound was inside my head, as if it had burrowed into my thoughts. Every inch of my skull seemed to throb with it. The air in my room was thick, heavier than usual, and I could swear I smelled something burning—a sharp, metallic scent that lingered even after I opened the window.
I didn't know whether to run, to scream, or to just sit there and let it consume me.
Instead, I did what I do best: I hid. I closed my eyes and pressed my hands over my ears, hoping to block out the noise. But the wailing didn't stop. It twisted into something worse, something more unsettling. It was no longer a single cry—it was a chorus, a thousand voices singing the same mournful tune. I could almost feel the weight of their grief pressing down on me.
I don't know how long I stayed like that, curled in a ball on the floor, trying to drown out the sound. But eventually, the crying faded. It was replaced by a deep, pulsing silence that made my skin crawl.
I checked the book again.
The symbols inside were changing.
At first, it was barely noticeable, just a slight shift in the ink, a different stroke here and there. But now, the symbols were starting to rearrange themselves. They weren't just static anymore—they were alive. They seemed to writhe on the page, slithering like something dark was trying to crawl out from between the lines.
I had no idea what this meant. I could feel the pull again, that nagging sensation in my chest, telling me to keep reading, to understand, to unlock whatever this book was trying to show me. But I didn’t know how. I didn’t know if I even wanted to.
I tried to shake it off. I told myself it was just my imagination, just the exhaustion taking its toll. I’ve been hearing things before, haven’t I? Everyone hears things. Especially when they’re alone. The elders probably don’t even care that the book is messing with me. I’ve seen how they look at me, their eyes cold, distant, like I’m just a piece in a bigger puzzle they’re too busy to explain.
But something about today felt different. It’s like the whole town was holding its breath, waiting for something to happen. The wailing had a rhythm now, like it was marking time, drawing closer. Not just outside my window, but in the streets too. The crying echoed from the farthest corners of the village, like it was pulling everything into its wake. I couldn’t escape it.
I decided to go outside, to get some air. The sky was overcast, the sun barely peeking through the thick clouds. It felt oppressive, like the whole sky was a lid ready to fall. The air was damp, and my skin prickled under the weight of it.
As I walked through the village, I noticed people moving differently. Their eyes were downcast, their steps quick and purposeful, as if they were avoiding something, something they didn’t want to acknowledge. I couldn’t stop staring at them, wondering if they could hear the same wailing I could. But none of them seemed to notice.
I stopped at the central square, where the fountain always used to run clear and clean. Now, it was muddy, stagnant. A thick film of algae coated the water’s surface, and the stone rim was covered in an unnatural blackness. The whole square felt wrong.
I walked closer to the fountain. My feet didn’t feel like my own, like they were moving of their own accord. My legs felt heavy, unsteady, like they were being dragged through molasses. But I couldn’t stop. I had to keep going.
As I neared the fountain, something caught my eye—a figure, standing just outside the square, barely visible in the mist. It was someone tall, their face hidden by a hood, and their hands were raised as if they were beckoning me. The figure stood so still, so unnervingly still, that I couldn’t breathe.
I froze in place, unable to move, unable to speak. The wailing had returned, louder now, almost deafening. But it was different this time. The sound was coming from the figure. It was them, crying—no, wailing—with such force that the very air seemed to vibrate.
Before I could react, the figure turned and vanished into the mist. I wanted to follow. I needed to know what was going on, why I was hearing this. But my legs wouldn’t cooperate. I felt rooted to the spot, like I was sinking into the earth.
When the crying stopped, I found myself staring at the spot where the figure had been. There was nothing there anymore. Just the empty, desolate square.
I hurried back to my room. My heart was pounding. The walls of the house felt like they were closing in on me. The book was waiting on my table, its pages still shifting, rearranging.
I couldn’t shake the feeling that something—someone—was watching me, waiting for me to make the next move. I glanced back at the door, at the window, at the corners of the room. I don’t know how, but I could feel them there, on the other side of the walls, beyond my reach. I’ve never felt more alone.
The book... it’s calling me again. I know it. It’s pulling me toward something, pulling me toward the wailing, toward the figure in the mist. I can’t ignore it. I have to find out what it means, even if it drives me mad.
I’m scared. But I can’t stop now. I’m not sure I want to.
The wailing is getting closer.
02.16.06
The wailing didn’t stop. I woke up to it again this morning, gnawing at my consciousness, lingering in the air, filling every crevice of my mind. The sound was raw, almost desperate, and it left a sour taste in my mouth, as if the sound itself was something tangible, something I could choke on. It was almost like the world outside had forgotten how to be quiet. There was no peace, only this ever-present hum of sorrow and torment.
I don't know how long I laid there, in the stillness of my room, just listening. The air felt thick, saturated with something unspoken. The wailing was softer now, as if it had retreated slightly, but I knew it wouldn’t last. It never does. And something about the sound, the way it wormed its way deeper into me with each passing second, unsettled me more than I cared to admit.
I sat up, my body heavy, unwilling to follow the call of the outside. My hands trembled slightly as I reached for the journal, the one that had been keeping me company these past few days. It had become more than just a book—more than just a place to vent my fears and frustrations. The pages had become a strange tether, a link to something I still didn’t understand. The symbols inside… they were changing, shifting, like the ink itself was alive.
I almost didn't want to open it. The book had become like a weight on my chest, pressing me down, suffocating me, but I couldn't ignore it. I never could. Not now.
I flipped through the pages, eyes scanning the marks I’d written, the notes I’d made in a frenzy the night before. But the symbols had shifted, as they always did. They no longer felt like words. They felt like they were staring back at me, daring me to understand them, to make sense of them. Some of the lines were more pronounced now, thicker, darker, and some had completely disappeared, leaving behind only faint impressions in the paper.
I stared at the page, at the symbols. I swear I could almost hear them whispering to me. My fingers trembled as I reached out and traced one of the marks with my fingertip. The paper beneath my touch seemed to thrum, to vibrate slightly as if it were alive, a pulse in sync with my own.
I have to know what this means.
I thought the words in my head, but even as I did, part of me wondered whether it was a good idea to keep going, to keep delving deeper into whatever this was. My heart felt tight in my chest, every beat heavy, laden with the weight of what I might uncover. But I couldn’t turn back. I had to know.
The wailing, now almost a constant buzz, still lingered just outside my window, growing louder with every passing moment. I could feel it pushing me forward, urging me to open the door, to step outside, to join the rest of them. To let it consume me. I wasn’t sure whether it was the town’s curse or my own growing obsession, but it was all I could think about.
I stood up abruptly, feeling dizzy, my feet unsteady as I crossed the room. I moved as if in a trance, every step deliberate, every movement slow. The door was there, just ahead of me, but I hesitated. My hand hovered above the knob, and for a moment, I thought I might just turn around, retreat back into the comfort of my solitude, the safety of my confusion.
But I couldn't.
I opened the door.
The air outside was cooler than I expected. It was heavy with mist, the kind that clung to your skin and wrapped around your lungs. It smelled damp, earthy, and thick. The village, too, seemed muffled. The streets were deserted, the houses closed off, their shutters tightly drawn, as though the people inside had sealed themselves away from the world. The wailing had stopped, or at least, I could no longer hear it.
A strange kind of silence fell over me, one that was worse than any noise could ever be. The absence of sound was almost oppressive. It was suffocating.
I walked through the village, my footsteps echoing off the stone path, each one heavier than the last. The ground felt strange underfoot, as if the earth itself was shifting beneath me. It was like I was walking through a dream—a nightmare, perhaps. The fog hung low around the corners of buildings, and the once-familiar shapes of the village blurred into shadow. The faces of the houses seemed to leer at me, their windows dark, hollow.
There was something wrong here. I couldn’t put my finger on it, but it was wrong. The wailing from before—was it really gone? Or was it just buried beneath the quiet, waiting for the right moment to resurface?
I passed the central square again. The fountain, which had once been a place of comfort, of cool water splashing in the heat, was now a stagnant pool, its waters still and dark. The same blackness coated the stone edges. But it wasn’t the fountain that caught my attention this time. It was the shadows.
They were... moving.
Not just the usual flicker of light and dark, not the normal way shadows stretch and shrink. These were different. They twitched, as if they had minds of their own, as if they were aware of me, watching me, waiting.
I stopped in my tracks. My heart was pounding in my chest, so loud I could hear it in my ears. The shadows stretched further into the square, creeping along the ground like tendrils of some ancient, malignant thing. They crawled up the walls, twisted and warped, curling into shapes that were wrong.
Something stirred within them.
I took a step back, but my feet wouldn’t obey. The shadows moved with me, sliding along the stone, like they were reaching for me. My breath caught in my throat. I wanted to run. But my body wouldn’t listen.
There, in the corner of my eye, I saw a figure.
It was barely visible, a silhouette against the mist. It was tall, too tall, impossibly so. Its limbs were unnaturally long, and the shape of its head—there was something about it that made my stomach turn. Its eyes were black, and they shone with an eerie light, a coldness that seemed to cut through the fog, cutting through me.
And then I heard it again.
The wailing.
But this time, it wasn’t just a distant sound. It was coming from the figure. It was coming from all around me. The voices echoed from every direction, drowning me in their cries, their pleas.
I wanted to scream, to shout, but my voice failed me. My chest was tight, and my legs were numb. I couldn’t move.
The figure took a step toward me, its shadow stretching far beyond its own body, reaching for me like a hungry, grasping thing.
And I knew—I knew this was it. This was the moment the town had warned me about. This was the wailing that had been chasing me all this time.
I wasn’t ready.
The shadow reached me.
02.17.06
I woke up in my bed, the sheets tangled around my legs, my body drenched in sweat. The room was still, the air thick with the remnants of the fog from the night before, and the wailing was gone. For now. But I could still feel it lingering, curling in the corners of my mind, its pull as tangible as the air I breathed.
I couldn’t remember how I had gotten back to my room. My head ached, and my body felt like it had been dragged through a storm. My skin still tingled, as if it had been touched by something other than just air. I sat up, looking around the room. Nothing had changed. The walls were the same, the floor the same worn wood beneath my feet. The book lay on the small table beside the bed, its pages open, staring at me like an accusing eye.
The symbols from yesterday—no, the symbols had shifted again. They weren’t the same, not entirely. Some marks were bolder, darker, while others had faded even more, nearly disappearing from the paper entirely. It was as if the journal itself was responding to something... but I didn’t know what.
I reached for it, the leather cool against my fingers. I could almost hear it creaking as I turned the pages, the sound far too loud in the otherwise quiet room. The ink had settled into strange, unreadable patterns, twisting and turning, much like the shadows I had seen last night. I felt the familiar tug in my chest—the need to decipher, to understand, to break free from this feeling of drowning in something I didn’t know how to control.
But as I traced the unfamiliar shapes, I felt something new. A presence. Not in the room, but in me. It was as though the book, the symbols, and the wailing had become part of my blood now, coursing through me. Something had changed. I could feel it in my bones.
I had to leave the room. I couldn’t stay here anymore. There was no comfort, no safety in these four walls. The village was still, too still. The silence that had followed the wailing was unbearable, like the calm before a storm. I needed to see what was happening, to understand what was wrong with the town, what was wrong with me.
I stood, the cold floor sending a jolt of sensation up my spine. The moment I stepped out of my room, I noticed something I hadn’t before—the air smelled different. It was heavier, almost like wet iron, like the scent after a storm. There was something… metallic about it, something unnerving.
The hallway stretched out before me, the dull flicker of the lightbulbs overhead casting long shadows that seemed to bend and twist as I walked. The quiet was oppressive. I half expected someone to jump out at me, to break the silence with a shout or a scream. But there was nothing.
As I reached the front door, the feeling hit me again—the weight of something pulling at me, tugging me outside. I gripped the handle, the metal cold in my hand. I paused before opening it, listening for any sound, any sign of life. There was nothing.
Outside, the fog had rolled back in, just as thick as before. The mist clung to the buildings, winding around the street like a ghost. The town was eerily quiet, the houses still, their windows dark. The streets were empty. Not a soul in sight.
The silence seemed wrong. Unnatural. The townspeople should be here, or at least their voices should be echoing from their homes, from the roads. But there was nothing. Just the endless fog, creeping and crawling along the ground.
I took a step forward, and then another, moving deeper into the heart of the village. The more I walked, the heavier the air became, pressing down on my chest, making each breath feel like I was pulling it through a thick blanket. I could almost taste the metallic tang in the air, as though something was burning just beneath the surface of the world, something waiting to break free.
I reached the center square again, the fountain still standing in its decaying glory. It hadn’t changed. But there was something about it now. It felt… wrong. Like it had always been wrong, like it had always been a part of the curse that bound this place together.
My eyes flicked to the shadows again. I couldn’t help it. The way they moved. They had shifted, as if they were waiting, watching. I stared at them, and for a moment, I thought I saw something else—something living within the shadows, something that wasn’t quite human. It was just a flicker, a movement in the corner of my eye, but it was enough to make my heart race.
I had to keep moving. If I stopped, I would be swallowed by it.
I passed the fountain, heading toward the main road. My feet crunched on the gravel, the sound unnervingly loud in the quiet. Every step felt like it echoed through the emptiness. There was no one. No one to explain the darkness that had settled over this place, no one to tell me what the wailing was, or why it wouldn’t stop.
The fog thickened with each step, wrapping itself around me, pulling me deeper into the unknown. It was like walking through a dream, a nightmare where the edges of reality had blurred and everything felt just a little too unreal. I should have turned back, but I couldn’t.
I couldn’t leave the questions unanswered.
I rounded the corner of one of the narrow streets and froze. There, standing in front of a small house, was a figure. It was tall, too tall, impossibly so. Its limbs were elongated, twisted at odd angles. The body was shadowed, its form barely visible against the fog, but I could see the gleam of its eyes—dark, endless black, like two pits staring into the abyss.
And then it moved.
The figure straightened, its long limbs stretching out toward me. Its head tilted, as if studying me, as if it was trying to understand what I was doing here, why I had come.
I wanted to scream. My throat was tight, my body frozen in place. I couldn’t move. I couldn’t even breathe.
The figure took another step, and then another. The fog seemed to part in front of it, making way for its unnatural form. And with each step, the sound began.
The wailing.
It came from the figure. It came from the shadows around it. The sound was low at first, distant, like it had been muffled by the fog. But it grew louder, filling the air with its pain, its desperation, until it seemed to vibrate through my bones.
And then, the figure spoke.
Its voice wasn’t human. It wasn’t even a voice at all. It was a whisper, low and cold, a sound that seemed to come from the very depths of the earth.
"You forgot."
I took a step back, my heart pounding in my chest. The figure took another step forward.
I remembered.
The ceremony. The song. I had forgotten to sing.
But it was too late.
The wailing was inside me now. And there was no way to escape it.
The figure’s face twisted, its eyes widening with some unspoken understanding. It stepped closer, and I felt the weight of it, the pressure of the curse, pressing down on me. It was all too much.
I turned and ran.
But this time, the shadows followed.
02.18.06
I’m not sure how many days have passed since that night. Time doesn’t feel like it matters anymore. Everything feels like it’s shifting, bending, warping into something else—something beyond my understanding. The fog still hangs thick in the air, but it’s not the same as it was before. It’s like the whole village is suspended in a perpetual haze, and I’m trapped inside it, drifting between the past and whatever this is now.
I can hear it even now, the wailing. It’s not as distant as it used to be. It’s inside my head. It’s inside me. There’s no escaping it. The moment I close my eyes, it’s there, wailing louder than ever, demanding something from me, pulling at my soul. I don’t know if it’s real or just my mind breaking down, but I feel it, like an unbearable weight pushing down on my chest.
I woke up today—if you can even call it that. My body feels heavy, like I’ve been awake for days, but my mind is too tired to remember the details. The journal feels different now, too. When I open it, the pages shift on their own, the ink swirling into patterns that almost seem to follow my gaze. The symbols on the page seem to watch me. I know that sounds crazy, but it’s the only way I can describe it. The book is alive in some way, feeding off whatever it is that’s happened to me.
I went out again today. It’s become a habit now. I don’t know why I keep doing it, but something is pulling me to the square, to the fountain, to the center of this curse. I don’t think I can resist anymore. The town feels abandoned, even though I know people live here. I see their eyes, their haunted gazes when they pass me. They’re waiting for something, just like I am.
But there’s no answer.
There’s only the wailing. And now, it’s louder than it’s ever been.
I’ve stopped seeing the townspeople. I know they’re still here, somewhere, but it’s as if we’ve all been trapped in this endless loop. We walk around, we breathe, but we don’t live. Not really. Not anymore.
I tried to speak to one of them today, an older woman who I remember from the ceremony. Her face was pale, her eyes hollow, but she didn’t seem surprised when I approached her. When I asked her if she remembered the song, if she knew what was happening, she just stared at me for a long time.
She didn’t answer.
The wailing has taken everything from us. It’s inside each of us now, a part of us, something we can’t escape. I think that’s why they stop speaking, why they don’t engage. Because they know it’s too late. They know we’re all already lost.
02.23.06
I’m writing thi5, but I d0n’t kn0w why. There’5 n0 p0int anym0re. I can hear the wailing 0ut5ide my wind0w, and I kn0w it’5 0nly a matter 0f time bef0re it reache5 me again. I d0n’t kn0w if I’11 be ab1e t0 5t0p it thi5 time. I d0n’t think I want t0.
I think I’ve bec0me the wai1ing.
It’5 hard t0 exp1ain, but I can fee1 it. I fee1 the 50ng in5ide 0f me, in5ide my che5t, bui1ding up with every breath I take. It’5 taking 0ver, bec0ming 50mething m0re than ju5t 50und. It’5 bec0ming a part 0f wh0 I am. I can a1m05t fee1 the vibrati0n5 in my b0ne5, the rhythm 0f the 50ng pu15ing thr0ugh me 1ike a heartbeat. I’ve heard it 10ng en0ugh t0 kn0w it5 w0rd5. I’ve heard it en0ugh time5 t0 kn0w that it’5 n0t ju5t a 50ng anym0re—it’5 a ca11, an invitati0n, a demand.
And t0night, when the fu11 m00n ri5e5, I think I’11 be the 0ne wai1ing. I think I’m the 0ne wh0’5 5upp05ed t0.
I’ve written everything d0wn, every 5ymb01, every w0rd. But I d0n’t think it matter5 anym0re. It’5 a11 1ed t0 thi5. The wai1ing w0n’t 5t0p. It wi11 never 5t0p. It’5 in5ide me n0w, part 0f me, and I’m a part 0f it. We are b0und t0gether, cur5ed t0 exi5t in thi5 end1e55 cyc1e. There’5 n0 e5caping it.
S0 thi5 i5 the end 0f the j0urna1. The 1a5t entry. There’5 n0thing m0re t0 write, n0thing 1eft t0 5ay.
T0m0rr0w, I’11 be 0ut5ide. Wai1ing.
I ju5t h0pe 50me0ne remember5 t0 5ing.
After years of silence, of watching and listening from the sidelines, I’ve finally earned the right to write. The elders gave me a paper and pencil today—nothing extraordinary, but to me, it feels like everything. It's a mark of trust, a sign that I’m ready to understand what they’ve always known, what they’ve kept hidden behind their cryptic, endless whispers. They didn’t say much, just a few words about the weight of knowledge and the importance of recording what I would soon learn.
So, here I am—starting this journal. It’s not just a place to write down thoughts, but a way to keep my sanity intact. I don’t know if I’m ready, but I have no choice. The cries outside my window are growing louder, and I can’t ignore them anymore. The town's secrets are becoming mine, and this journal will be my only way of holding onto myself as the truth unfolds.
It started last night. It wasn’t anything new, not at first. Every full moon, like clockwork, the town gathers to sing the Wailing Hymn. The song that keeps the Wailing at bay. Everyone knows the rules. No one questions it. I’ve lived here all my life. My family has lived here for generations. We all know the song. It’s tradition, a necessity, or so we’re told.
But last night, I... I didn’t sing.
I don’t know why. Maybe it was a slip. Maybe it was rebellion, though that’s a ridiculous thought. Rebellion against a song? But I didn’t sing. I stood in my living room, just watching the moon as it hovered in the sky, full and heavy. Something about it felt wrong, and instead of singing, I just stared.
The house around me was quiet. The whole town was quiet. I could hear the familiar creak of the floorboards under my feet and the hum of the refrigerator in the corner. But there was no sound from the streets, no hum of voices, no echo of the hymn. Nothing.
The Wailing Ceremony should have started long before then. By the time the moon reached its zenith, the streets should have been filled with people—everyone singing in perfect harmony. The whole town. It always felt like a wave, building and cresting and rolling over you. The sound of our voices blending together. We’d never missed it before.
Except, I did.
I didn’t feel compelled to join in. The weight of the silence felt strange, but I didn’t want to break it. I don’t know how to explain it. I stood there, staring at the moon, feeling this odd emptiness, this tugging inside me like something was missing. I could hear the faintest of sounds, but I dismissed them, telling myself it was nothing. The wind. An animal. The town is quiet at night—sometimes unnervingly so.
But then I heard it again. A soft cry. Not like the wailing song. Not like the song we sing every full moon. This was different. It was distant at first, almost a whisper carried on the breeze. I thought it was my imagination, or that it was just the wind playing tricks. It was such a small thing, so faint that I almost convinced myself I hadn’t heard it at all.
But then it came again. Louder this time. No, not louder—closer.
It wasn’t like the usual wail. There was something more desperate about it. I pulled the curtain back and looked out into the night. The street was empty. Not a soul in sight. I half expected someone to walk by, maybe just a stranger, maybe a latecomer to the ceremony. But there was no one.
Still, the cry came. And it wasn’t stopping. It wasn’t fading away. It wasn’t the wind. I knew it. I felt it in my bones. I had to get closer.
The cold air hit me when I opened the door, but I didn’t care. I stepped outside, standing on the stoop, trying to make sense of what was happening. There was something haunting about that cry—something almost... personal. Like it was calling me, tugging at me, drawing me in.
I looked toward the street again, listening, straining to hear it better. It wasn’t coming from the usual direction. It wasn’t coming from the town square. It wasn’t coming from anywhere I knew. But I couldn’t pinpoint where it was coming from. It seemed to be... surrounding me, just out of reach.
I shut the door behind me, the darkness pressing in. I walked to the edge of the yard, trying to find the source. I moved toward the road that led into the woods, the one that no one ever used after sundown. The one that everyone avoids, the one that doesn’t even look like a real road. It’s a place we all stay away from. The elders always said the road leads nowhere good, that no one should go beyond the last house on the street after dark.
I don’t know what made me walk that way. Maybe I was drawn to it, or maybe I just needed to prove that there was nothing to be afraid of. But the further I walked, the more the cry seemed to get louder. Closer. It was so soft at first, but now it was almost unmistakable—a sound that pierced the silence, like something calling from far away, something desperate.
When I reached the edge of the woods, I stopped. I didn’t dare step any further. The trees looked twisted in the moonlight, black and looming like jagged teeth waiting to devour. I could feel the cold air creeping along my skin, the weight of something watching me from the shadows.
The cry—it wasn’t a cry anymore. It had transformed into something else. A whisper? A song?
I don’t know. I can’t explain it. But it felt like it was pulling me closer, like the woods were alive, coaxing me in. I hesitated for a moment. The air felt thick with something I couldn’t name, and my feet felt rooted to the spot.
But then I heard something else. A soft shuffle behind me, the crack of a branch. I spun around, expecting to see someone, anyone—maybe a neighbor, maybe someone else who had forgotten. But there was no one there. Just the dark road stretching out before me, the trees stretching up into the sky. And yet the air felt heavy, as if the woods themselves were holding their breath.
I quickly turned and ran back to my house, heart pounding in my chest. I slammed the door shut behind me, locking it as if that would keep whatever was out there at bay.
I tried to convince myself it was nothing—just the wind, just my imagination. But I knew better. Something was wrong.
I stood at the window for what felt like hours, but the crying didn’t stop. I heard it, soft and distant, like the faintest of whispers, but it was always there. Every time I closed my eyes, I heard it, just outside.
The whole town should’ve been singing. But no one did. And I didn’t.
I don’t know if I was supposed to forget. Maybe forgetting is what caused it. Maybe... maybe it’s too late.
The full moon will rise again tomorrow. I can’t stop thinking about the sound. It’s getting closer.
It’s not my imagination anymore. Something is out there.
And I think I may have already started to lose track of what’s real.
02.14.06
I barely slept last night. It was the sound—the crying—that kept me awake. It wasn’t the kind of crying I’d heard before, not the soft, distant sobs that some might say were just the wind. No. This was different. There was a desperation to it, like someone—or something—was being torn apart by its own grief. I tried to block it out, but the sound was relentless, as if it was calling to me. Each time I closed my eyes, it was louder, closer.
By morning, I felt like I hadn’t rested at all. The elders seemed unfazed when I approached them with my discomfort, as if this was an old story they had long grown tired of. “You’ll get used to it,” one of them told me with a knowing look. “The wailing isn’t meant to be ignored. It’s part of the cycle.”
I didn’t press further. There’s always this sense of... distance between us. A wall of experience and knowledge that I can’t break through, not yet. Instead, they handed me a small, worn book—no bigger than the palm of my hand. I thought it might be something important, but they simply said, “Study it. Let it guide you.” It didn’t feel like an invitation. It felt like an order.
The cover of the book is plain, just a faded brown leather, but inside, there are strange symbols. I can’t make sense of most of them, but there’s a rhythm to the way they’re written, like a language I should know but don’t. I started trying to copy some of the symbols into this journal, but they don’t look right. They don’t feel right.
And that’s when I realized—the crying from last night? It didn’t stop. The moment I started writing, it returned. Louder than before, like it was outside my door, just beyond the threshold, calling to me. The words on the page seemed to blur, twisting in and out of focus as if the ink was being pulled into something darker. I had to close the book, hide it under my pillow, before the pull became unbearable.
The elders didn’t warn me about this. They never do. But I’ve learned something today—this journal, this book they gave me, and whatever it is I’m supposed to be learning, it’s all connected to the wailing. And I don’t think I can ignore it anymore.
I’m supposed to keep writing, I know that much. But what if the words start to turn against me, like everything else? What if I become the one wailing next?
I won’t let myself forget. I won’t stop. Not yet.
02.15.06
I woke up to the sound of wailing. Again.
But this time, it was different. It was sharper. Not just a distant cry from the wind, not just the faint echo of sorrowful souls. It felt like the sound was inside my head, as if it had burrowed into my thoughts. Every inch of my skull seemed to throb with it. The air in my room was thick, heavier than usual, and I could swear I smelled something burning—a sharp, metallic scent that lingered even after I opened the window.
I didn't know whether to run, to scream, or to just sit there and let it consume me.
Instead, I did what I do best: I hid. I closed my eyes and pressed my hands over my ears, hoping to block out the noise. But the wailing didn't stop. It twisted into something worse, something more unsettling. It was no longer a single cry—it was a chorus, a thousand voices singing the same mournful tune. I could almost feel the weight of their grief pressing down on me.
I don't know how long I stayed like that, curled in a ball on the floor, trying to drown out the sound. But eventually, the crying faded. It was replaced by a deep, pulsing silence that made my skin crawl.
I checked the book again.
The symbols inside were changing.
At first, it was barely noticeable, just a slight shift in the ink, a different stroke here and there. But now, the symbols were starting to rearrange themselves. They weren't just static anymore—they were alive. They seemed to writhe on the page, slithering like something dark was trying to crawl out from between the lines.
I had no idea what this meant. I could feel the pull again, that nagging sensation in my chest, telling me to keep reading, to understand, to unlock whatever this book was trying to show me. But I didn’t know how. I didn’t know if I even wanted to.
I tried to shake it off. I told myself it was just my imagination, just the exhaustion taking its toll. I’ve been hearing things before, haven’t I? Everyone hears things. Especially when they’re alone. The elders probably don’t even care that the book is messing with me. I’ve seen how they look at me, their eyes cold, distant, like I’m just a piece in a bigger puzzle they’re too busy to explain.
But something about today felt different. It’s like the whole town was holding its breath, waiting for something to happen. The wailing had a rhythm now, like it was marking time, drawing closer. Not just outside my window, but in the streets too. The crying echoed from the farthest corners of the village, like it was pulling everything into its wake. I couldn’t escape it.
I decided to go outside, to get some air. The sky was overcast, the sun barely peeking through the thick clouds. It felt oppressive, like the whole sky was a lid ready to fall. The air was damp, and my skin prickled under the weight of it.
As I walked through the village, I noticed people moving differently. Their eyes were downcast, their steps quick and purposeful, as if they were avoiding something, something they didn’t want to acknowledge. I couldn’t stop staring at them, wondering if they could hear the same wailing I could. But none of them seemed to notice.
I stopped at the central square, where the fountain always used to run clear and clean. Now, it was muddy, stagnant. A thick film of algae coated the water’s surface, and the stone rim was covered in an unnatural blackness. The whole square felt wrong.
I walked closer to the fountain. My feet didn’t feel like my own, like they were moving of their own accord. My legs felt heavy, unsteady, like they were being dragged through molasses. But I couldn’t stop. I had to keep going.
As I neared the fountain, something caught my eye—a figure, standing just outside the square, barely visible in the mist. It was someone tall, their face hidden by a hood, and their hands were raised as if they were beckoning me. The figure stood so still, so unnervingly still, that I couldn’t breathe.
I froze in place, unable to move, unable to speak. The wailing had returned, louder now, almost deafening. But it was different this time. The sound was coming from the figure. It was them, crying—no, wailing—with such force that the very air seemed to vibrate.
Before I could react, the figure turned and vanished into the mist. I wanted to follow. I needed to know what was going on, why I was hearing this. But my legs wouldn’t cooperate. I felt rooted to the spot, like I was sinking into the earth.
When the crying stopped, I found myself staring at the spot where the figure had been. There was nothing there anymore. Just the empty, desolate square.
I hurried back to my room. My heart was pounding. The walls of the house felt like they were closing in on me. The book was waiting on my table, its pages still shifting, rearranging.
I couldn’t shake the feeling that something—someone—was watching me, waiting for me to make the next move. I glanced back at the door, at the window, at the corners of the room. I don’t know how, but I could feel them there, on the other side of the walls, beyond my reach. I’ve never felt more alone.
The book... it’s calling me again. I know it. It’s pulling me toward something, pulling me toward the wailing, toward the figure in the mist. I can’t ignore it. I have to find out what it means, even if it drives me mad.
I’m scared. But I can’t stop now. I’m not sure I want to.
The wailing is getting closer.
02.16.06
The wailing didn’t stop. I woke up to it again this morning, gnawing at my consciousness, lingering in the air, filling every crevice of my mind. The sound was raw, almost desperate, and it left a sour taste in my mouth, as if the sound itself was something tangible, something I could choke on. It was almost like the world outside had forgotten how to be quiet. There was no peace, only this ever-present hum of sorrow and torment.
I don't know how long I laid there, in the stillness of my room, just listening. The air felt thick, saturated with something unspoken. The wailing was softer now, as if it had retreated slightly, but I knew it wouldn’t last. It never does. And something about the sound, the way it wormed its way deeper into me with each passing second, unsettled me more than I cared to admit.
I sat up, my body heavy, unwilling to follow the call of the outside. My hands trembled slightly as I reached for the journal, the one that had been keeping me company these past few days. It had become more than just a book—more than just a place to vent my fears and frustrations. The pages had become a strange tether, a link to something I still didn’t understand. The symbols inside… they were changing, shifting, like the ink itself was alive.
I almost didn't want to open it. The book had become like a weight on my chest, pressing me down, suffocating me, but I couldn't ignore it. I never could. Not now.
I flipped through the pages, eyes scanning the marks I’d written, the notes I’d made in a frenzy the night before. But the symbols had shifted, as they always did. They no longer felt like words. They felt like they were staring back at me, daring me to understand them, to make sense of them. Some of the lines were more pronounced now, thicker, darker, and some had completely disappeared, leaving behind only faint impressions in the paper.
I stared at the page, at the symbols. I swear I could almost hear them whispering to me. My fingers trembled as I reached out and traced one of the marks with my fingertip. The paper beneath my touch seemed to thrum, to vibrate slightly as if it were alive, a pulse in sync with my own.
I have to know what this means.
I thought the words in my head, but even as I did, part of me wondered whether it was a good idea to keep going, to keep delving deeper into whatever this was. My heart felt tight in my chest, every beat heavy, laden with the weight of what I might uncover. But I couldn’t turn back. I had to know.
The wailing, now almost a constant buzz, still lingered just outside my window, growing louder with every passing moment. I could feel it pushing me forward, urging me to open the door, to step outside, to join the rest of them. To let it consume me. I wasn’t sure whether it was the town’s curse or my own growing obsession, but it was all I could think about.
I stood up abruptly, feeling dizzy, my feet unsteady as I crossed the room. I moved as if in a trance, every step deliberate, every movement slow. The door was there, just ahead of me, but I hesitated. My hand hovered above the knob, and for a moment, I thought I might just turn around, retreat back into the comfort of my solitude, the safety of my confusion.
But I couldn't.
I opened the door.
The air outside was cooler than I expected. It was heavy with mist, the kind that clung to your skin and wrapped around your lungs. It smelled damp, earthy, and thick. The village, too, seemed muffled. The streets were deserted, the houses closed off, their shutters tightly drawn, as though the people inside had sealed themselves away from the world. The wailing had stopped, or at least, I could no longer hear it.
A strange kind of silence fell over me, one that was worse than any noise could ever be. The absence of sound was almost oppressive. It was suffocating.
I walked through the village, my footsteps echoing off the stone path, each one heavier than the last. The ground felt strange underfoot, as if the earth itself was shifting beneath me. It was like I was walking through a dream—a nightmare, perhaps. The fog hung low around the corners of buildings, and the once-familiar shapes of the village blurred into shadow. The faces of the houses seemed to leer at me, their windows dark, hollow.
There was something wrong here. I couldn’t put my finger on it, but it was wrong. The wailing from before—was it really gone? Or was it just buried beneath the quiet, waiting for the right moment to resurface?
I passed the central square again. The fountain, which had once been a place of comfort, of cool water splashing in the heat, was now a stagnant pool, its waters still and dark. The same blackness coated the stone edges. But it wasn’t the fountain that caught my attention this time. It was the shadows.
They were... moving.
Not just the usual flicker of light and dark, not the normal way shadows stretch and shrink. These were different. They twitched, as if they had minds of their own, as if they were aware of me, watching me, waiting.
I stopped in my tracks. My heart was pounding in my chest, so loud I could hear it in my ears. The shadows stretched further into the square, creeping along the ground like tendrils of some ancient, malignant thing. They crawled up the walls, twisted and warped, curling into shapes that were wrong.
Something stirred within them.
I took a step back, but my feet wouldn’t obey. The shadows moved with me, sliding along the stone, like they were reaching for me. My breath caught in my throat. I wanted to run. But my body wouldn’t listen.
There, in the corner of my eye, I saw a figure.
It was barely visible, a silhouette against the mist. It was tall, too tall, impossibly so. Its limbs were unnaturally long, and the shape of its head—there was something about it that made my stomach turn. Its eyes were black, and they shone with an eerie light, a coldness that seemed to cut through the fog, cutting through me.
And then I heard it again.
The wailing.
But this time, it wasn’t just a distant sound. It was coming from the figure. It was coming from all around me. The voices echoed from every direction, drowning me in their cries, their pleas.
I wanted to scream, to shout, but my voice failed me. My chest was tight, and my legs were numb. I couldn’t move.
The figure took a step toward me, its shadow stretching far beyond its own body, reaching for me like a hungry, grasping thing.
And I knew—I knew this was it. This was the moment the town had warned me about. This was the wailing that had been chasing me all this time.
I wasn’t ready.
The shadow reached me.
02.17.06
I woke up in my bed, the sheets tangled around my legs, my body drenched in sweat. The room was still, the air thick with the remnants of the fog from the night before, and the wailing was gone. For now. But I could still feel it lingering, curling in the corners of my mind, its pull as tangible as the air I breathed.
I couldn’t remember how I had gotten back to my room. My head ached, and my body felt like it had been dragged through a storm. My skin still tingled, as if it had been touched by something other than just air. I sat up, looking around the room. Nothing had changed. The walls were the same, the floor the same worn wood beneath my feet. The book lay on the small table beside the bed, its pages open, staring at me like an accusing eye.
The symbols from yesterday—no, the symbols had shifted again. They weren’t the same, not entirely. Some marks were bolder, darker, while others had faded even more, nearly disappearing from the paper entirely. It was as if the journal itself was responding to something... but I didn’t know what.
I reached for it, the leather cool against my fingers. I could almost hear it creaking as I turned the pages, the sound far too loud in the otherwise quiet room. The ink had settled into strange, unreadable patterns, twisting and turning, much like the shadows I had seen last night. I felt the familiar tug in my chest—the need to decipher, to understand, to break free from this feeling of drowning in something I didn’t know how to control.
But as I traced the unfamiliar shapes, I felt something new. A presence. Not in the room, but in me. It was as though the book, the symbols, and the wailing had become part of my blood now, coursing through me. Something had changed. I could feel it in my bones.
I had to leave the room. I couldn’t stay here anymore. There was no comfort, no safety in these four walls. The village was still, too still. The silence that had followed the wailing was unbearable, like the calm before a storm. I needed to see what was happening, to understand what was wrong with the town, what was wrong with me.
I stood, the cold floor sending a jolt of sensation up my spine. The moment I stepped out of my room, I noticed something I hadn’t before—the air smelled different. It was heavier, almost like wet iron, like the scent after a storm. There was something… metallic about it, something unnerving.
The hallway stretched out before me, the dull flicker of the lightbulbs overhead casting long shadows that seemed to bend and twist as I walked. The quiet was oppressive. I half expected someone to jump out at me, to break the silence with a shout or a scream. But there was nothing.
As I reached the front door, the feeling hit me again—the weight of something pulling at me, tugging me outside. I gripped the handle, the metal cold in my hand. I paused before opening it, listening for any sound, any sign of life. There was nothing.
Outside, the fog had rolled back in, just as thick as before. The mist clung to the buildings, winding around the street like a ghost. The town was eerily quiet, the houses still, their windows dark. The streets were empty. Not a soul in sight.
The silence seemed wrong. Unnatural. The townspeople should be here, or at least their voices should be echoing from their homes, from the roads. But there was nothing. Just the endless fog, creeping and crawling along the ground.
I took a step forward, and then another, moving deeper into the heart of the village. The more I walked, the heavier the air became, pressing down on my chest, making each breath feel like I was pulling it through a thick blanket. I could almost taste the metallic tang in the air, as though something was burning just beneath the surface of the world, something waiting to break free.
I reached the center square again, the fountain still standing in its decaying glory. It hadn’t changed. But there was something about it now. It felt… wrong. Like it had always been wrong, like it had always been a part of the curse that bound this place together.
My eyes flicked to the shadows again. I couldn’t help it. The way they moved. They had shifted, as if they were waiting, watching. I stared at them, and for a moment, I thought I saw something else—something living within the shadows, something that wasn’t quite human. It was just a flicker, a movement in the corner of my eye, but it was enough to make my heart race.
I had to keep moving. If I stopped, I would be swallowed by it.
I passed the fountain, heading toward the main road. My feet crunched on the gravel, the sound unnervingly loud in the quiet. Every step felt like it echoed through the emptiness. There was no one. No one to explain the darkness that had settled over this place, no one to tell me what the wailing was, or why it wouldn’t stop.
The fog thickened with each step, wrapping itself around me, pulling me deeper into the unknown. It was like walking through a dream, a nightmare where the edges of reality had blurred and everything felt just a little too unreal. I should have turned back, but I couldn’t.
I couldn’t leave the questions unanswered.
I rounded the corner of one of the narrow streets and froze. There, standing in front of a small house, was a figure. It was tall, too tall, impossibly so. Its limbs were elongated, twisted at odd angles. The body was shadowed, its form barely visible against the fog, but I could see the gleam of its eyes—dark, endless black, like two pits staring into the abyss.
And then it moved.
The figure straightened, its long limbs stretching out toward me. Its head tilted, as if studying me, as if it was trying to understand what I was doing here, why I had come.
I wanted to scream. My throat was tight, my body frozen in place. I couldn’t move. I couldn’t even breathe.
The figure took another step, and then another. The fog seemed to part in front of it, making way for its unnatural form. And with each step, the sound began.
The wailing.
It came from the figure. It came from the shadows around it. The sound was low at first, distant, like it had been muffled by the fog. But it grew louder, filling the air with its pain, its desperation, until it seemed to vibrate through my bones.
And then, the figure spoke.
Its voice wasn’t human. It wasn’t even a voice at all. It was a whisper, low and cold, a sound that seemed to come from the very depths of the earth.
"You forgot."
I took a step back, my heart pounding in my chest. The figure took another step forward.
I remembered.
The ceremony. The song. I had forgotten to sing.
But it was too late.
The wailing was inside me now. And there was no way to escape it.
The figure’s face twisted, its eyes widening with some unspoken understanding. It stepped closer, and I felt the weight of it, the pressure of the curse, pressing down on me. It was all too much.
I turned and ran.
But this time, the shadows followed.
02.18.06
I’m not sure how many days have passed since that night. Time doesn’t feel like it matters anymore. Everything feels like it’s shifting, bending, warping into something else—something beyond my understanding. The fog still hangs thick in the air, but it’s not the same as it was before. It’s like the whole village is suspended in a perpetual haze, and I’m trapped inside it, drifting between the past and whatever this is now.
I can hear it even now, the wailing. It’s not as distant as it used to be. It’s inside my head. It’s inside me. There’s no escaping it. The moment I close my eyes, it’s there, wailing louder than ever, demanding something from me, pulling at my soul. I don’t know if it’s real or just my mind breaking down, but I feel it, like an unbearable weight pushing down on my chest.
I woke up today—if you can even call it that. My body feels heavy, like I’ve been awake for days, but my mind is too tired to remember the details. The journal feels different now, too. When I open it, the pages shift on their own, the ink swirling into patterns that almost seem to follow my gaze. The symbols on the page seem to watch me. I know that sounds crazy, but it’s the only way I can describe it. The book is alive in some way, feeding off whatever it is that’s happened to me.
I went out again today. It’s become a habit now. I don’t know why I keep doing it, but something is pulling me to the square, to the fountain, to the center of this curse. I don’t think I can resist anymore. The town feels abandoned, even though I know people live here. I see their eyes, their haunted gazes when they pass me. They’re waiting for something, just like I am.
But there’s no answer.
There’s only the wailing. And now, it’s louder than it’s ever been.
I’ve stopped seeing the townspeople. I know they’re still here, somewhere, but it’s as if we’ve all been trapped in this endless loop. We walk around, we breathe, but we don’t live. Not really. Not anymore.
I tried to speak to one of them today, an older woman who I remember from the ceremony. Her face was pale, her eyes hollow, but she didn’t seem surprised when I approached her. When I asked her if she remembered the song, if she knew what was happening, she just stared at me for a long time.
She didn’t answer.
The wailing has taken everything from us. It’s inside each of us now, a part of us, something we can’t escape. I think that’s why they stop speaking, why they don’t engage. Because they know it’s too late. They know we’re all already lost.
02.23.06
I’m writing thi5, but I d0n’t kn0w why. There’5 n0 p0int anym0re. I can hear the wailing 0ut5ide my wind0w, and I kn0w it’5 0nly a matter 0f time bef0re it reache5 me again. I d0n’t kn0w if I’11 be ab1e t0 5t0p it thi5 time. I d0n’t think I want t0.
I think I’ve bec0me the wai1ing.
It’5 hard t0 exp1ain, but I can fee1 it. I fee1 the 50ng in5ide 0f me, in5ide my che5t, bui1ding up with every breath I take. It’5 taking 0ver, bec0ming 50mething m0re than ju5t 50und. It’5 bec0ming a part 0f wh0 I am. I can a1m05t fee1 the vibrati0n5 in my b0ne5, the rhythm 0f the 50ng pu15ing thr0ugh me 1ike a heartbeat. I’ve heard it 10ng en0ugh t0 kn0w it5 w0rd5. I’ve heard it en0ugh time5 t0 kn0w that it’5 n0t ju5t a 50ng anym0re—it’5 a ca11, an invitati0n, a demand.
And t0night, when the fu11 m00n ri5e5, I think I’11 be the 0ne wai1ing. I think I’m the 0ne wh0’5 5upp05ed t0.
I’ve written everything d0wn, every 5ymb01, every w0rd. But I d0n’t think it matter5 anym0re. It’5 a11 1ed t0 thi5. The wai1ing w0n’t 5t0p. It wi11 never 5t0p. It’5 in5ide me n0w, part 0f me, and I’m a part 0f it. We are b0und t0gether, cur5ed t0 exi5t in thi5 end1e55 cyc1e. There’5 n0 e5caping it.
S0 thi5 i5 the end 0f the j0urna1. The 1a5t entry. There’5 n0thing m0re t0 write, n0thing 1eft t0 5ay.
T0m0rr0w, I’11 be 0ut5ide. Wai1ing.
I ju5t h0pe 50me0ne remember5 t0 5ing.
I Took a Job as a Test Subject. I’m Not Sure I Came Back.
They told me it was a psychological experiment. That was the only reason I agreed to it. I needed the money, and it sounded simple enough—observe, report, document any changes in perception or cognition. Two weeks in a controlled environment. A harmless study.
The facility was a squat, gray building on the outskirts of town, the kind of place you’d never notice unless you were looking for it. The contract was thick, full of jargon and clauses that I skimmed over before signing. The woman who gave me the papers—Dr. Monroe, I think her name was—had a tight-lipped smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes.
“The process is completely safe,” she assured me. “You may experience some minor distortions in sensory perception, but that’s expected.”
I didn’t ask what she meant. I should have.
They took my phone, my watch, anything that could track time. Then they led me to a small, windowless room with sterile white walls, a single bed, a desk, and a mirror bolted to the wall. I knew from past studies that the mirror was one-way glass. Someone was watching me. I told myself it didn’t matter.
For the first few hours, nothing happened. They gave me food—plain, flavorless, but edible. The lights never dimmed, so I had no real way of knowing when night fell. A voice over an intercom instructed me to document any changes in perception. I wrote: “Nothing yet.”
I don’t know when I fell asleep. The next thing I remember is waking up to the sound of something moving in the room.
I sat up, heart hammering, but I was alone. The door was still locked, the mirror reflecting my own wide-eyed face. I took a breath, told myself it was my imagination. Maybe I’d kicked the bed in my sleep.
Then I saw it.
My reflection hadn’t moved.
I was sitting upright, breathing heavily, but the me in the mirror was still lying down, eyes shut.
I scrambled off the bed, my pulse roaring in my ears. My reflection stayed where it was for a second longer before it jolted upright, as if catching up to me.
I backed away until I hit the far wall. My reflection did the same.
The intercom crackled. “Please describe any changes in perception.”
My mouth was dry. My hands were shaking. I forced myself to breathe, to think.
“It lagged,” I finally said. “My reflection. It didn’t move when I did.”
Silence. Then the intercom clicked off.
I stared at the mirror, half expecting my reflection to move on its own again. It didn’t. It looked normal now. Maybe I imagined it. Maybe it was exhaustion.
I turned away, climbed back into bed. The sheets felt cold, almost damp. I closed my eyes and tried to ignore the sensation that I wasn’t alone in the room.
That was the first night.
I should have left then.
But I didn’t.
I didn’t sleep that night. How could I? Every movement felt unnatural, my own body betraying me in the dim light of the small room. I tried convincing myself it was fatigue, paranoia, or a trick of the light. But I wasn’t stupid. Shadows don’t move on their own.
At some point, exhaustion won. I woke up to a room bathed in artificial white. The overhead light never turned off, and I had no sense of time. My mouth was dry. The air hummed with a low, constant vibration I hadn’t noticed before.
I sat up and stared at the floor. My shadow was still there, still mine. But something was off.
It was breathing.
No, not breathing exactly. But expanding, contracting, shifting in a way that had nothing to do with me. My pulse hammered in my throat. I lifted a hand. It followed—but that half-second lag was worse now. Deliberate.
The intercom clicked. "Describe your shadow."
My voice came out hoarse. "It’s wrong. It’s—it’s slower than before. It’s moving by itself."
A pause. Then: "Do not be alarmed. This is a normal response."
"Normal?" I snapped. "What the hell kind of study is this? What did you do to me?"
Silence. Then, the door unlocked with a soft click.
I stood, my body tense. No one entered. No instructions followed. Just an open door, yawning like a trap.
I stepped forward. My shadow didn’t move.
I ran.
The hallway was empty. No scientists, no security—just me and the steady hum of unseen machinery. The overhead lights buzzed, casting long, sterile pools of brightness against the cold floor.
I glanced down. My shadow hadn’t followed.
It still lay in my room, frozen against the floor like a discarded thing. My stomach twisted. That wasn’t how shadows worked.
A flickering movement at the edge of my vision made me spin. Down the hall, a shadow pooled unnaturally, stretching along the wall in a way that ignored the angles of the light. It wasn’t mine.
I walked faster. Then faster still. Every door I passed looked the same—windowless, unmarked. Was anyone else in here? Had there been other test subjects?
A voice crackled over the intercom. “Return to your room.”
I ignored it.
“Return to your room.”
The air shifted—something behind me. I turned, but nothing was there. My chest tightened. My feet moved on instinct. Faster. I needed to get out.
A door at the end of the hall had a red exit sign above it. My heart leapt. I ran, my breath loud in my ears. But as I reached for the handle, the hallway lights flickered.
And my shadow slammed into me.
I felt it. Cold. Solid. Like a second skin wrapping around my body. I gasped, stumbling backward. My limbs stiffened, and for one horrible second, I wasn’t in control. My arms twitched—moved in ways I hadn’t willed.
Then, it let go.
I collapsed to my knees, sucking in air. My shadow—if it was still mine—was back where it belonged, stretched thin beneath me. But something was different.
It wasn’t lagging anymore.
It was leading.
The intercom buzzed again, softer this time. “You ’ve progressed to the next phase.”
I swallowed hard. My fingers curled against the cold floor.
I had a feeling I wasn’t the one being studied anymore.
I sat there, my palms pressing against the icy floor, trying to steady my breath. My shadow was still. But it didn’t feel like mine anymore.
The intercom crackled again. “You are experiencing a temporary adjustment period. Do not be alarmed.”
“Adjustment?” My voice was raw. “What the hell is happening to me?”
Silence.
I turned back toward the exit. The door was still there, but now, something about it felt off. The edges blurred, like heat waves distorting the air. I reached out, fingers brushing the metal handle—
The hallway flickered.
Not the lights. The space itself.
For a split second, I wasn’t in the hallway. I was somewhere else. A darker place, where walls pulsed like living things and shadows slithered unnaturally across the floor.
Then it was gone. I was back in the hallway, the exit door solid beneath my hand.
I stumbled away from it, chest heaving. My shadow rippled beneath me, as if it had seen what I had.
“Return to your room.” The voice was softer now. Almost… coaxing.
I shook my head. “No. I’m leaving.”
The moment I said it, the lights overhead flared, casting my shadow long and sharp against the floor. It twitched. Shifted.
Then it rose.
I scrambled back as my own darkness peeled itself away, standing upright in front of me. It had my shape, my outline—but it wasn’t me. The head tilted, mimicking the way I moved, but with an eerie delay.
My pulse pounded.
The shadow took a step forward.
I turned and ran.
The hallway stretched longer than it should have, like I was running through a nightmare where the exit never came closer. My breath hitched. My legs ached. I dared a glance over my shoulder—
It was following. Fast.
I reached another door—any door—and yanked it open. I threw myself inside, slamming it behind me. My hands fumbled for a lock, but there was none.
The room was dark, the air thick with something stale and wrong. I turned—
And froze.
I wasn’t alone.
Shapes loomed in the darkness. Shadows. Some standing. Some crouched. All shifting unnaturally.
I backed against the door, my breath coming in short gasps.
The intercom crackled once more, but this time, the voice had changed. It was layered, as if more than one person—or thing—was speaking at once.
“You were never meant to leave.”
The facility was a squat, gray building on the outskirts of town, the kind of place you’d never notice unless you were looking for it. The contract was thick, full of jargon and clauses that I skimmed over before signing. The woman who gave me the papers—Dr. Monroe, I think her name was—had a tight-lipped smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes.
“The process is completely safe,” she assured me. “You may experience some minor distortions in sensory perception, but that’s expected.”
I didn’t ask what she meant. I should have.
They took my phone, my watch, anything that could track time. Then they led me to a small, windowless room with sterile white walls, a single bed, a desk, and a mirror bolted to the wall. I knew from past studies that the mirror was one-way glass. Someone was watching me. I told myself it didn’t matter.
For the first few hours, nothing happened. They gave me food—plain, flavorless, but edible. The lights never dimmed, so I had no real way of knowing when night fell. A voice over an intercom instructed me to document any changes in perception. I wrote: “Nothing yet.”
I don’t know when I fell asleep. The next thing I remember is waking up to the sound of something moving in the room.
I sat up, heart hammering, but I was alone. The door was still locked, the mirror reflecting my own wide-eyed face. I took a breath, told myself it was my imagination. Maybe I’d kicked the bed in my sleep.
Then I saw it.
My reflection hadn’t moved.
I was sitting upright, breathing heavily, but the me in the mirror was still lying down, eyes shut.
I scrambled off the bed, my pulse roaring in my ears. My reflection stayed where it was for a second longer before it jolted upright, as if catching up to me.
I backed away until I hit the far wall. My reflection did the same.
The intercom crackled. “Please describe any changes in perception.”
My mouth was dry. My hands were shaking. I forced myself to breathe, to think.
“It lagged,” I finally said. “My reflection. It didn’t move when I did.”
Silence. Then the intercom clicked off.
I stared at the mirror, half expecting my reflection to move on its own again. It didn’t. It looked normal now. Maybe I imagined it. Maybe it was exhaustion.
I turned away, climbed back into bed. The sheets felt cold, almost damp. I closed my eyes and tried to ignore the sensation that I wasn’t alone in the room.
That was the first night.
I should have left then.
But I didn’t.
I didn’t sleep that night. How could I? Every movement felt unnatural, my own body betraying me in the dim light of the small room. I tried convincing myself it was fatigue, paranoia, or a trick of the light. But I wasn’t stupid. Shadows don’t move on their own.
At some point, exhaustion won. I woke up to a room bathed in artificial white. The overhead light never turned off, and I had no sense of time. My mouth was dry. The air hummed with a low, constant vibration I hadn’t noticed before.
I sat up and stared at the floor. My shadow was still there, still mine. But something was off.
It was breathing.
No, not breathing exactly. But expanding, contracting, shifting in a way that had nothing to do with me. My pulse hammered in my throat. I lifted a hand. It followed—but that half-second lag was worse now. Deliberate.
The intercom clicked. "Describe your shadow."
My voice came out hoarse. "It’s wrong. It’s—it’s slower than before. It’s moving by itself."
A pause. Then: "Do not be alarmed. This is a normal response."
"Normal?" I snapped. "What the hell kind of study is this? What did you do to me?"
Silence. Then, the door unlocked with a soft click.
I stood, my body tense. No one entered. No instructions followed. Just an open door, yawning like a trap.
I stepped forward. My shadow didn’t move.
I ran.
The hallway was empty. No scientists, no security—just me and the steady hum of unseen machinery. The overhead lights buzzed, casting long, sterile pools of brightness against the cold floor.
I glanced down. My shadow hadn’t followed.
It still lay in my room, frozen against the floor like a discarded thing. My stomach twisted. That wasn’t how shadows worked.
A flickering movement at the edge of my vision made me spin. Down the hall, a shadow pooled unnaturally, stretching along the wall in a way that ignored the angles of the light. It wasn’t mine.
I walked faster. Then faster still. Every door I passed looked the same—windowless, unmarked. Was anyone else in here? Had there been other test subjects?
A voice crackled over the intercom. “Return to your room.”
I ignored it.
“Return to your room.”
The air shifted—something behind me. I turned, but nothing was there. My chest tightened. My feet moved on instinct. Faster. I needed to get out.
A door at the end of the hall had a red exit sign above it. My heart leapt. I ran, my breath loud in my ears. But as I reached for the handle, the hallway lights flickered.
And my shadow slammed into me.
I felt it. Cold. Solid. Like a second skin wrapping around my body. I gasped, stumbling backward. My limbs stiffened, and for one horrible second, I wasn’t in control. My arms twitched—moved in ways I hadn’t willed.
Then, it let go.
I collapsed to my knees, sucking in air. My shadow—if it was still mine—was back where it belonged, stretched thin beneath me. But something was different.
It wasn’t lagging anymore.
It was leading.
The intercom buzzed again, softer this time. “You ’ve progressed to the next phase.”
I swallowed hard. My fingers curled against the cold floor.
I had a feeling I wasn’t the one being studied anymore.
I sat there, my palms pressing against the icy floor, trying to steady my breath. My shadow was still. But it didn’t feel like mine anymore.
The intercom crackled again. “You are experiencing a temporary adjustment period. Do not be alarmed.”
“Adjustment?” My voice was raw. “What the hell is happening to me?”
Silence.
I turned back toward the exit. The door was still there, but now, something about it felt off. The edges blurred, like heat waves distorting the air. I reached out, fingers brushing the metal handle—
The hallway flickered.
Not the lights. The space itself.
For a split second, I wasn’t in the hallway. I was somewhere else. A darker place, where walls pulsed like living things and shadows slithered unnaturally across the floor.
Then it was gone. I was back in the hallway, the exit door solid beneath my hand.
I stumbled away from it, chest heaving. My shadow rippled beneath me, as if it had seen what I had.
“Return to your room.” The voice was softer now. Almost… coaxing.
I shook my head. “No. I’m leaving.”
The moment I said it, the lights overhead flared, casting my shadow long and sharp against the floor. It twitched. Shifted.
Then it rose.
I scrambled back as my own darkness peeled itself away, standing upright in front of me. It had my shape, my outline—but it wasn’t me. The head tilted, mimicking the way I moved, but with an eerie delay.
My pulse pounded.
The shadow took a step forward.
I turned and ran.
The hallway stretched longer than it should have, like I was running through a nightmare where the exit never came closer. My breath hitched. My legs ached. I dared a glance over my shoulder—
It was following. Fast.
I reached another door—any door—and yanked it open. I threw myself inside, slamming it behind me. My hands fumbled for a lock, but there was none.
The room was dark, the air thick with something stale and wrong. I turned—
And froze.
I wasn’t alone.
Shapes loomed in the darkness. Shadows. Some standing. Some crouched. All shifting unnaturally.
I backed against the door, my breath coming in short gasps.
The intercom crackled once more, but this time, the voice had changed. It was layered, as if more than one person—or thing—was speaking at once.
“You were never meant to leave.”
The Time I was Dinner
The crash was the easy part.
One second, I was gripping the wheel, my headlights cutting through the rain, the next—I was spinning. Metal groaned. My tires lifted off the ground. A sickening lurch twisted my stomach as the car flipped, slammed into something hard, and came to a rest upside down. For a moment, all I could hear was my own breath, ragged and sharp in the suffocating silence.
Then came the pain.
A deep, searing ache in my ribs. A hot trickle down my forehead. My fingers trembled as I unbuckled myself, dropping onto the roof of the car. The windshield was shattered, glass scattered like jagged stars in the dim glow of my dying headlights.
I had to get out.
The driver’s side was crushed against a tree, but the passenger door groaned open with effort. I crawled through, wincing as twigs and stones bit into my palms. The rain had slowed to a drizzle, mist curling through the trees, thick and heavy. My phone was in my jacket pocket, but when I pulled it out, the screen was a spiderweb of cracks. Dead.
“Shit.”
I turned in a slow circle. The road was gone, lost somewhere behind a wall of trees. My car had veered deep into the woods. No headlights. No distant hum of passing cars. Just the chirp of unseen insects and the whisper of the wind. I sucked in a breath, tasting damp earth and the faint copper tang of blood.
I needed help.
A flicker of movement in the distance made me freeze. A shadow shifted between the trees, too far to make out. My pulse kicked up.
“Hello?” My voice was hoarse, raw from the crash.
Silence. Then—
A lantern flickered to life.
It wasn’t just a trick of my eyes. There was someone ahead, just beyond the mist. The glow wavered, then started toward me. Footsteps, slow and deliberate, crunched against the damp leaves.
Relief flooded me. “Hey! Thank God! I—”
The light stopped.
A figure stepped into view. An old man, hunched beneath a thick coat, his face shadowed beneath the brim of a wide hat. The lantern in his grip swayed gently, casting his features in flickering light. His eyes were pale, almost colorless.
“Car crash?” His voice was a rasp, like dead leaves dragged across stone.
I swallowed hard. “Yeah. Can you—do you have a phone? I need to call for help.”
He tilted his head slightly. “No phone. But my house ain’t far.”
I hesitated. The stranger studied me, unreadable. The woods stretched in every direction, a labyrinth of darkness. If I stayed, I risked hypothermia or worse. If I went…
“Alright,” I said. “Lead the way.”
The old man turned without another word, his lantern bobbing as he walked. I followed, my ribs protesting every step. The forest pressed in around us, the trees twisted and gnarled, their bark peeling in thick, curling strips. The farther we went, the quieter it became. The air felt wrong, thick with something I couldn’t name.
After what felt like forever, the house emerged from the fog.
It was old, its wooden walls gray and swollen with age. The porch sagged, the windows dark, empty eyes staring into the night. A weathered wind chime hung from the eaves, silent despite the breeze.
The old man pushed open the door. The hinges creaked like a wounded animal.
“Come in,” he said, stepping aside.
Everything in me screamed not to. But the cold was sinking into my bones, and I had no other choice.
I stepped inside.
The first night in that house was restless. My body ached from the crash, and every sound in the old wooden structure set my nerves on edge. The walls creaked, the wind howled through unseen cracks, and the heavy scent of cooked meat still lingered in the air.
I barely slept. When I finally drifted off, I had strange dreams—dark figures loomed over me, whispering in a language I didn’t understand. A sharp pain jolted me awake, and I found myself gripping my own arm, my nails digging into my skin like claws. My mouth was dry, my stomach twisting with an unfamiliar hunger.
The next morning, Mary greeted me with a wide smile, a steaming plate of eggs, thick slices of ham, and fresh bread already set on the table. "You need to eat," she said, her tone leaving no room for argument.
I hesitated. "I really appreciate everything you’ve done, but I should probably start figuring out how to get back to town. Maybe there’s a road nearby? A way I could walk?"
Henry chuckled, settling into his chair across from me. "Roads around here ain’t exactly… reliable. And you’re still in rough shape. Best to stay put until we can get you properly patched up."
Something in his voice made me pause. I glanced at Mary, but she was busy pouring coffee into a chipped ceramic mug, her expression unreadable.
I swallowed thickly and took a bite of the ham. It was rich, almost too rich, but I forced myself to chew and swallow. Mary and Henry exchanged a glance.
"Good, good," Mary murmured. "You need your strength."
I nodded, pretending not to notice the way their eyes lingered on me as I ate.
The day passed slowly. The house had no electricity, no phone, and according to Henry, the nearest town was "a good forty miles off, through thick forest and rough land." He offered to take a look at my car later, but his tone was casual—too casual. As if he already knew it wouldn’t be going anywhere.
I explored the house when they weren’t watching. The rooms were sparse but clean, the furniture handmade and sturdy. In the back room, I found something strange—hooks hanging from the ceiling, thick ropes coiled neatly beside them. A long wooden table sat in the center, deep grooves cut into its surface. My stomach twisted.
When I turned to leave, Henry was standing in the doorway.
"Looking for something?" His voice was light, but his eyes were sharp.
I forced a smile. "Just stretching my legs."
He nodded slowly. "Best not to wander too much. This house has a way of… keeping folks where they belong."
That night, I locked my bedroom door and wedged a chair under the handle. The hunger in my stomach grew worse, a gnawing emptiness I couldn’t explain. And as I lay in bed, listening to the distant sound of something heavy being dragged across the floor, I realized I might not be the one in control here.
I might already be trapped.
The morning air was thick with the scent of cooking meat again, but this time, it turned my stomach. I sat up, disoriented, my head pounding. My skin felt clammy, as if I had sweated through the night, but the air in the room was ice cold.
I got up and pressed my ear against the door. Silence. No movement, no voices. But something felt wrong. My mouth was dry, and my limbs ached, but not just from the accident—something deeper, as if my body was starting to betray me.
I hesitated before pulling the chair away from the door and slowly turning the knob. The hallway was empty, the wooden floor creaking under my steps. I moved cautiously, my bare feet light against the boards. As I neared the kitchen, the smell grew stronger, more pungent.
Mary stood at the stove, humming softly. A thick slab of meat sizzled in a cast-iron skillet. She turned as she heard me approach, her smile warm but her eyes cool. "Mornin’, dear. You slept in. That’s good, you need your rest."
I swallowed hard. "What time is it?"
"Oh, just past noon," she said, flipping the meat with a practiced hand. "You must’ve been exhausted. Your body needs time to heal."
My stomach twisted. Noon? I had never been a heavy sleeper, and I could swear I had only dozed off for a few hours.
Henry was nowhere to be seen. I shifted uneasily. "Where’s Henry?"
Mary stirred something into a pot, her movements slow, deliberate. "Tending to some things outside. Won’t be back for a bit. But don’t you worry, you’ve got me to keep you company."
A lump formed in my throat. I forced myself to nod and sat down at the table. A plate was already waiting for me. The same rich, glistening meat. The same thick bread. It looked… darker today. I poked at it with my fork, my stomach churning.
Mary sat across from me, resting her chin in her palm. "Go on, eat. You’re wasting away."
I cut a piece, my hand trembling slightly. I raised it to my mouth, but the moment it touched my tongue, a metallic taste spread across my palate. My teeth clamped down instinctively, and the texture was wrong—too dense, too fibrous. My throat tightened.
Mary watched me.
I chewed slowly, forcing myself to swallow. My insides recoiled.
"Good, good," she said, that same pleased murmur from before. "You're getting stronger already."
I pushed my plate away. "I— I think I need some air."
Mary’s smile faltered for just a fraction of a second, but then she nodded. "Of course, dear. Just don’t wander too far."
I stepped outside, my breath coming fast. The cool air hit me like a wave, and I leaned against the porch railing, trying to steady myself.
Something rustled near the tree line.
I squinted. A figure stood just beyond the clearing, half-hidden by the branches. My heart jumped into my throat. It wasn’t Henry. It wasn’t anyone I recognized.
It was watching me.
I took a slow step back, my pulse hammering. The figure tilted its head, just slightly, and then—
It was gone.
I stumbled backward into the house, slamming the door shut. Mary looked up from her cooking, unfazed. "Something wrong, dear?"
I shook my head, but the hairs on the back of my neck were still standing. "No. Just thought I saw something."
Mary smiled again, but this time, it didn’t reach her eyes. "Nothing out there but the woods, love. You’re safe in here."
Safe.
I swallowed the taste of iron still lingering in my mouth. I wasn’t so sure about that anymore.
I woke to the sound of soft murmurs just beyond my door. The voices were low, almost melodic, and I couldn’t make out the words. I held my breath, straining to listen, but the moment I shifted in bed, the murmurs stopped.
Silence.
Then—light footsteps retreating down the hall.
I stayed still for a long time, my pulse hammering in my ears. I knew I had locked the door. I knew I had wedged the chair under the handle. And yet, as I turned my head, I saw it—the chair was back where it had been before, neatly pushed under the desk.
My stomach turned violently.
I threw off the blanket and went straight to the door. Locked. Bolted from the inside. There was no way anyone could have come in. No way they could have left without me hearing them undoing the lock.
Unless they had never used the door.
A cold chill ran down my spine, and I stepped back from the door as if expecting it to swing open on its own. The air in the room felt heavy, thick with something I couldn’t name. My breath came faster, shallower. I needed to get out of there.
I crossed to the window, gripping the frame, ready to pry it open—but it didn’t budge. The old wood was warped, sealed shut by time and humidity. My fingers dug into the frame as panic started to build.
A knock at the door made me freeze.
"Breakfast is ready," Mary called softly. "Come on down now, dear."
Her voice was too sweet, too calm. Like she already knew I’d have no choice but to obey.
I swallowed hard, wiped my damp palms on my jeans, and forced myself to answer.
"I’ll be right there."
The floorboards creaked as she walked away.
I turned back to the window, staring out into the endless stretch of trees, the thick woods swallowing any sign of the outside world. The thought of walking through them, completely alone, terrified me almost as much as staying here.
Almost.
Still, I needed a plan. Because one way or another, I wasn’t going to let myself stay trapped.
Not until they decided I was ready.
Not until they decided I was ripe.
I forced myself downstairs, keeping my steps light, controlled. The kitchen smelled rich, heavy—like butter, sizzling fat, something seared to perfection. My stomach twisted, uncertain if it was hunger or nausea.
Mary turned as I entered, flashing that too-perfect smile. "There you are, sweetheart. You slept well, I hope?"
"Yeah," I lied, settling into the same chair as yesterday. Henry sat across from me, already chewing through a thick slice of meat. He met my gaze, chewing slowly, deliberately.
Mary set a plate in front of me—steak, eggs, roasted potatoes glistening with oil. The steak was thick, nearly bleeding at the center.
"Eat up," Henry said, voice low, expectant.
I picked up my fork. My fingers felt stiff, reluctant, like my body knew something I didn’t. The first bite hit my tongue—savory, iron-rich. My stomach clenched as I swallowed, the taste lingering.
It was too rich.
Too familiar.
My hands trembled. I glanced at Mary, but she was watching me, expectant. Henry, too. Like they were waiting for something.
I needed to get out of here.
I forced another bite down, then set my fork aside. "Henry, about my car—"
"Checked it this morning," he cut in. "Told you it was in bad shape."
I held his gaze. "How bad?"
Mary wiped her hands on her apron. "Oh, honey. Ain’t no fixing that thing. Best you stay here, let us take care of you."
The words twisted in my gut like spoiled food.
"I don’t want to impose," I said, trying to keep my voice steady. "Maybe I can hike out, find help—"
Mary clicked her tongue, shaking her head. "Oh, sweetheart, you wouldn’t last an hour out there."
Henry grunted in agreement. "Woods ain’t kind to folks who don’t belong."
Something about the way he said it made my skin crawl. I pushed my plate away, appetite gone. "I need some air," I muttered, standing.
Mary’s smile twitched. "Of course, dear."
I stepped onto the porch, inhaling deeply. The air was thick with the scent of trees, damp earth—something faintly metallic underneath it all. The woods stretched endlessly in every direction, no sign of roads, power lines, anything.
The house wasn’t just remote. It was hidden.
I took a careful step off the porch, then another. The grass was damp beneath my bare feet, the earth oddly soft. I moved slowly, testing them. They didn’t call out to stop me.
Not yet.
I reached the tree line, heart hammering. If I ran, if I just kept moving—
Then I saw it.
A clearing, just beyond the trees.
Clothes. Torn, dirt-streaked. A shoe. A dark stain in the grass.
A gut-wrenching realization settled over me.
I wasn’t the first person to end up here.
And if I didn’t figure out a way to escape, I wouldn’t be the last.
I took a step back, breath catching in my throat. The clearing before me wasn’t just a random patch of earth—it was a graveyard. A place where something, or someone, had been left to rot.
A twig snapped behind me.
I spun around.
Henry stood on the porch, watching. His face was blank, unreadable, but his hands were tucked deep into his pockets, shoulders relaxed. Like he already knew what I had seen. Like he was waiting for my reaction.
Mary stepped out beside him, wiping her hands on a stained cloth. "You’re wandering again, sweetheart."
Her voice was soft, almost scolding, like I was a child who had strayed too far.
I swallowed hard, trying to force down the panic rising in my chest. "I just… wanted some air."
Henry nodded slowly. "That’s understandable." He glanced past me, toward the clearing. "See anything interesting?"
I forced my face into something neutral. "Just trees."
A pause. A flicker of something in Henry’s expression—disappointment? Amusement?
"Good," he finally said. "Best to keep your eyes on what’s in front of you. Not what’s behind."
The words slithered down my spine like ice water.
Mary smiled. "Come inside, dear. Supper’s almost ready."
I hesitated.
Henry’s posture didn’t change, but the air around him did. It thickened, pressed in. The woods felt too quiet, too expectant.
I nodded. "Yeah. Sure."
They stepped back, letting me inside first. As I crossed the threshold, I felt it—like the house itself inhaled, pulling me in. The walls felt closer, the air heavier, thick with something more than just the smell of cooking meat.
The door shut behind me. The lock clicked.
I was running out of time.
I needed to find a way out.
Fast.
Dinner was already set when I walked into the kitchen. A steaming bowl of stew sat in the center of the table, the deep brown broth swirling with chunks of meat, thick-cut vegetables, and something else—something dark and stringy. The smell was intoxicating, rich, and savory. My stomach twisted in hunger.
"Sit," Mary said, already lowering herself into her chair.
Henry followed, slow and deliberate. His eyes never left me as I hesitated by the table.
"Go on," he said. "You’ve been looking a little thin."
A chill ran through me. My fingers curled against the back of the chair.
I needed to play this carefully. I forced a tired smile and sat down, reaching for the spoon. The first bite slid over my tongue, warm and fatty. My body reacted before my brain could, welcoming the food, the nourishment.
Mary beamed. "That’s a good boy."
I kept eating, slow and measured. Each bite was a battle—every muscle in my body screaming at me to stop, every ounce of instinct telling me that I shouldn’t be swallowing this, that it was wrong. But I had to keep them believing I was pliant, that I wasn’t thinking of running.
Henry finished his bowl before I did, pushing back from the table with a sigh. "You’re gonna sleep well tonight," he said. "Body’s working hard to heal. Needs the rest."
I nodded. "I appreciate everything. Really."
His eyes flickered with amusement. "We know, son. That’s why we’re taking such good care of you."
I forced another smile, then excused myself, saying I was exhausted. I didn’t look back as I walked down the hall to my room.
Once inside, I locked the door and shoved the chair beneath the handle. My stomach felt full, but the hunger hadn’t faded. If anything, it had deepened, turned into something else—something I didn’t understand.
I pressed a hand against my abdomen. My skin was warm. Hot, even. My head felt light, my limbs heavy.
Something was wrong.
I stumbled to the window, fumbling with the latch. It wouldn’t budge. My fingers were clumsy, uncoordinated.
Footsteps creaked outside my door.
A voice—low, knowing. Henry.
"Sleep tight," he murmured.
A shadow passed beneath the doorframe. Then silence.
I sank onto the bed, heart hammering. My vision swam, the edges of the room blurring.
Something was very, very wrong.
And I was running out of time.
The heat in my body only worsened. I lay on the bed, sweating through my clothes, my breath coming in slow, shallow gasps. My stomach churned—not in pain, but in some awful, insatiable need. The food had filled me, but it hadn’t satisfied me.
Something inside me was changing.
I pressed a trembling hand against my chest. My heart pounded, faster than it should. My skin felt tight, stretched too thin over my bones. My fingers twitched against the sheets, itching with a restless energy I didn’t understand.
I needed to get out of here.
I forced myself to sit up, dizziness washing over me. My limbs felt heavier, but I pushed through it. The room was suffocating, the air thick and humid. Every breath felt like I was inhaling something rotten, something spoiled.
The stew.
What the hell had they fed me?
I stumbled toward the window again, gripping the frame with clammy hands. The latch still wouldn’t budge. My fingers scraped against the wood, my nails digging in deeper than they should—deeper than was normal.
I yanked my hands back.
My nails had thickened, darkened.
I swallowed hard. My reflection in the glass was warped in the moonlight, but I swore my pupils were too wide, swallowing up too much of my eyes. My skin looked flushed, almost feverish.
Panic clawed up my throat.
I turned toward the door, my mind racing. I had to get out. I had to find a way to escape before—
A noise.
Not from the hallway.
From inside my room.
I froze.
Something shifted in the corner, a dark mass huddled near the floor. At first, I thought my fevered mind was playing tricks on me. But then it moved again, slow and deliberate.
Breathing.
Low, raspy.
I wasn’t alone.
I reached blindly for anything I could use as a weapon. My fingers closed around the metal lamp on the nightstand. I yanked it free, gripping it tight as I took a slow step forward.
"Who’s there?" My voice came out hoarse, strained.
The breathing stopped.
Then—
A whisper, soft as silk.
"You’re almost ready."
A jolt of terror shot through me.
I swung the lamp.
It passed through empty air.
The shadow was gone.
Only the whisper remained, curling around my skull, burrowing deep into my bones.
I was changing.
And I didn’t know if I could stop it.
I dropped the lamp, my hand trembling as I backed into the corner of the room. My pulse raced in my ears, drowning out all sound except the rush of blood through my veins. The whisper lingered in my mind, the words curling like smoke, leaving a bitter taste in my mouth.
"You’re almost ready."
For what? What did that mean? I wanted to scream, to call for help, but my throat was dry, tight, as if something inside me had already begun to choke the life out of my voice.
The room felt colder now. The air thick, pressing down on me like a weight. I could hear my breath, shallow and uneven, as I fought to keep control. The walls felt like they were closing in, the edges of the room bending and warping as though reality itself was starting to splinter.
I glanced back at the window, but the reflection that stared back at me wasn’t mine. It was… wrong. The eyes in the glass were too wide, too dark. A twisted version of myself, staring back in silence.
A low chuckle echoed in the room.
I spun around, but there was no one there.
My heart thundered in my chest. I needed to get out of this place. I needed to escape, but every step I took toward the door felt heavier, more laborious. The hunger inside me pulsed like a heartbeat, an insistent throb that only grew worse the more I tried to ignore it.
The whisper came again, clearer this time. "You’re one of us now."
I gripped the doorknob, forcing it open, but the door wouldn’t budge. It was as if something on the other side was holding it shut, a force I couldn’t see but could feel, pressing against the wood, keeping me trapped inside.
I looked around the room in a panic. There had to be a way out. There had to be something I could do to get free.
My eyes landed on the table in the corner, the one with the deep grooves etched into its surface. My breath caught in my throat.
The hooks.
The ropes.
They hadn’t been there when I first explored the room, had they? Or had I just… ignored them?
I stepped toward the table, unable to look away from the crude implements. The air in the room seemed to thicken, pressing against my chest with a sickening heaviness.
I had to get out.
But where could I go? What was happening to me?
A sound behind me made me spin around.
It was Mary.
She stood in the doorway, her eyes wide, her lips curling into a smile that was far too sweet, far too unnatural.
"I told you," she said, her voice low and silky. "You’d be one of us soon enough."
I took a step back, fear rising in my chest, but something in her gaze stopped me. Her eyes, wide and unblinking, held me in place, like a predator luring its prey. My body trembled, and the hunger inside me—god, it was unbearable now—roared to life, deep in my gut.
I wanted to run. I wanted to scream.
But I couldn’t move.
"I’m sorry," Mary continued, her voice soothing, but her words only twisted deeper inside my mind. "You were always meant to be here. We’ve been waiting for you. For so long."
I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t think. It was like her voice had wrapped around my brain, pulling me into some dark, suffocating place where escape wasn’t even possible. I wanted to scream. I needed to scream.
But I couldn’t.
"You’ll understand soon," she said. "You’ll understand what we are. What we do."
I tried to shake my head, tried to fight the pull of her words, but it was like they were sinking into my soul, rooting me to the spot. My body trembled, and I could feel the change, the shift in me, growing stronger, harder to resist.
The hunger. It was unbearable.
Mary stepped forward, her hand reaching out toward me. I flinched, instinctively stepping back, but the movement was too slow. Too late.
Her hand landed on my arm, and the heat that shot through my skin was unlike anything I’d ever felt. It was fire and ice, pain and pleasure, all tangled into one. I gasped, my breath hitching, but it didn’t matter. Her touch burned through me, through everything I was.
"Time to come home," she whispered.
Her grip tightened.
And I felt it. The change. It spread like wildfire, racing through my veins, crawling under my skin. My body, my soul, everything about me was shifting, turning into something else.
Something I couldn’t control.
And as Mary’s smile stretched wider, as her grip tightened further, I realized there was no escape. There had never been.
I was becoming part of this twisted thing.
Part of whatever they were.
And it was too late to turn back now.
The transformation didn’t happen all at once. It was slow, like a creeping vine, winding around my body and squeezing tighter with each passing second. The hunger, it gnawed at me from the inside, a constant presence now. Every movement felt unnatural, every breath too shallow.
Mary’s grip on my arm was still there, but it wasn’t the burning heat anymore. It had become something else. Something cold. It seeped into my skin, down into my bones, until I felt like I was nothing but a shell of who I used to be.
"You're one of us now," she whispered again, her voice low and hypnotic. She smiled, but it wasn’t comforting. It wasn’t kind. It was something else entirely. "You're not going anywhere. Not anymore."
I wanted to scream, to pull away, but my body felt alien to me now. I couldn’t move the way I used to. My legs felt stiff, my arms heavy. I tried to lift them, tried to break free of her grasp, but it was as if my body was no longer mine to control. My fingers curled involuntarily, pressing against the cold surface of the floor beneath me.
There was no escape. Not from the house, and not from whatever I was becoming.
I looked at her, tried to focus on her face, but everything seemed blurry now. My vision flickered, shifting in and out of focus. My thoughts were muddled, swirling in a fog I couldn’t clear. Was this what she meant? Was this the change she’d been talking about?
"You’ve been chosen," she continued, her tone almost gentle now, as if trying to soothe me. "We all were. You just didn’t know it yet."
Her words echoed in my head, repeating over and over, twisting around my mind until I could barely hear anything else. My mouth was dry, my heart pounding in my chest, but the pain—the hunger—it was worse than anything I’d ever felt.
“Chosen for what?” I managed to croak, my voice thin, almost foreign to my ears.
Mary’s smile deepened, and she leaned in closer, so close I could feel the warmth of her breath against my skin. "To be part of something bigger. We feed, we grow stronger. We… evolve."
Evolve? What was she talking about?
Something inside me screamed. I tried to resist, tried to hold on to the last shred of who I was, but it was slipping away. I could feel it—like sand sifting through my fingers.
“I… I don’t want this,” I whispered, barely recognizing my own voice.
Mary’s smile never wavered. She let go of my arm, but the coldness lingered, spreading through me like poison. "It doesn’t matter what you want. You’ll see. Soon enough."
I staggered back, my legs unsteady, but I didn’t fall. I didn’t collapse. I had to focus. I had to get out. There had to be some way out of this.
I took a few shaky steps, my body still stiff and unresponsive, but something pulled at me. Something in the house. It was like a presence, a dark weight pressing down on me, making it harder to think, to move. I was trapped. Trapped in my own body. Trapped in this place.
I glanced around the room, trying to find an exit. There had to be a door, a window, something. But the walls, they weren’t the same. The edges were soft, shifting, and the room—everything about it—felt warped.
"Where are you going?" Mary asked, her voice suddenly sharp, laced with something that made my skin crawl.
I didn’t answer. I couldn’t.
I pushed forward, dragging my legs like they were made of lead. My breath was coming faster now, my heart pounding in my chest. But there was no escape. No way out. The house—it was alive, and I was becoming part of it. I was becoming part of whatever this was.
Suddenly, I heard footsteps behind me. Heavy, slow, deliberate. I didn’t turn around. I couldn’t. It was as if I already knew what was coming. I had known, deep down, all along.
The hunger.
The change.
It was all consuming.
I took another step, another, but the door was still too far. I wasn’t going to make it. I wasn’t strong enough.
A hand touched my shoulder.
I froze.
It wasn’t Mary this time. It was Henry. His face was too calm, too still, like he knew exactly what was happening, exactly what I was becoming.
"Don’t run," he said softly, his voice almost a whisper. "There’s no place to go."
I wanted to push him away. I wanted to scream, but the words wouldn’t come. My throat felt like it was closing up, suffocating me. His touch—it was cold, too cold.
I looked down at my hands, but they weren’t mine anymore. My fingers had elongated, the nails sharp and twisted, like claws. My skin, pale and bruised, stretched over bones that felt thinner, more fragile than they had ever been before.
I didn’t recognize the reflection in the window anymore. It wasn’t my face staring back at me. It was… it was something else. Something hollow. Something hungry.
I staggered back, my breath coming in ragged gasps. "What… what have you done to me?" I choked out, my voice breaking.
Mary stepped forward, her hands gentle on my shoulders. "We’ve made you one of us," she said softly. "You’re part of our family now. You’ll understand. You’ll feed. And then, when the time is right, you’ll grow just like we did."
I felt something inside me snap. I couldn’t take it anymore. The hunger inside me—the gnawing, terrible need—it was unbearable. I couldn’t fight it. I couldn’t run.
I wasn’t sure if I was screaming, or if the sound was coming from somewhere else entirely. But the last thing I saw before the world went black was Henry and Mary, standing together, watching me. Waiting for me.
And I knew, deep down, that I had already become something else. I had already become a part of them.
And there was no turning back now.
I don’t know how long I’ve been here. Time doesn’t matter anymore. It’s all a blur now—shadows and whispers, hunger and darkness. I’ve lost track of how many times I've given in. How many times I’ve fed.
It’s like waking up in a nightmare that never ends.
I should’ve seen it coming. I should’ve known when I first walked into that house—when I first smelled the meat on the air, when I first saw the hooks, the ropes. They were all signs. Signs I ignored, because I thought I was in control, thought I could escape.
But I was never meant to escape.
There’s no escape from this. No way to break free of what they’ve turned me into.
The hunger... it’s worse now. It doesn’t just gnaw at me anymore; it devours me. I can feel it in my chest, in my limbs, deep in my bones, as if every part of me is starved for something I can never get enough of.
It’s like a fire inside me, a wildfire that consumes everything in its path, but I can’t put it out. I can’t stop it.
I don’t know what I was before—what I was—but that’s all slipping away. Everything that made me human, everything that kept me tethered to the world outside, it’s gone. And in its place, there’s this… thing. This creature that doesn’t feel anything anymore. No warmth. No compassion. Just hunger.
The others, Henry and Mary—they watch me now. They watch me, but they never speak. They don’t need to. They know. They know what I’ve become. They know what I’ve done. I can feel their eyes on me when I feed. I can feel them waiting for me to take that final step. To finally, fully surrender to what I am.
They don’t care about the person I was. They never did. They only care about the monster I’ve become. A monster like them.
There are no mirrors here. No windows. No reflection to remind me of who I used to be. I only see the shadows. Only see the way my hands have changed—the claws, the pale skin, the hollow eyes. The way my hunger never stops. The way I’ve learned to feed without thought. Without remorse.
The worst part? I’m starting to forget.
I’m forgetting what it was like to be me.
But there’s one thing I know for certain, deep down—one truth that’s still clear in the haze of everything that’s happened.
I’ll never leave this place. Not alive. And not the way I was before.
I hear footsteps now. They’re familiar. Soft. Slow. Mary. She’s always there. Always watching.
She comes closer, her voice low, soft like the wind. "You’re ready," she says, and I feel the words settle deep inside me, like a mark, an irreversible change.
I don’t know what I’m ready for. But I know I can’t stop it. The hunger. The change. It’s already too far gone.
The house feels different now. Not just the walls, or the furniture, or the rooms. I feel different. I don’t even know if I’m still the same person who stumbled into this place, who crashed that car, who thought she could escape.
But I know one thing. I’m not scared anymore.
The fear is gone, replaced by something darker, something deeper. Something primal.
I turn to face Mary, and for the first time since I got here, I look at her, really look at her, and I see it—the hunger in her eyes, the same hunger that’s been gnawing at me. It’s in all of us now. It’s what we’ve become. What we always were meant to be.
Her smile is soft, but there’s something in it now, something that makes me feel... cold.
“It’s time,” she whispers, as though she’s been waiting for this moment.
The hunger surges through me again, stronger this time. I can feel it—like a call. The others are waiting. They always are.
And for the first time, I understand. I don’t fight it. I won’t.
I walk with her down the hall, past the tables, the hooks, the ropes. Down into the room where we do what we do best. Where we feed.
And as I sit down, as I begin, I don’t feel regret.
I don’t feel fear.
I feel hunger.
And I know, deep inside me, that I will never be the same again.
The room is colder now. The air is thick with anticipation, and the shadows seem to stretch longer with each passing second. Mary stands at the edge of the table, her face half-lit by the dim flicker of a single candle. Her smile is all too knowing, but there’s something else—something darker—behind her eyes. She knows what’s coming. She’s been waiting for this. And so have I.
The hunger is unbearable now. It's like a fire that’s spread through my chest, down into my stomach, through my veins. It burns with a need that nothing can satisfy. Not food. Not water. Only this.
I’m not just hungry anymore. I crave this. I need it. The blood. The meat. The taste of it all.
It’s no longer a choice. I don’t even want to fight it.
I look around the room, at the two figures bound to the chairs across from me. Henry and Mary. They’re both silent, staring at me with cold, unwavering eyes. They don’t speak. They don’t need to. They know what I’m about to do. They know what I’ve become.
And they want me to do it.
The chair creaks as I sit down at the table, a table that seems to stretch forever, as if it could hold an endless amount of meat, of life to consume. But there’s only one thing I need. Only one thing that will quiet the gnawing inside me.
I take a deep breath. My hands shake as I pick up the knife. It’s not a big knife, not like the ones I’ve seen on the hooks above, but it’s sharp, and it’ll do the job.
I look at Mary first. She’s the one who made this happen. The one who invited me into this hellhole. But her smile is soft, like she’s proud of me. Proud of what I’ve become.
She nods slowly.
“Do it,” she says, her voice barely a whisper. “You’re ready.”
And I am. Ready to feed.
I turn to Henry, who’s still watching me with those empty eyes. His jaw is clenched, and his body tenses as I approach, but he doesn’t struggle. He doesn’t try to run.
He knows, too.
I raise the knife.
His mouth opens, but no words come out. Only a low, guttural sound, something between a gasp and a sob, and then silence.
I don’t hesitate. I drive the knife into his chest, and the blood bursts forth in a hot, slick stream. The taste is instant, sharp, metallic. It fills my mouth, filling the ache that’s been in me for so long.
It’s warm. So warm.
I tear into him, tearing his flesh apart, chewing, swallowing. I can ’t stop. I won’t stop. The hunger is too strong, too consuming. And when I finish with him, I don’t even feel full. I feel empty.
I don’t even remember how long it takes. Hours? Minutes? Time is meaningless here. There’s just the hunger, and the taste, and the madness that’s taking hold of me.
When it’s over, I look at Mary again. She’s still smiling, still standing there, but there’s something else in her eyes now. A flicker of something darker, something that wasn’t there before.
“You’re one of us now,” she says, her voice softer than it’s ever been. "You’ve become just like us. And there’s no turning back.”
I stand up, my legs unsteady, my body feeling like it’s made of lead. The blood coats my hands, my face, my clothes. But it doesn’t matter. None of it matters anymore. I’ve done what I was meant to do. I’ve fed.
But as I start to turn away, something catches my eye.
It’s not Henry. Not Mary.
It’s something in the corner of the room, something that wasn’t there before.
A window.
A small, cracked window, barely big enough for a person to fit through. But what catches my attention isn’t the window itself. It’s what’s on the other side.
A reflection. But it’s not my reflection. It’s... someone else’s.
The person in the reflection looks exactly like me, but their eyes are wide, frantic, and full of terror. They’re banging on the glass, as if trying to break through, but the window is sealed shut.
I blink. The reflection vanishes.
For a moment, I wonder if I’m imagining it. If it’s just the blood, the hunger, the madness that’s warped my mind. But then I see it again—just for a second. A face in the window, looking out from the other side, staring at me with wide, desperate eyes.
I stumble backward, my heart racing. What the hell is going on?
Mary steps forward, her footsteps almost silent, and places a hand on my shoulder.
“Don’t look at it,” she says softly. “You don’t need to worry about that. We’ve already chosen you.”
I turn to face her, but the reflection is still there, waiting, pressing against the glass, screaming. But I can’t hear the sound. The room is silent except for my own breathing.
Mary’s smile widens.
“You’ll understand soon enough.”
And as I stand there, staring at the face in the window, I feel something cold wrap around my chest. Something tightening, pulling me deeper into the darkness of this house. Into the hunger. Into this never-ending nightmare.
But before I can move, before I can scream, the door slams shut. And I’m left standing alone in the room with the blood on my hands, and the hunger…
I-
I am-
I am hungry.
One second, I was gripping the wheel, my headlights cutting through the rain, the next—I was spinning. Metal groaned. My tires lifted off the ground. A sickening lurch twisted my stomach as the car flipped, slammed into something hard, and came to a rest upside down. For a moment, all I could hear was my own breath, ragged and sharp in the suffocating silence.
Then came the pain.
A deep, searing ache in my ribs. A hot trickle down my forehead. My fingers trembled as I unbuckled myself, dropping onto the roof of the car. The windshield was shattered, glass scattered like jagged stars in the dim glow of my dying headlights.
I had to get out.
The driver’s side was crushed against a tree, but the passenger door groaned open with effort. I crawled through, wincing as twigs and stones bit into my palms. The rain had slowed to a drizzle, mist curling through the trees, thick and heavy. My phone was in my jacket pocket, but when I pulled it out, the screen was a spiderweb of cracks. Dead.
“Shit.”
I turned in a slow circle. The road was gone, lost somewhere behind a wall of trees. My car had veered deep into the woods. No headlights. No distant hum of passing cars. Just the chirp of unseen insects and the whisper of the wind. I sucked in a breath, tasting damp earth and the faint copper tang of blood.
I needed help.
A flicker of movement in the distance made me freeze. A shadow shifted between the trees, too far to make out. My pulse kicked up.
“Hello?” My voice was hoarse, raw from the crash.
Silence. Then—
A lantern flickered to life.
It wasn’t just a trick of my eyes. There was someone ahead, just beyond the mist. The glow wavered, then started toward me. Footsteps, slow and deliberate, crunched against the damp leaves.
Relief flooded me. “Hey! Thank God! I—”
The light stopped.
A figure stepped into view. An old man, hunched beneath a thick coat, his face shadowed beneath the brim of a wide hat. The lantern in his grip swayed gently, casting his features in flickering light. His eyes were pale, almost colorless.
“Car crash?” His voice was a rasp, like dead leaves dragged across stone.
I swallowed hard. “Yeah. Can you—do you have a phone? I need to call for help.”
He tilted his head slightly. “No phone. But my house ain’t far.”
I hesitated. The stranger studied me, unreadable. The woods stretched in every direction, a labyrinth of darkness. If I stayed, I risked hypothermia or worse. If I went…
“Alright,” I said. “Lead the way.”
The old man turned without another word, his lantern bobbing as he walked. I followed, my ribs protesting every step. The forest pressed in around us, the trees twisted and gnarled, their bark peeling in thick, curling strips. The farther we went, the quieter it became. The air felt wrong, thick with something I couldn’t name.
After what felt like forever, the house emerged from the fog.
It was old, its wooden walls gray and swollen with age. The porch sagged, the windows dark, empty eyes staring into the night. A weathered wind chime hung from the eaves, silent despite the breeze.
The old man pushed open the door. The hinges creaked like a wounded animal.
“Come in,” he said, stepping aside.
Everything in me screamed not to. But the cold was sinking into my bones, and I had no other choice.
I stepped inside.
The first night in that house was restless. My body ached from the crash, and every sound in the old wooden structure set my nerves on edge. The walls creaked, the wind howled through unseen cracks, and the heavy scent of cooked meat still lingered in the air.
I barely slept. When I finally drifted off, I had strange dreams—dark figures loomed over me, whispering in a language I didn’t understand. A sharp pain jolted me awake, and I found myself gripping my own arm, my nails digging into my skin like claws. My mouth was dry, my stomach twisting with an unfamiliar hunger.
The next morning, Mary greeted me with a wide smile, a steaming plate of eggs, thick slices of ham, and fresh bread already set on the table. "You need to eat," she said, her tone leaving no room for argument.
I hesitated. "I really appreciate everything you’ve done, but I should probably start figuring out how to get back to town. Maybe there’s a road nearby? A way I could walk?"
Henry chuckled, settling into his chair across from me. "Roads around here ain’t exactly… reliable. And you’re still in rough shape. Best to stay put until we can get you properly patched up."
Something in his voice made me pause. I glanced at Mary, but she was busy pouring coffee into a chipped ceramic mug, her expression unreadable.
I swallowed thickly and took a bite of the ham. It was rich, almost too rich, but I forced myself to chew and swallow. Mary and Henry exchanged a glance.
"Good, good," Mary murmured. "You need your strength."
I nodded, pretending not to notice the way their eyes lingered on me as I ate.
The day passed slowly. The house had no electricity, no phone, and according to Henry, the nearest town was "a good forty miles off, through thick forest and rough land." He offered to take a look at my car later, but his tone was casual—too casual. As if he already knew it wouldn’t be going anywhere.
I explored the house when they weren’t watching. The rooms were sparse but clean, the furniture handmade and sturdy. In the back room, I found something strange—hooks hanging from the ceiling, thick ropes coiled neatly beside them. A long wooden table sat in the center, deep grooves cut into its surface. My stomach twisted.
When I turned to leave, Henry was standing in the doorway.
"Looking for something?" His voice was light, but his eyes were sharp.
I forced a smile. "Just stretching my legs."
He nodded slowly. "Best not to wander too much. This house has a way of… keeping folks where they belong."
That night, I locked my bedroom door and wedged a chair under the handle. The hunger in my stomach grew worse, a gnawing emptiness I couldn’t explain. And as I lay in bed, listening to the distant sound of something heavy being dragged across the floor, I realized I might not be the one in control here.
I might already be trapped.
The morning air was thick with the scent of cooking meat again, but this time, it turned my stomach. I sat up, disoriented, my head pounding. My skin felt clammy, as if I had sweated through the night, but the air in the room was ice cold.
I got up and pressed my ear against the door. Silence. No movement, no voices. But something felt wrong. My mouth was dry, and my limbs ached, but not just from the accident—something deeper, as if my body was starting to betray me.
I hesitated before pulling the chair away from the door and slowly turning the knob. The hallway was empty, the wooden floor creaking under my steps. I moved cautiously, my bare feet light against the boards. As I neared the kitchen, the smell grew stronger, more pungent.
Mary stood at the stove, humming softly. A thick slab of meat sizzled in a cast-iron skillet. She turned as she heard me approach, her smile warm but her eyes cool. "Mornin’, dear. You slept in. That’s good, you need your rest."
I swallowed hard. "What time is it?"
"Oh, just past noon," she said, flipping the meat with a practiced hand. "You must’ve been exhausted. Your body needs time to heal."
My stomach twisted. Noon? I had never been a heavy sleeper, and I could swear I had only dozed off for a few hours.
Henry was nowhere to be seen. I shifted uneasily. "Where’s Henry?"
Mary stirred something into a pot, her movements slow, deliberate. "Tending to some things outside. Won’t be back for a bit. But don’t you worry, you’ve got me to keep you company."
A lump formed in my throat. I forced myself to nod and sat down at the table. A plate was already waiting for me. The same rich, glistening meat. The same thick bread. It looked… darker today. I poked at it with my fork, my stomach churning.
Mary sat across from me, resting her chin in her palm. "Go on, eat. You’re wasting away."
I cut a piece, my hand trembling slightly. I raised it to my mouth, but the moment it touched my tongue, a metallic taste spread across my palate. My teeth clamped down instinctively, and the texture was wrong—too dense, too fibrous. My throat tightened.
Mary watched me.
I chewed slowly, forcing myself to swallow. My insides recoiled.
"Good, good," she said, that same pleased murmur from before. "You're getting stronger already."
I pushed my plate away. "I— I think I need some air."
Mary’s smile faltered for just a fraction of a second, but then she nodded. "Of course, dear. Just don’t wander too far."
I stepped outside, my breath coming fast. The cool air hit me like a wave, and I leaned against the porch railing, trying to steady myself.
Something rustled near the tree line.
I squinted. A figure stood just beyond the clearing, half-hidden by the branches. My heart jumped into my throat. It wasn’t Henry. It wasn’t anyone I recognized.
It was watching me.
I took a slow step back, my pulse hammering. The figure tilted its head, just slightly, and then—
It was gone.
I stumbled backward into the house, slamming the door shut. Mary looked up from her cooking, unfazed. "Something wrong, dear?"
I shook my head, but the hairs on the back of my neck were still standing. "No. Just thought I saw something."
Mary smiled again, but this time, it didn’t reach her eyes. "Nothing out there but the woods, love. You’re safe in here."
Safe.
I swallowed the taste of iron still lingering in my mouth. I wasn’t so sure about that anymore.
I woke to the sound of soft murmurs just beyond my door. The voices were low, almost melodic, and I couldn’t make out the words. I held my breath, straining to listen, but the moment I shifted in bed, the murmurs stopped.
Silence.
Then—light footsteps retreating down the hall.
I stayed still for a long time, my pulse hammering in my ears. I knew I had locked the door. I knew I had wedged the chair under the handle. And yet, as I turned my head, I saw it—the chair was back where it had been before, neatly pushed under the desk.
My stomach turned violently.
I threw off the blanket and went straight to the door. Locked. Bolted from the inside. There was no way anyone could have come in. No way they could have left without me hearing them undoing the lock.
Unless they had never used the door.
A cold chill ran down my spine, and I stepped back from the door as if expecting it to swing open on its own. The air in the room felt heavy, thick with something I couldn’t name. My breath came faster, shallower. I needed to get out of there.
I crossed to the window, gripping the frame, ready to pry it open—but it didn’t budge. The old wood was warped, sealed shut by time and humidity. My fingers dug into the frame as panic started to build.
A knock at the door made me freeze.
"Breakfast is ready," Mary called softly. "Come on down now, dear."
Her voice was too sweet, too calm. Like she already knew I’d have no choice but to obey.
I swallowed hard, wiped my damp palms on my jeans, and forced myself to answer.
"I’ll be right there."
The floorboards creaked as she walked away.
I turned back to the window, staring out into the endless stretch of trees, the thick woods swallowing any sign of the outside world. The thought of walking through them, completely alone, terrified me almost as much as staying here.
Almost.
Still, I needed a plan. Because one way or another, I wasn’t going to let myself stay trapped.
Not until they decided I was ready.
Not until they decided I was ripe.
I forced myself downstairs, keeping my steps light, controlled. The kitchen smelled rich, heavy—like butter, sizzling fat, something seared to perfection. My stomach twisted, uncertain if it was hunger or nausea.
Mary turned as I entered, flashing that too-perfect smile. "There you are, sweetheart. You slept well, I hope?"
"Yeah," I lied, settling into the same chair as yesterday. Henry sat across from me, already chewing through a thick slice of meat. He met my gaze, chewing slowly, deliberately.
Mary set a plate in front of me—steak, eggs, roasted potatoes glistening with oil. The steak was thick, nearly bleeding at the center.
"Eat up," Henry said, voice low, expectant.
I picked up my fork. My fingers felt stiff, reluctant, like my body knew something I didn’t. The first bite hit my tongue—savory, iron-rich. My stomach clenched as I swallowed, the taste lingering.
It was too rich.
Too familiar.
My hands trembled. I glanced at Mary, but she was watching me, expectant. Henry, too. Like they were waiting for something.
I needed to get out of here.
I forced another bite down, then set my fork aside. "Henry, about my car—"
"Checked it this morning," he cut in. "Told you it was in bad shape."
I held his gaze. "How bad?"
Mary wiped her hands on her apron. "Oh, honey. Ain’t no fixing that thing. Best you stay here, let us take care of you."
The words twisted in my gut like spoiled food.
"I don’t want to impose," I said, trying to keep my voice steady. "Maybe I can hike out, find help—"
Mary clicked her tongue, shaking her head. "Oh, sweetheart, you wouldn’t last an hour out there."
Henry grunted in agreement. "Woods ain’t kind to folks who don’t belong."
Something about the way he said it made my skin crawl. I pushed my plate away, appetite gone. "I need some air," I muttered, standing.
Mary’s smile twitched. "Of course, dear."
I stepped onto the porch, inhaling deeply. The air was thick with the scent of trees, damp earth—something faintly metallic underneath it all. The woods stretched endlessly in every direction, no sign of roads, power lines, anything.
The house wasn’t just remote. It was hidden.
I took a careful step off the porch, then another. The grass was damp beneath my bare feet, the earth oddly soft. I moved slowly, testing them. They didn’t call out to stop me.
Not yet.
I reached the tree line, heart hammering. If I ran, if I just kept moving—
Then I saw it.
A clearing, just beyond the trees.
Clothes. Torn, dirt-streaked. A shoe. A dark stain in the grass.
A gut-wrenching realization settled over me.
I wasn’t the first person to end up here.
And if I didn’t figure out a way to escape, I wouldn’t be the last.
I took a step back, breath catching in my throat. The clearing before me wasn’t just a random patch of earth—it was a graveyard. A place where something, or someone, had been left to rot.
A twig snapped behind me.
I spun around.
Henry stood on the porch, watching. His face was blank, unreadable, but his hands were tucked deep into his pockets, shoulders relaxed. Like he already knew what I had seen. Like he was waiting for my reaction.
Mary stepped out beside him, wiping her hands on a stained cloth. "You’re wandering again, sweetheart."
Her voice was soft, almost scolding, like I was a child who had strayed too far.
I swallowed hard, trying to force down the panic rising in my chest. "I just… wanted some air."
Henry nodded slowly. "That’s understandable." He glanced past me, toward the clearing. "See anything interesting?"
I forced my face into something neutral. "Just trees."
A pause. A flicker of something in Henry’s expression—disappointment? Amusement?
"Good," he finally said. "Best to keep your eyes on what’s in front of you. Not what’s behind."
The words slithered down my spine like ice water.
Mary smiled. "Come inside, dear. Supper’s almost ready."
I hesitated.
Henry’s posture didn’t change, but the air around him did. It thickened, pressed in. The woods felt too quiet, too expectant.
I nodded. "Yeah. Sure."
They stepped back, letting me inside first. As I crossed the threshold, I felt it—like the house itself inhaled, pulling me in. The walls felt closer, the air heavier, thick with something more than just the smell of cooking meat.
The door shut behind me. The lock clicked.
I was running out of time.
I needed to find a way out.
Fast.
Dinner was already set when I walked into the kitchen. A steaming bowl of stew sat in the center of the table, the deep brown broth swirling with chunks of meat, thick-cut vegetables, and something else—something dark and stringy. The smell was intoxicating, rich, and savory. My stomach twisted in hunger.
"Sit," Mary said, already lowering herself into her chair.
Henry followed, slow and deliberate. His eyes never left me as I hesitated by the table.
"Go on," he said. "You’ve been looking a little thin."
A chill ran through me. My fingers curled against the back of the chair.
I needed to play this carefully. I forced a tired smile and sat down, reaching for the spoon. The first bite slid over my tongue, warm and fatty. My body reacted before my brain could, welcoming the food, the nourishment.
Mary beamed. "That’s a good boy."
I kept eating, slow and measured. Each bite was a battle—every muscle in my body screaming at me to stop, every ounce of instinct telling me that I shouldn’t be swallowing this, that it was wrong. But I had to keep them believing I was pliant, that I wasn’t thinking of running.
Henry finished his bowl before I did, pushing back from the table with a sigh. "You’re gonna sleep well tonight," he said. "Body’s working hard to heal. Needs the rest."
I nodded. "I appreciate everything. Really."
His eyes flickered with amusement. "We know, son. That’s why we’re taking such good care of you."
I forced another smile, then excused myself, saying I was exhausted. I didn’t look back as I walked down the hall to my room.
Once inside, I locked the door and shoved the chair beneath the handle. My stomach felt full, but the hunger hadn’t faded. If anything, it had deepened, turned into something else—something I didn’t understand.
I pressed a hand against my abdomen. My skin was warm. Hot, even. My head felt light, my limbs heavy.
Something was wrong.
I stumbled to the window, fumbling with the latch. It wouldn’t budge. My fingers were clumsy, uncoordinated.
Footsteps creaked outside my door.
A voice—low, knowing. Henry.
"Sleep tight," he murmured.
A shadow passed beneath the doorframe. Then silence.
I sank onto the bed, heart hammering. My vision swam, the edges of the room blurring.
Something was very, very wrong.
And I was running out of time.
The heat in my body only worsened. I lay on the bed, sweating through my clothes, my breath coming in slow, shallow gasps. My stomach churned—not in pain, but in some awful, insatiable need. The food had filled me, but it hadn’t satisfied me.
Something inside me was changing.
I pressed a trembling hand against my chest. My heart pounded, faster than it should. My skin felt tight, stretched too thin over my bones. My fingers twitched against the sheets, itching with a restless energy I didn’t understand.
I needed to get out of here.
I forced myself to sit up, dizziness washing over me. My limbs felt heavier, but I pushed through it. The room was suffocating, the air thick and humid. Every breath felt like I was inhaling something rotten, something spoiled.
The stew.
What the hell had they fed me?
I stumbled toward the window again, gripping the frame with clammy hands. The latch still wouldn’t budge. My fingers scraped against the wood, my nails digging in deeper than they should—deeper than was normal.
I yanked my hands back.
My nails had thickened, darkened.
I swallowed hard. My reflection in the glass was warped in the moonlight, but I swore my pupils were too wide, swallowing up too much of my eyes. My skin looked flushed, almost feverish.
Panic clawed up my throat.
I turned toward the door, my mind racing. I had to get out. I had to find a way to escape before—
A noise.
Not from the hallway.
From inside my room.
I froze.
Something shifted in the corner, a dark mass huddled near the floor. At first, I thought my fevered mind was playing tricks on me. But then it moved again, slow and deliberate.
Breathing.
Low, raspy.
I wasn’t alone.
I reached blindly for anything I could use as a weapon. My fingers closed around the metal lamp on the nightstand. I yanked it free, gripping it tight as I took a slow step forward.
"Who’s there?" My voice came out hoarse, strained.
The breathing stopped.
Then—
A whisper, soft as silk.
"You’re almost ready."
A jolt of terror shot through me.
I swung the lamp.
It passed through empty air.
The shadow was gone.
Only the whisper remained, curling around my skull, burrowing deep into my bones.
I was changing.
And I didn’t know if I could stop it.
I dropped the lamp, my hand trembling as I backed into the corner of the room. My pulse raced in my ears, drowning out all sound except the rush of blood through my veins. The whisper lingered in my mind, the words curling like smoke, leaving a bitter taste in my mouth.
"You’re almost ready."
For what? What did that mean? I wanted to scream, to call for help, but my throat was dry, tight, as if something inside me had already begun to choke the life out of my voice.
The room felt colder now. The air thick, pressing down on me like a weight. I could hear my breath, shallow and uneven, as I fought to keep control. The walls felt like they were closing in, the edges of the room bending and warping as though reality itself was starting to splinter.
I glanced back at the window, but the reflection that stared back at me wasn’t mine. It was… wrong. The eyes in the glass were too wide, too dark. A twisted version of myself, staring back in silence.
A low chuckle echoed in the room.
I spun around, but there was no one there.
My heart thundered in my chest. I needed to get out of this place. I needed to escape, but every step I took toward the door felt heavier, more laborious. The hunger inside me pulsed like a heartbeat, an insistent throb that only grew worse the more I tried to ignore it.
The whisper came again, clearer this time. "You’re one of us now."
I gripped the doorknob, forcing it open, but the door wouldn’t budge. It was as if something on the other side was holding it shut, a force I couldn’t see but could feel, pressing against the wood, keeping me trapped inside.
I looked around the room in a panic. There had to be a way out. There had to be something I could do to get free.
My eyes landed on the table in the corner, the one with the deep grooves etched into its surface. My breath caught in my throat.
The hooks.
The ropes.
They hadn’t been there when I first explored the room, had they? Or had I just… ignored them?
I stepped toward the table, unable to look away from the crude implements. The air in the room seemed to thicken, pressing against my chest with a sickening heaviness.
I had to get out.
But where could I go? What was happening to me?
A sound behind me made me spin around.
It was Mary.
She stood in the doorway, her eyes wide, her lips curling into a smile that was far too sweet, far too unnatural.
"I told you," she said, her voice low and silky. "You’d be one of us soon enough."
I took a step back, fear rising in my chest, but something in her gaze stopped me. Her eyes, wide and unblinking, held me in place, like a predator luring its prey. My body trembled, and the hunger inside me—god, it was unbearable now—roared to life, deep in my gut.
I wanted to run. I wanted to scream.
But I couldn’t move.
"I’m sorry," Mary continued, her voice soothing, but her words only twisted deeper inside my mind. "You were always meant to be here. We’ve been waiting for you. For so long."
I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t think. It was like her voice had wrapped around my brain, pulling me into some dark, suffocating place where escape wasn’t even possible. I wanted to scream. I needed to scream.
But I couldn’t.
"You’ll understand soon," she said. "You’ll understand what we are. What we do."
I tried to shake my head, tried to fight the pull of her words, but it was like they were sinking into my soul, rooting me to the spot. My body trembled, and I could feel the change, the shift in me, growing stronger, harder to resist.
The hunger. It was unbearable.
Mary stepped forward, her hand reaching out toward me. I flinched, instinctively stepping back, but the movement was too slow. Too late.
Her hand landed on my arm, and the heat that shot through my skin was unlike anything I’d ever felt. It was fire and ice, pain and pleasure, all tangled into one. I gasped, my breath hitching, but it didn’t matter. Her touch burned through me, through everything I was.
"Time to come home," she whispered.
Her grip tightened.
And I felt it. The change. It spread like wildfire, racing through my veins, crawling under my skin. My body, my soul, everything about me was shifting, turning into something else.
Something I couldn’t control.
And as Mary’s smile stretched wider, as her grip tightened further, I realized there was no escape. There had never been.
I was becoming part of this twisted thing.
Part of whatever they were.
And it was too late to turn back now.
The transformation didn’t happen all at once. It was slow, like a creeping vine, winding around my body and squeezing tighter with each passing second. The hunger, it gnawed at me from the inside, a constant presence now. Every movement felt unnatural, every breath too shallow.
Mary’s grip on my arm was still there, but it wasn’t the burning heat anymore. It had become something else. Something cold. It seeped into my skin, down into my bones, until I felt like I was nothing but a shell of who I used to be.
"You're one of us now," she whispered again, her voice low and hypnotic. She smiled, but it wasn’t comforting. It wasn’t kind. It was something else entirely. "You're not going anywhere. Not anymore."
I wanted to scream, to pull away, but my body felt alien to me now. I couldn’t move the way I used to. My legs felt stiff, my arms heavy. I tried to lift them, tried to break free of her grasp, but it was as if my body was no longer mine to control. My fingers curled involuntarily, pressing against the cold surface of the floor beneath me.
There was no escape. Not from the house, and not from whatever I was becoming.
I looked at her, tried to focus on her face, but everything seemed blurry now. My vision flickered, shifting in and out of focus. My thoughts were muddled, swirling in a fog I couldn’t clear. Was this what she meant? Was this the change she’d been talking about?
"You’ve been chosen," she continued, her tone almost gentle now, as if trying to soothe me. "We all were. You just didn’t know it yet."
Her words echoed in my head, repeating over and over, twisting around my mind until I could barely hear anything else. My mouth was dry, my heart pounding in my chest, but the pain—the hunger—it was worse than anything I’d ever felt.
“Chosen for what?” I managed to croak, my voice thin, almost foreign to my ears.
Mary’s smile deepened, and she leaned in closer, so close I could feel the warmth of her breath against my skin. "To be part of something bigger. We feed, we grow stronger. We… evolve."
Evolve? What was she talking about?
Something inside me screamed. I tried to resist, tried to hold on to the last shred of who I was, but it was slipping away. I could feel it—like sand sifting through my fingers.
“I… I don’t want this,” I whispered, barely recognizing my own voice.
Mary’s smile never wavered. She let go of my arm, but the coldness lingered, spreading through me like poison. "It doesn’t matter what you want. You’ll see. Soon enough."
I staggered back, my legs unsteady, but I didn’t fall. I didn’t collapse. I had to focus. I had to get out. There had to be some way out of this.
I took a few shaky steps, my body still stiff and unresponsive, but something pulled at me. Something in the house. It was like a presence, a dark weight pressing down on me, making it harder to think, to move. I was trapped. Trapped in my own body. Trapped in this place.
I glanced around the room, trying to find an exit. There had to be a door, a window, something. But the walls, they weren’t the same. The edges were soft, shifting, and the room—everything about it—felt warped.
"Where are you going?" Mary asked, her voice suddenly sharp, laced with something that made my skin crawl.
I didn’t answer. I couldn’t.
I pushed forward, dragging my legs like they were made of lead. My breath was coming faster now, my heart pounding in my chest. But there was no escape. No way out. The house—it was alive, and I was becoming part of it. I was becoming part of whatever this was.
Suddenly, I heard footsteps behind me. Heavy, slow, deliberate. I didn’t turn around. I couldn’t. It was as if I already knew what was coming. I had known, deep down, all along.
The hunger.
The change.
It was all consuming.
I took another step, another, but the door was still too far. I wasn’t going to make it. I wasn’t strong enough.
A hand touched my shoulder.
I froze.
It wasn’t Mary this time. It was Henry. His face was too calm, too still, like he knew exactly what was happening, exactly what I was becoming.
"Don’t run," he said softly, his voice almost a whisper. "There’s no place to go."
I wanted to push him away. I wanted to scream, but the words wouldn’t come. My throat felt like it was closing up, suffocating me. His touch—it was cold, too cold.
I looked down at my hands, but they weren’t mine anymore. My fingers had elongated, the nails sharp and twisted, like claws. My skin, pale and bruised, stretched over bones that felt thinner, more fragile than they had ever been before.
I didn’t recognize the reflection in the window anymore. It wasn’t my face staring back at me. It was… it was something else. Something hollow. Something hungry.
I staggered back, my breath coming in ragged gasps. "What… what have you done to me?" I choked out, my voice breaking.
Mary stepped forward, her hands gentle on my shoulders. "We’ve made you one of us," she said softly. "You’re part of our family now. You’ll understand. You’ll feed. And then, when the time is right, you’ll grow just like we did."
I felt something inside me snap. I couldn’t take it anymore. The hunger inside me—the gnawing, terrible need—it was unbearable. I couldn’t fight it. I couldn’t run.
I wasn’t sure if I was screaming, or if the sound was coming from somewhere else entirely. But the last thing I saw before the world went black was Henry and Mary, standing together, watching me. Waiting for me.
And I knew, deep down, that I had already become something else. I had already become a part of them.
And there was no turning back now.
I don’t know how long I’ve been here. Time doesn’t matter anymore. It’s all a blur now—shadows and whispers, hunger and darkness. I’ve lost track of how many times I've given in. How many times I’ve fed.
It’s like waking up in a nightmare that never ends.
I should’ve seen it coming. I should’ve known when I first walked into that house—when I first smelled the meat on the air, when I first saw the hooks, the ropes. They were all signs. Signs I ignored, because I thought I was in control, thought I could escape.
But I was never meant to escape.
There’s no escape from this. No way to break free of what they’ve turned me into.
The hunger... it’s worse now. It doesn’t just gnaw at me anymore; it devours me. I can feel it in my chest, in my limbs, deep in my bones, as if every part of me is starved for something I can never get enough of.
It’s like a fire inside me, a wildfire that consumes everything in its path, but I can’t put it out. I can’t stop it.
I don’t know what I was before—what I was—but that’s all slipping away. Everything that made me human, everything that kept me tethered to the world outside, it’s gone. And in its place, there’s this… thing. This creature that doesn’t feel anything anymore. No warmth. No compassion. Just hunger.
The others, Henry and Mary—they watch me now. They watch me, but they never speak. They don’t need to. They know. They know what I’ve become. They know what I’ve done. I can feel their eyes on me when I feed. I can feel them waiting for me to take that final step. To finally, fully surrender to what I am.
They don’t care about the person I was. They never did. They only care about the monster I’ve become. A monster like them.
There are no mirrors here. No windows. No reflection to remind me of who I used to be. I only see the shadows. Only see the way my hands have changed—the claws, the pale skin, the hollow eyes. The way my hunger never stops. The way I’ve learned to feed without thought. Without remorse.
The worst part? I’m starting to forget.
I’m forgetting what it was like to be me.
But there’s one thing I know for certain, deep down—one truth that’s still clear in the haze of everything that’s happened.
I’ll never leave this place. Not alive. And not the way I was before.
I hear footsteps now. They’re familiar. Soft. Slow. Mary. She’s always there. Always watching.
She comes closer, her voice low, soft like the wind. "You’re ready," she says, and I feel the words settle deep inside me, like a mark, an irreversible change.
I don’t know what I’m ready for. But I know I can’t stop it. The hunger. The change. It’s already too far gone.
The house feels different now. Not just the walls, or the furniture, or the rooms. I feel different. I don’t even know if I’m still the same person who stumbled into this place, who crashed that car, who thought she could escape.
But I know one thing. I’m not scared anymore.
The fear is gone, replaced by something darker, something deeper. Something primal.
I turn to face Mary, and for the first time since I got here, I look at her, really look at her, and I see it—the hunger in her eyes, the same hunger that’s been gnawing at me. It’s in all of us now. It’s what we’ve become. What we always were meant to be.
Her smile is soft, but there’s something in it now, something that makes me feel... cold.
“It’s time,” she whispers, as though she’s been waiting for this moment.
The hunger surges through me again, stronger this time. I can feel it—like a call. The others are waiting. They always are.
And for the first time, I understand. I don’t fight it. I won’t.
I walk with her down the hall, past the tables, the hooks, the ropes. Down into the room where we do what we do best. Where we feed.
And as I sit down, as I begin, I don’t feel regret.
I don’t feel fear.
I feel hunger.
And I know, deep inside me, that I will never be the same again.
The room is colder now. The air is thick with anticipation, and the shadows seem to stretch longer with each passing second. Mary stands at the edge of the table, her face half-lit by the dim flicker of a single candle. Her smile is all too knowing, but there’s something else—something darker—behind her eyes. She knows what’s coming. She’s been waiting for this. And so have I.
The hunger is unbearable now. It's like a fire that’s spread through my chest, down into my stomach, through my veins. It burns with a need that nothing can satisfy. Not food. Not water. Only this.
I’m not just hungry anymore. I crave this. I need it. The blood. The meat. The taste of it all.
It’s no longer a choice. I don’t even want to fight it.
I look around the room, at the two figures bound to the chairs across from me. Henry and Mary. They’re both silent, staring at me with cold, unwavering eyes. They don’t speak. They don’t need to. They know what I’m about to do. They know what I’ve become.
And they want me to do it.
The chair creaks as I sit down at the table, a table that seems to stretch forever, as if it could hold an endless amount of meat, of life to consume. But there’s only one thing I need. Only one thing that will quiet the gnawing inside me.
I take a deep breath. My hands shake as I pick up the knife. It’s not a big knife, not like the ones I’ve seen on the hooks above, but it’s sharp, and it’ll do the job.
I look at Mary first. She’s the one who made this happen. The one who invited me into this hellhole. But her smile is soft, like she’s proud of me. Proud of what I’ve become.
She nods slowly.
“Do it,” she says, her voice barely a whisper. “You’re ready.”
And I am. Ready to feed.
I turn to Henry, who’s still watching me with those empty eyes. His jaw is clenched, and his body tenses as I approach, but he doesn’t struggle. He doesn’t try to run.
He knows, too.
I raise the knife.
His mouth opens, but no words come out. Only a low, guttural sound, something between a gasp and a sob, and then silence.
I don’t hesitate. I drive the knife into his chest, and the blood bursts forth in a hot, slick stream. The taste is instant, sharp, metallic. It fills my mouth, filling the ache that’s been in me for so long.
It’s warm. So warm.
I tear into him, tearing his flesh apart, chewing, swallowing. I can ’t stop. I won’t stop. The hunger is too strong, too consuming. And when I finish with him, I don’t even feel full. I feel empty.
I don’t even remember how long it takes. Hours? Minutes? Time is meaningless here. There’s just the hunger, and the taste, and the madness that’s taking hold of me.
When it’s over, I look at Mary again. She’s still smiling, still standing there, but there’s something else in her eyes now. A flicker of something darker, something that wasn’t there before.
“You’re one of us now,” she says, her voice softer than it’s ever been. "You’ve become just like us. And there’s no turning back.”
I stand up, my legs unsteady, my body feeling like it’s made of lead. The blood coats my hands, my face, my clothes. But it doesn’t matter. None of it matters anymore. I’ve done what I was meant to do. I’ve fed.
But as I start to turn away, something catches my eye.
It’s not Henry. Not Mary.
It’s something in the corner of the room, something that wasn’t there before.
A window.
A small, cracked window, barely big enough for a person to fit through. But what catches my attention isn’t the window itself. It’s what’s on the other side.
A reflection. But it’s not my reflection. It’s... someone else’s.
The person in the reflection looks exactly like me, but their eyes are wide, frantic, and full of terror. They’re banging on the glass, as if trying to break through, but the window is sealed shut.
I blink. The reflection vanishes.
For a moment, I wonder if I’m imagining it. If it’s just the blood, the hunger, the madness that’s warped my mind. But then I see it again—just for a second. A face in the window, looking out from the other side, staring at me with wide, desperate eyes.
I stumble backward, my heart racing. What the hell is going on?
Mary steps forward, her footsteps almost silent, and places a hand on my shoulder.
“Don’t look at it,” she says softly. “You don’t need to worry about that. We’ve already chosen you.”
I turn to face her, but the reflection is still there, waiting, pressing against the glass, screaming. But I can’t hear the sound. The room is silent except for my own breathing.
Mary’s smile widens.
“You’ll understand soon enough.”
And as I stand there, staring at the face in the window, I feel something cold wrap around my chest. Something tightening, pulling me deeper into the darkness of this house. Into the hunger. Into this never-ending nightmare.
But before I can move, before I can scream, the door slams shut. And I’m left standing alone in the room with the blood on my hands, and the hunger…
I-
I am-
I am hungry.
The Window
The forest was quiet. Too quiet.
My boots crunched over damp leaves as I followed the winding trail deeper into the woods. The air smelled of moss and earth, thick with the scent of rain that had passed through earlier in the day. I was supposed to stick to the main path, but curiosity had gotten the better of me.
I had hiked these woods before, but I had never seen this clearing.
The trees parted around it, their skeletal branches curling inward like fingers. The grass was overgrown, patches of wildflowers dotting the landscape. But none of that mattered—because in the very center of the clearing stood a window.
Just a frame. No glass.
It was tall and weathered, the paint long stripped away by time. It looked like it had been ripped from an old house and placed here, upright, with no walls to support it.
My stomach twisted. Something about it felt… wrong.
I stepped closer.
From this side, I saw only the forest beyond. Trees stretched toward the sky, the same as before. But when I moved—just slightly—so that I was directly in front of it…
I stopped breathing.
Through the empty frame, I saw my bedroom.
Not just a bedroom that looked like mine. My bedroom.
The familiar bookshelf stood against the far wall, overflowing with half-read novels and trinkets. My desk, cluttered with notes and empty coffee cups, sat beside it. The curtains were drawn, the dim glow of my bedside lamp casting long shadows over the walls.
And there, lying in bed, was me.
I stumbled back, my heartbeat slamming against my ribs. My mind scrambled for a rational explanation, but nothing made sense. I wasn’t dreaming—I could feel the cool air on my skin, the dampness from the earlier rain still clinging to my jacket.
I took another step forward, peering through the frame again. The scene hadn’t changed.
The figure—I—was still there, curled under the covers. My chest rose and fell with steady breaths, my head turned slightly toward the window. But then, as I watched…
I opened my eyes.
Not the me standing here.
The me in the bed.
I stared at myself, and myself stared back.
The figure in the bed didn’t move. Just lay there, eyes wide, locked onto mine through the window in the forest.
A chill ran down my spine.
I raised a shaking hand.
The me in the window raised one, too.
I turned my head slightly.
So did they.
I was about to step back—to run—when something changed.
The figure’s lips parted. A slow, stretching smile spread across its face. Too wide.
Then, ever so slightly, it shook its head.
I gasped and stumbled backward. My foot caught on a root, and I hit the ground hard, my hands scraping against damp earth. The moment I was out of view, the connection broke. I couldn’t see the bedroom anymore—just trees, rustling slightly in the wind.
My breath came in ragged bursts.
I pushed myself up and bolted, not stopping to look back.
But as I ran, a new, horrifying thought crept in:
What if, when I got home, I wasn’t the one waiting there?
I ran.
Branches whipped at my arms as I pushed through the undergrowth, feet slipping on the damp earth. My heartbeat pounded in my ears, my breath ragged. The forest felt darker now, the trees pressing in, shadows stretching longer than they should.
I kept expecting to hear footsteps behind me, but the woods were silent. Too silent. No wind. No birds. Just my own panicked breathing.
I didn’t stop until I reached my car.
It sat where I had left it, parked at the end of the trail, half-hidden by the overgrown brush. My hands shook as I yanked open the door and threw myself inside, slamming it shut behind me.
For a moment, I just sat there, gripping the steering wheel so tightly my knuckles turned white. My mind raced, trying to make sense of what I had seen.
It wasn’t possible.
It had to be some kind of trick.
Maybe I had inhaled something weird in the woods. Maybe there was some logical explanation—an optical illusion, a hallucination, anything other than what my gut was telling me.
That I had just seen myself.
And that it—whatever it was—had seen me too.
I forced a deep breath and turned the key. The engine rumbled to life, breaking the awful silence. My headlights flicked on, illuminating the trees ahead, casting long, skeletal shadows across the dirt path.
I didn’t look back.
The drive home was a blur.
I kept checking my rearview mirror, expecting to see something on the road behind me. A shape in the distance. A figure standing in the middle of the street.
But there was nothing. Just the empty highway stretching out behind me, the headlights cutting through the darkness.
By the time I pulled into my driveway, my nerves were raw.
My house looked the same as always—porch light glowing softly, curtains drawn over the windows. Familiar. Safe.
But the moment I stepped out of the car, I hesitated.
What if I was already inside?
The thought sent a shudder through me. It was irrational. Impossible. I had just imagined it.
Right?
I swallowed hard and walked up to the front door. My hands were clammy as I unlocked it and pushed it open.
The house was quiet.
I stepped inside, locking the door behind me. My ears strained for any sound, any sign that someone—or something—was here. But all I could hear was the soft hum of the refrigerator in the kitchen, the distant ticking of the clock in the hallway.
I let out a slow breath.
Everything was fine.
Still, my skin prickled as I made my way down the hall. My bedroom door was closed. It hadn’t been when I left.
I stood there, staring at it. My pulse pounded in my throat.
What if I opened that door and saw myself lying in bed?
I reached for the handle.
Turned it.
Pushed the door open.
The room was empty.
The bed was neatly made, the curtains drawn, the dim glow of the bedside lamp casting soft shadows over the walls. Exactly how I had left it.
My breath shuddered out of me. I felt stupid now, standing there in my own bedroom, shaken over nothing.
I was exhausted. My mind was playing tricks on me.
I closed the door behind me and sat on the edge of the bed, rubbing my face with my hands. The image of that thing in the window was burned into my brain. That smile. The way it had shaken its head, like it knew something I didn’t.
I needed to sleep.
I crawled under the covers and reached for my phone on the nightstand. The screen lit up.
And then, every nerve in my body went cold.
Because there was a notification.
A photo.
A new AirDrop request from an unknown sender.
My breath hitched. My thumb trembled as I opened it.
And there, staring back at me, was a photo of my bedroom. Taken from the doorway.
I whipped my head toward the door.
It was still closed.
But I wasn’t alone.
I couldn’t move.
My fingers clenched around my phone, my breath coming in short, shallow bursts. The photo on the screen—it wasn’t possible. I had just walked into my room. The door had been closed. Locked.
But someone—or something—had been standing right there, taking a picture.
I forced myself to look up, my eyes locked on the bedroom door. It was still closed. The brass handle gleamed in the dim light, perfectly still.
No one was there.
At least, no one I could see.
I swallowed hard, my heart pounding so hard it hurt. My mind raced through explanations. A prank? But who? The woods were miles away from anything, and I had been alone all day.
A hacker? But how would they have taken that picture?
My hands shook as I tapped the screen, heart hammering as I checked the AirDrop sender.
Unknown.
Of course.
I tapped the photo, zooming in, searching for anything—a shadow, a reflection, something that would give me a clue. But it was just my room. Empty. Like the photo had been taken a second before I entered.
A cold sweat prickled down my spine.
I needed to check the house.
I slid out of bed slowly, my bare feet touching the floor without a sound. Every nerve in my body screamed at me to stay put, to pretend I never saw the photo.
But I couldn’t ignore it.
I crept to the door and pressed my ear against it. Silence. Not even the hum of the refrigerator now. Just a thick, unnatural stillness.
I turned the knob.
The door creaked open.
The hallway was empty, bathed in soft shadows from the nightlight in the wall. My living room was just beyond, the kitchen tucked to the right. The air felt wrong, like the house was holding its breath.
I stepped out.
Every instinct told me something was here, something unseen, watching.
The floor was cool under my feet as I padded down the hall, scanning every dark corner, every doorway. The front door was locked. The windows were shut. Nothing seemed out of place.
But then I noticed something.
The curtain in the living room.
When I had left earlier that day, it had been open, letting in the soft afternoon light. Now it was drawn.
I stared at it, dread pooling in my stomach.
I took a step forward.
Another.
I reached out, hesitating just before touching the fabric. A single breath of cold air brushed against my hand.
Then—the curtain twitched.
I stumbled back, heart slamming against my ribs.
For a moment, nothing happened. The curtain hung still. Just fabric. Just my imagination.
Then, slowly, the fabric parted.
And behind it—
There was nothing.
Not a wall. Not a window. Just a pitch-black void.
I choked on a breath, my legs locked in place.
That wasn’t my window.
It wasn’t anything.
Just an endless, empty dark.
Then, from that darkness, something moved.
I didn’t wait to see what it was.
I ran.
I tore down the hall, feet barely touching the floor, throwing myself into my bedroom and slamming the door behind me.
My hands fumbled for the lock. Click.
I backed away, panting. My phone was still clutched in my hand, the screen glowing in the dim light. The photo was still open.
But now, there was a second picture.
My stomach turned to ice.
I didn’t AirDrop this.
I didn’t take this.
But there it was. A new photo, taken from the same doorway.
Except now, I was in the bed.
And standing over me—
Was a shadow.
Not a person. Not a shape I could define. Just wrongness. A smudge of black, featureless, leaning over my sleeping body.
The air in my lungs turned to stone.
My gaze darted to the bed.
It was empty. Untouched.
I looked back at the photo.
And this time—
The shadow’s head had turned.
It was looking at me.
I couldn’t breathe.
I wanted to scream, to move, to do something, but all I could do was stare at the photo.
At it.
That shadowy figure, that formless, wrong thing was no longer just standing over my sleeping body. It was facing me.
My fingers felt numb as I lowered the phone, forcing myself to look at my room.
The bed was still empty. The doorway was clear.
There was nothing there.
But that didn’t mean I was alone.
I swallowed hard, my throat dry, my ears straining for any sound. The house was silent. Not the normal, peaceful quiet of the night.
This silence felt heavy. Suffocating. Like something was waiting.
I needed to get out.
I turned, grabbing my bag from the chair. My car keys were inside. I just needed to make it to the front door, get in the car, and drive. Anywhere.
I reached for the doorknob.
The second my fingers touched it—
A sound.
Soft.
A creak.
Like weight shifting on the floor behind me.
I froze.
The bed was empty. I had checked. I knew it was empty.
But something was there now.
I turned my head just enough to glance at my phone’s screen.
The photo had changed again.
The shadow wasn’t over my bed anymore.
It was standing right behind me.
I spun around—
Nothing.
But my mirror—
The mirror on the far wall, the one across from my bed—
It wasn’t empty.
I was there. Standing. Staring.
But I wasn’t alone.
A shape loomed behind me.
Not quite touching.
Not quite human.
Just a mass of blackness, shifting, twisting, watching.
I barely had time to think before the lights flickered.
Then went out.
The darkness swallowed me whole.
I gasped, my heart hammering so hard I could feel it in my throat. My phone—the only light left—flickered too, the screen distorting, static warping the image.
I could still see my reflection.
And the thing behind me.
It was closer now.
So close that if it had a mouth, it could whisper in my ear.
I couldn’t breathe.
I squeezed my eyes shut, my fingers curling so tightly around my phone it hurt.
This isn’t real.
It couldn’t be.
I had to move.
I forced myself to take a step back, reaching for the wall, for the door, for anything solid.
My fingers found the handle.
I turned it.
The door wouldn’t open.
Something pressed against my back.
Not a hand. Not a body. Just pressure. Like the air itself had thickened, molding around me, holding me in place.
My reflection twitched.
My reflection smiled.
My reflection wasn’t me anymore.
The lights flickered back on.
And I was alone.
The pressure was gone. The room was silent again.
My legs nearly gave out as I stumbled away from the mirror, shoving my phone into my pocket, trying to catch my breath.
I had to go.
I didn’t care if the door was locked. I would break a window, run barefoot into the woods if I had to.
But when I turned back to the door—
It was open.
Just a crack.
And from the dark hallway beyond, something laughed.
A dry, rasping, inhuman sound.
I didn’t move.
Didn’t blink.
Didn’t breathe.
Then—
The door creaked open.
And I saw it.
Not a shadow this time. Not a reflection.
Something real.
Something that had been waiting.
And it was smiling at me.
I ran.
I didn’t think. Didn’t look back.
I ran.
The hallway stretched ahead of me, warped by shadows that flickered in the dim light. The walls felt too close, the air too thick. The thing behind me—whatever it was—was still there. Watching. Waiting.
But it wasn’t stopping me.
That was worse.
I didn’t care where I was going, just that I had to get out. Out of the house. Out of the town. Away from whatever had stepped through that window in the woods.
My hand slammed against the front door.
Unlocked.
I didn’t hesitate.
The night air hit me like a shock of cold water, but I didn’t stop. My car was pointless—keys still in my bag, bag still upstairs, and I wasn’t about to go back.
The only place left to go was the one place I never should have been in the first place.
The woods.
I sprinted across the yard, my lungs burning, my legs screaming. I didn’t care. The trees loomed ahead, dark and endless, swallowing the last bits of moonlight. My chest tightened at the thought of stepping back into them.
But I had no choice.
Because something was behind me.
I heard it. A slow, dragging step. Not running. Not chasing.
Because it didn’t have to.
I hit the treeline at full speed, branches clawing at my arms, twigs snapping beneath my feet. The deeper I went, the quieter the world became.
Like it was holding its breath.
I didn’t know where I was going. My phone was still in my pocket, but I wasn’t about to slow down and check the time. Or the messages. Or the camera.
Not after what I had seen.
The clearing.
That was the only answer.
I had to find it again.
I pushed forward, lungs burning, feet aching, my mind screaming at me to turn back—but there was nothing to turn back to.
The laughter followed me.
That dry, rasping sound. Closer now.
I bit down on a whimper, refusing to look back. I wasn’t fast enough. It was always right there.
A root caught my foot.
I hit the ground hard.
Pain shot up my arms, my palms scraping against rock and dirt. I gasped, trying to push myself up—
And then I saw it.
Ahead, in the distance.
The window.
Still standing in the clearing. Still wrong.
Still showing something I knew wasn’t real.
I scrambled to my feet, ignoring the way my body ached, the way my breath came in sharp, uneven gasps.
I had come back here for a reason.
I didn’t know what it was.
But something did.
The laughter stopped.
And I knew, without looking—
It was standing right behind me.
I didn’t want to turn around.
I knew it was there. I felt it. Close enough that if I moved too slowly, if I hesitated for even a second, it could reach out and—
No.
I couldn’t think about that.
The window was in front of me. Still standing in the clearing. Still impossible.
The scene inside hadn’t changed.
My bedroom. Exactly as I had left it.
Except for one thing.
The figure in my bed was sitting up now.
I could see its head tilt toward me. A shadowy blur, just out of focus.
I didn’t have time to think.
I ran straight for it.
My body slammed into the frame, and for a brief, impossible second, I thought I’d just crash through it. Fall forward into nothing. But instead—
The world snapped.
A cold rush of air sucked the breath from my lungs, like I was being pulled through a vacuum. My ears popped, and everything went silent. My vision fractured, like looking through broken glass—flashes of movement, color, but nothing that made sense.
Then—
I hit the floor.
Hard.
My limbs tangled beneath me, and I gasped as the air punched from my chest. The world spun. My head throbbed. The silence stretched out, thick and unnatural, pressing in from every direction.
I forced myself to sit up, blinking against the disorientation.
And then I saw it.
I was home.
Or—
It looked like home.
I was sitting on my bedroom floor, facing the bed. The sheets were rumpled, just like they had been when I left. My phone was still on the nightstand, its screen dark. The window in the wall showed the same quiet neighborhood street.
For a second, I almost believed it.
Then my eyes landed on the door.
It was wrong.
Slightly too tall. The edges too sharp.
And the shadows beneath it—
They moved.
A slow, pulsing shift, as if something on the other side was breathing.
I pushed myself to my feet. My hands were shaking. I didn’t know what I had expected, but I knew this wasn’t right.
I turned back to the window, hoping—praying—that I could step through it again.
But it was gone.
Just a blank wall.
Like it had never been there at all.
A soft creak behind me.
I spun around, heart slamming against my ribs.
The door had opened.
Not all the way. Just enough to show the darkened hallway beyond.
And in that hallway, something stood waiting.
Not moving. Not breathing.
Just watching.
I swallowed hard. My throat was dry, my pulse hammering in my ears.
I wasn’t in my house.
Not anymore.
And whatever was in here with me—
It knew.
I didn’t move.
Neither did it.
The figure in the hallway was just standing there, its shape obscured by shadows. Too tall. Too still.
Then—
It tilted its head.
A slow, deliberate motion. Not human. Not natural. Like it was trying to understand me.
Something deep inside me screamed to run. But I didn’t.
Because behind me, from the wall where the window should have been, a voice whispered—
“Don’t.”
I stiffened. My breath caught in my throat.
It was my voice.
I turned my head slightly, just enough to see the mirror hanging on the far wall.
Except—
It wasn’t just a reflection.
I was standing in it.
My reflection was looking at me—but its lips were moving on their own.
“Don’t run. It wants you to.”
The thing in the hallway took a step forward.
I flinched. My reflection didn’t.
“It plays by rules.” The whisper came again. “Play back.”
Rules.
I swallowed hard, my mind racing.
Everything here was wrong, but it had structure. The window had worked like a portal. The door had opened when I acknowledged it. And this… thing… was waiting for me to react.
Like a game.
I looked at my reflection, meeting my own eyes. “What do I do?” I mouthed.
The other me smiled.
Not a reassuring smile. Not comforting.
It was a grin full of knowing.
“Use the board.”
I frowned. The board?
I glanced back at the room. My room. Everything was identical to how I’d left it. My bed, my phone, my desk—
Then I saw it.
My chessboard.
It was set up on my desk, mid-game. The last match I’d played against myself. White’s move.
I didn’t have time to question it.
I walked toward it slowly, forcing my breathing to stay even. Behind me, I could hear the thing in the hallway shifting, its movements slow, patient.
Waiting.
I reached the desk and studied the board. My last move had left my queen exposed. If I was playing against myself, I’d take it with a knight.
I lifted the black knight and moved it.
As soon as I let go, the door slammed shut.
A gust of air rattled through the room, making the walls tremble.
I turned back toward the mirror. My reflection was nodding.
“Good.”
The ground beneath me shuddered. The walls stretched, as if the entire room was breathing. The air grew thick, heavy, pressing in on me.
Another piece had moved on the board. Not by me.
Black pawn, two spaces forward.
My turn again.
A sick realization settled in my stomach.
I wasn’t playing alone.
I turned toward the door.
The thing in the hallway—whatever it was—was still there. Except now… it was smiling too.
I exhaled slowly and faced the board again.
If this was a game—
I had to win.
I didn’t look up from the board. I didn’t dare.
Whatever was in the hallway wanted me to react, and I wasn’t going to give it the satisfaction.
I studied the pieces, my hands clammy as I reached for my next move.
Pawn to e4.
I let go.
The second I did, the entire room lurched sideways, like the floor itself had tipped.
I staggered, barely keeping my balance as my stomach twisted from the shift. My desk dragged itself a few inches closer to the mirror. The air pulsed like a heartbeat, thick and suffocating.
Behind me, I could hear the thing move. Its footsteps didn’t match the floor. Like it wasn’t walking on wood, but something else entirely. Something wet. Something alive.
I clenched my jaw and looked at the board.
The next move had already been made.
A knight, creeping closer to my king.
I swallowed.
It was testing me.
I slid my fingers over a bishop, considering my options. If I took the knight, I’d expose my queen. If I moved my queen, I’d leave my king vulnerable.
Every move had a consequence.
I glanced at the mirror. My reflection was still watching, but its expression had changed.
No more grin. No amusement.
It looked worried.
That made two of us.
I shifted my bishop forward, threatening the knight. As soon as I let go, the room shuddered again.
The door to the hallway slowly creaked back open.
And the thing in the shadows stepped inside.
I gripped the edge of my desk so hard my knuckles turned white.
It was closer now. I still couldn’t see its face—if it even had one—but its shape was wrong. Its limbs were too long, its spine curved unnaturally. And worst of all, I could hear it breathing.
Deep, wet gasps. Like it was trying to taste the air.
I forced my eyes back to the board.
The game wasn’t over. I could still win.
The pieces rattled. Another had moved—on its own.
The knight was now right next to my king.
I was running out of time.
My reflection in the mirror shook its head.
Wrong move.
A chill crawled up my spine.
I turned back to the board, my heartbeat pounding in my ears.
I had to think. Had to be smart.
If this was a game, there was always a way out.
I looked at my pieces. Then I looked at my opponent’s.
And finally, I realized—
I wasn’t playing to win.
I was playing to survive.
The rules had been clear from the start. Every move I made changed the room. Changed what was coming for me.
But if I didn’t move—if I refused to play—
What happened then?
The thing in the room took another step closer.
I clenched my fists.
Then, for the first time since the game started—
I did nothing.
And the room went silent.
The silence pressed in on me, thick and absolute.
I didn’t move.
The thing in the room didn’t either.
The only sound was my own heartbeat, hammering inside my chest like it was trying to escape.
I kept my hands in my lap, fingers curled so tight they ached. My eyes flicked to the board.
No new moves.
The pieces remained frozen where they were. The knight still loomed over my king. A checkmate waiting to happen.
But it hadn’t happened yet.
The thing in the room shifted. I could hear it, the slow creak of weight pressing into the floor. The wet, dragging breaths—just behind me now. Close enough that I could feel the air change. Feel the cold creeping over my skin.
I kept my eyes down.
If I reacted, I’d lose.
My reflection in the mirror still watched, but something had changed. It wasn’t mirroring me anymore. It was moving on its own.
It raised its hand and tapped a finger against its temple.
Think.
I swallowed.
Then, slowly, I leaned forward and stared at the board.
There had to be something I was missing.
The game was still going. The thing in the room was still waiting.
Waiting for me to make the next move.
I studied the pieces. My opponent’s side.
And then—I saw it.
The one piece I hadn’t been paying attention to.
The king.
Not my king.
Theirs.
I inhaled sharply.
This wasn’t about survival. It never had been.
It was about winning.
And there was only one way to do that.
I reached out, slow and steady.
The thing in the room lurched forward.
I ignored it.
My fingers closed around my queen. I moved her.
The second I let go—
Checkmate.
The room convulsed.
A sound ripped through the air—something high-pitched and wrong, like metal scraping against bone. The walls blurred, folding in on themselves like paper. My desk split in half, the mirror cracked—
And the thing in the room—
It screamed.
Not a sound of pain.
A sound of rage.
I squeezed my eyes shut, gripping the edge of the table as the world collapsed around me.
And then—
Silence.
A different kind this time. Not heavy, not pressing.
Just... empty.
I opened my eyes.
The board was gone.
The room was normal again.
And I was alone.
At least, that’s what I thought.
Until I saw the mirror.
The reflection inside it?
It was still playing the game.
And this time—
It wasn’t me sitting in the chair.
My boots crunched over damp leaves as I followed the winding trail deeper into the woods. The air smelled of moss and earth, thick with the scent of rain that had passed through earlier in the day. I was supposed to stick to the main path, but curiosity had gotten the better of me.
I had hiked these woods before, but I had never seen this clearing.
The trees parted around it, their skeletal branches curling inward like fingers. The grass was overgrown, patches of wildflowers dotting the landscape. But none of that mattered—because in the very center of the clearing stood a window.
Just a frame. No glass.
It was tall and weathered, the paint long stripped away by time. It looked like it had been ripped from an old house and placed here, upright, with no walls to support it.
My stomach twisted. Something about it felt… wrong.
I stepped closer.
From this side, I saw only the forest beyond. Trees stretched toward the sky, the same as before. But when I moved—just slightly—so that I was directly in front of it…
I stopped breathing.
Through the empty frame, I saw my bedroom.
Not just a bedroom that looked like mine. My bedroom.
The familiar bookshelf stood against the far wall, overflowing with half-read novels and trinkets. My desk, cluttered with notes and empty coffee cups, sat beside it. The curtains were drawn, the dim glow of my bedside lamp casting long shadows over the walls.
And there, lying in bed, was me.
I stumbled back, my heartbeat slamming against my ribs. My mind scrambled for a rational explanation, but nothing made sense. I wasn’t dreaming—I could feel the cool air on my skin, the dampness from the earlier rain still clinging to my jacket.
I took another step forward, peering through the frame again. The scene hadn’t changed.
The figure—I—was still there, curled under the covers. My chest rose and fell with steady breaths, my head turned slightly toward the window. But then, as I watched…
I opened my eyes.
Not the me standing here.
The me in the bed.
I stared at myself, and myself stared back.
The figure in the bed didn’t move. Just lay there, eyes wide, locked onto mine through the window in the forest.
A chill ran down my spine.
I raised a shaking hand.
The me in the window raised one, too.
I turned my head slightly.
So did they.
I was about to step back—to run—when something changed.
The figure’s lips parted. A slow, stretching smile spread across its face. Too wide.
Then, ever so slightly, it shook its head.
I gasped and stumbled backward. My foot caught on a root, and I hit the ground hard, my hands scraping against damp earth. The moment I was out of view, the connection broke. I couldn’t see the bedroom anymore—just trees, rustling slightly in the wind.
My breath came in ragged bursts.
I pushed myself up and bolted, not stopping to look back.
But as I ran, a new, horrifying thought crept in:
What if, when I got home, I wasn’t the one waiting there?
I ran.
Branches whipped at my arms as I pushed through the undergrowth, feet slipping on the damp earth. My heartbeat pounded in my ears, my breath ragged. The forest felt darker now, the trees pressing in, shadows stretching longer than they should.
I kept expecting to hear footsteps behind me, but the woods were silent. Too silent. No wind. No birds. Just my own panicked breathing.
I didn’t stop until I reached my car.
It sat where I had left it, parked at the end of the trail, half-hidden by the overgrown brush. My hands shook as I yanked open the door and threw myself inside, slamming it shut behind me.
For a moment, I just sat there, gripping the steering wheel so tightly my knuckles turned white. My mind raced, trying to make sense of what I had seen.
It wasn’t possible.
It had to be some kind of trick.
Maybe I had inhaled something weird in the woods. Maybe there was some logical explanation—an optical illusion, a hallucination, anything other than what my gut was telling me.
That I had just seen myself.
And that it—whatever it was—had seen me too.
I forced a deep breath and turned the key. The engine rumbled to life, breaking the awful silence. My headlights flicked on, illuminating the trees ahead, casting long, skeletal shadows across the dirt path.
I didn’t look back.
The drive home was a blur.
I kept checking my rearview mirror, expecting to see something on the road behind me. A shape in the distance. A figure standing in the middle of the street.
But there was nothing. Just the empty highway stretching out behind me, the headlights cutting through the darkness.
By the time I pulled into my driveway, my nerves were raw.
My house looked the same as always—porch light glowing softly, curtains drawn over the windows. Familiar. Safe.
But the moment I stepped out of the car, I hesitated.
What if I was already inside?
The thought sent a shudder through me. It was irrational. Impossible. I had just imagined it.
Right?
I swallowed hard and walked up to the front door. My hands were clammy as I unlocked it and pushed it open.
The house was quiet.
I stepped inside, locking the door behind me. My ears strained for any sound, any sign that someone—or something—was here. But all I could hear was the soft hum of the refrigerator in the kitchen, the distant ticking of the clock in the hallway.
I let out a slow breath.
Everything was fine.
Still, my skin prickled as I made my way down the hall. My bedroom door was closed. It hadn’t been when I left.
I stood there, staring at it. My pulse pounded in my throat.
What if I opened that door and saw myself lying in bed?
I reached for the handle.
Turned it.
Pushed the door open.
The room was empty.
The bed was neatly made, the curtains drawn, the dim glow of the bedside lamp casting soft shadows over the walls. Exactly how I had left it.
My breath shuddered out of me. I felt stupid now, standing there in my own bedroom, shaken over nothing.
I was exhausted. My mind was playing tricks on me.
I closed the door behind me and sat on the edge of the bed, rubbing my face with my hands. The image of that thing in the window was burned into my brain. That smile. The way it had shaken its head, like it knew something I didn’t.
I needed to sleep.
I crawled under the covers and reached for my phone on the nightstand. The screen lit up.
And then, every nerve in my body went cold.
Because there was a notification.
A photo.
A new AirDrop request from an unknown sender.
My breath hitched. My thumb trembled as I opened it.
And there, staring back at me, was a photo of my bedroom. Taken from the doorway.
I whipped my head toward the door.
It was still closed.
But I wasn’t alone.
I couldn’t move.
My fingers clenched around my phone, my breath coming in short, shallow bursts. The photo on the screen—it wasn’t possible. I had just walked into my room. The door had been closed. Locked.
But someone—or something—had been standing right there, taking a picture.
I forced myself to look up, my eyes locked on the bedroom door. It was still closed. The brass handle gleamed in the dim light, perfectly still.
No one was there.
At least, no one I could see.
I swallowed hard, my heart pounding so hard it hurt. My mind raced through explanations. A prank? But who? The woods were miles away from anything, and I had been alone all day.
A hacker? But how would they have taken that picture?
My hands shook as I tapped the screen, heart hammering as I checked the AirDrop sender.
Unknown.
Of course.
I tapped the photo, zooming in, searching for anything—a shadow, a reflection, something that would give me a clue. But it was just my room. Empty. Like the photo had been taken a second before I entered.
A cold sweat prickled down my spine.
I needed to check the house.
I slid out of bed slowly, my bare feet touching the floor without a sound. Every nerve in my body screamed at me to stay put, to pretend I never saw the photo.
But I couldn’t ignore it.
I crept to the door and pressed my ear against it. Silence. Not even the hum of the refrigerator now. Just a thick, unnatural stillness.
I turned the knob.
The door creaked open.
The hallway was empty, bathed in soft shadows from the nightlight in the wall. My living room was just beyond, the kitchen tucked to the right. The air felt wrong, like the house was holding its breath.
I stepped out.
Every instinct told me something was here, something unseen, watching.
The floor was cool under my feet as I padded down the hall, scanning every dark corner, every doorway. The front door was locked. The windows were shut. Nothing seemed out of place.
But then I noticed something.
The curtain in the living room.
When I had left earlier that day, it had been open, letting in the soft afternoon light. Now it was drawn.
I stared at it, dread pooling in my stomach.
I took a step forward.
Another.
I reached out, hesitating just before touching the fabric. A single breath of cold air brushed against my hand.
Then—the curtain twitched.
I stumbled back, heart slamming against my ribs.
For a moment, nothing happened. The curtain hung still. Just fabric. Just my imagination.
Then, slowly, the fabric parted.
And behind it—
There was nothing.
Not a wall. Not a window. Just a pitch-black void.
I choked on a breath, my legs locked in place.
That wasn’t my window.
It wasn’t anything.
Just an endless, empty dark.
Then, from that darkness, something moved.
I didn’t wait to see what it was.
I ran.
I tore down the hall, feet barely touching the floor, throwing myself into my bedroom and slamming the door behind me.
My hands fumbled for the lock. Click.
I backed away, panting. My phone was still clutched in my hand, the screen glowing in the dim light. The photo was still open.
But now, there was a second picture.
My stomach turned to ice.
I didn’t AirDrop this.
I didn’t take this.
But there it was. A new photo, taken from the same doorway.
Except now, I was in the bed.
And standing over me—
Was a shadow.
Not a person. Not a shape I could define. Just wrongness. A smudge of black, featureless, leaning over my sleeping body.
The air in my lungs turned to stone.
My gaze darted to the bed.
It was empty. Untouched.
I looked back at the photo.
And this time—
The shadow’s head had turned.
It was looking at me.
I couldn’t breathe.
I wanted to scream, to move, to do something, but all I could do was stare at the photo.
At it.
That shadowy figure, that formless, wrong thing was no longer just standing over my sleeping body. It was facing me.
My fingers felt numb as I lowered the phone, forcing myself to look at my room.
The bed was still empty. The doorway was clear.
There was nothing there.
But that didn’t mean I was alone.
I swallowed hard, my throat dry, my ears straining for any sound. The house was silent. Not the normal, peaceful quiet of the night.
This silence felt heavy. Suffocating. Like something was waiting.
I needed to get out.
I turned, grabbing my bag from the chair. My car keys were inside. I just needed to make it to the front door, get in the car, and drive. Anywhere.
I reached for the doorknob.
The second my fingers touched it—
A sound.
Soft.
A creak.
Like weight shifting on the floor behind me.
I froze.
The bed was empty. I had checked. I knew it was empty.
But something was there now.
I turned my head just enough to glance at my phone’s screen.
The photo had changed again.
The shadow wasn’t over my bed anymore.
It was standing right behind me.
I spun around—
Nothing.
But my mirror—
The mirror on the far wall, the one across from my bed—
It wasn’t empty.
I was there. Standing. Staring.
But I wasn’t alone.
A shape loomed behind me.
Not quite touching.
Not quite human.
Just a mass of blackness, shifting, twisting, watching.
I barely had time to think before the lights flickered.
Then went out.
The darkness swallowed me whole.
I gasped, my heart hammering so hard I could feel it in my throat. My phone—the only light left—flickered too, the screen distorting, static warping the image.
I could still see my reflection.
And the thing behind me.
It was closer now.
So close that if it had a mouth, it could whisper in my ear.
I couldn’t breathe.
I squeezed my eyes shut, my fingers curling so tightly around my phone it hurt.
This isn’t real.
It couldn’t be.
I had to move.
I forced myself to take a step back, reaching for the wall, for the door, for anything solid.
My fingers found the handle.
I turned it.
The door wouldn’t open.
Something pressed against my back.
Not a hand. Not a body. Just pressure. Like the air itself had thickened, molding around me, holding me in place.
My reflection twitched.
My reflection smiled.
My reflection wasn’t me anymore.
The lights flickered back on.
And I was alone.
The pressure was gone. The room was silent again.
My legs nearly gave out as I stumbled away from the mirror, shoving my phone into my pocket, trying to catch my breath.
I had to go.
I didn’t care if the door was locked. I would break a window, run barefoot into the woods if I had to.
But when I turned back to the door—
It was open.
Just a crack.
And from the dark hallway beyond, something laughed.
A dry, rasping, inhuman sound.
I didn’t move.
Didn’t blink.
Didn’t breathe.
Then—
The door creaked open.
And I saw it.
Not a shadow this time. Not a reflection.
Something real.
Something that had been waiting.
And it was smiling at me.
I ran.
I didn’t think. Didn’t look back.
I ran.
The hallway stretched ahead of me, warped by shadows that flickered in the dim light. The walls felt too close, the air too thick. The thing behind me—whatever it was—was still there. Watching. Waiting.
But it wasn’t stopping me.
That was worse.
I didn’t care where I was going, just that I had to get out. Out of the house. Out of the town. Away from whatever had stepped through that window in the woods.
My hand slammed against the front door.
Unlocked.
I didn’t hesitate.
The night air hit me like a shock of cold water, but I didn’t stop. My car was pointless—keys still in my bag, bag still upstairs, and I wasn’t about to go back.
The only place left to go was the one place I never should have been in the first place.
The woods.
I sprinted across the yard, my lungs burning, my legs screaming. I didn’t care. The trees loomed ahead, dark and endless, swallowing the last bits of moonlight. My chest tightened at the thought of stepping back into them.
But I had no choice.
Because something was behind me.
I heard it. A slow, dragging step. Not running. Not chasing.
Because it didn’t have to.
I hit the treeline at full speed, branches clawing at my arms, twigs snapping beneath my feet. The deeper I went, the quieter the world became.
Like it was holding its breath.
I didn’t know where I was going. My phone was still in my pocket, but I wasn’t about to slow down and check the time. Or the messages. Or the camera.
Not after what I had seen.
The clearing.
That was the only answer.
I had to find it again.
I pushed forward, lungs burning, feet aching, my mind screaming at me to turn back—but there was nothing to turn back to.
The laughter followed me.
That dry, rasping sound. Closer now.
I bit down on a whimper, refusing to look back. I wasn’t fast enough. It was always right there.
A root caught my foot.
I hit the ground hard.
Pain shot up my arms, my palms scraping against rock and dirt. I gasped, trying to push myself up—
And then I saw it.
Ahead, in the distance.
The window.
Still standing in the clearing. Still wrong.
Still showing something I knew wasn’t real.
I scrambled to my feet, ignoring the way my body ached, the way my breath came in sharp, uneven gasps.
I had come back here for a reason.
I didn’t know what it was.
But something did.
The laughter stopped.
And I knew, without looking—
It was standing right behind me.
I didn’t want to turn around.
I knew it was there. I felt it. Close enough that if I moved too slowly, if I hesitated for even a second, it could reach out and—
No.
I couldn’t think about that.
The window was in front of me. Still standing in the clearing. Still impossible.
The scene inside hadn’t changed.
My bedroom. Exactly as I had left it.
Except for one thing.
The figure in my bed was sitting up now.
I could see its head tilt toward me. A shadowy blur, just out of focus.
I didn’t have time to think.
I ran straight for it.
My body slammed into the frame, and for a brief, impossible second, I thought I’d just crash through it. Fall forward into nothing. But instead—
The world snapped.
A cold rush of air sucked the breath from my lungs, like I was being pulled through a vacuum. My ears popped, and everything went silent. My vision fractured, like looking through broken glass—flashes of movement, color, but nothing that made sense.
Then—
I hit the floor.
Hard.
My limbs tangled beneath me, and I gasped as the air punched from my chest. The world spun. My head throbbed. The silence stretched out, thick and unnatural, pressing in from every direction.
I forced myself to sit up, blinking against the disorientation.
And then I saw it.
I was home.
Or—
It looked like home.
I was sitting on my bedroom floor, facing the bed. The sheets were rumpled, just like they had been when I left. My phone was still on the nightstand, its screen dark. The window in the wall showed the same quiet neighborhood street.
For a second, I almost believed it.
Then my eyes landed on the door.
It was wrong.
Slightly too tall. The edges too sharp.
And the shadows beneath it—
They moved.
A slow, pulsing shift, as if something on the other side was breathing.
I pushed myself to my feet. My hands were shaking. I didn’t know what I had expected, but I knew this wasn’t right.
I turned back to the window, hoping—praying—that I could step through it again.
But it was gone.
Just a blank wall.
Like it had never been there at all.
A soft creak behind me.
I spun around, heart slamming against my ribs.
The door had opened.
Not all the way. Just enough to show the darkened hallway beyond.
And in that hallway, something stood waiting.
Not moving. Not breathing.
Just watching.
I swallowed hard. My throat was dry, my pulse hammering in my ears.
I wasn’t in my house.
Not anymore.
And whatever was in here with me—
It knew.
I didn’t move.
Neither did it.
The figure in the hallway was just standing there, its shape obscured by shadows. Too tall. Too still.
Then—
It tilted its head.
A slow, deliberate motion. Not human. Not natural. Like it was trying to understand me.
Something deep inside me screamed to run. But I didn’t.
Because behind me, from the wall where the window should have been, a voice whispered—
“Don’t.”
I stiffened. My breath caught in my throat.
It was my voice.
I turned my head slightly, just enough to see the mirror hanging on the far wall.
Except—
It wasn’t just a reflection.
I was standing in it.
My reflection was looking at me—but its lips were moving on their own.
“Don’t run. It wants you to.”
The thing in the hallway took a step forward.
I flinched. My reflection didn’t.
“It plays by rules.” The whisper came again. “Play back.”
Rules.
I swallowed hard, my mind racing.
Everything here was wrong, but it had structure. The window had worked like a portal. The door had opened when I acknowledged it. And this… thing… was waiting for me to react.
Like a game.
I looked at my reflection, meeting my own eyes. “What do I do?” I mouthed.
The other me smiled.
Not a reassuring smile. Not comforting.
It was a grin full of knowing.
“Use the board.”
I frowned. The board?
I glanced back at the room. My room. Everything was identical to how I’d left it. My bed, my phone, my desk—
Then I saw it.
My chessboard.
It was set up on my desk, mid-game. The last match I’d played against myself. White’s move.
I didn’t have time to question it.
I walked toward it slowly, forcing my breathing to stay even. Behind me, I could hear the thing in the hallway shifting, its movements slow, patient.
Waiting.
I reached the desk and studied the board. My last move had left my queen exposed. If I was playing against myself, I’d take it with a knight.
I lifted the black knight and moved it.
As soon as I let go, the door slammed shut.
A gust of air rattled through the room, making the walls tremble.
I turned back toward the mirror. My reflection was nodding.
“Good.”
The ground beneath me shuddered. The walls stretched, as if the entire room was breathing. The air grew thick, heavy, pressing in on me.
Another piece had moved on the board. Not by me.
Black pawn, two spaces forward.
My turn again.
A sick realization settled in my stomach.
I wasn’t playing alone.
I turned toward the door.
The thing in the hallway—whatever it was—was still there. Except now… it was smiling too.
I exhaled slowly and faced the board again.
If this was a game—
I had to win.
I didn’t look up from the board. I didn’t dare.
Whatever was in the hallway wanted me to react, and I wasn’t going to give it the satisfaction.
I studied the pieces, my hands clammy as I reached for my next move.
Pawn to e4.
I let go.
The second I did, the entire room lurched sideways, like the floor itself had tipped.
I staggered, barely keeping my balance as my stomach twisted from the shift. My desk dragged itself a few inches closer to the mirror. The air pulsed like a heartbeat, thick and suffocating.
Behind me, I could hear the thing move. Its footsteps didn’t match the floor. Like it wasn’t walking on wood, but something else entirely. Something wet. Something alive.
I clenched my jaw and looked at the board.
The next move had already been made.
A knight, creeping closer to my king.
I swallowed.
It was testing me.
I slid my fingers over a bishop, considering my options. If I took the knight, I’d expose my queen. If I moved my queen, I’d leave my king vulnerable.
Every move had a consequence.
I glanced at the mirror. My reflection was still watching, but its expression had changed.
No more grin. No amusement.
It looked worried.
That made two of us.
I shifted my bishop forward, threatening the knight. As soon as I let go, the room shuddered again.
The door to the hallway slowly creaked back open.
And the thing in the shadows stepped inside.
I gripped the edge of my desk so hard my knuckles turned white.
It was closer now. I still couldn’t see its face—if it even had one—but its shape was wrong. Its limbs were too long, its spine curved unnaturally. And worst of all, I could hear it breathing.
Deep, wet gasps. Like it was trying to taste the air.
I forced my eyes back to the board.
The game wasn’t over. I could still win.
The pieces rattled. Another had moved—on its own.
The knight was now right next to my king.
I was running out of time.
My reflection in the mirror shook its head.
Wrong move.
A chill crawled up my spine.
I turned back to the board, my heartbeat pounding in my ears.
I had to think. Had to be smart.
If this was a game, there was always a way out.
I looked at my pieces. Then I looked at my opponent’s.
And finally, I realized—
I wasn’t playing to win.
I was playing to survive.
The rules had been clear from the start. Every move I made changed the room. Changed what was coming for me.
But if I didn’t move—if I refused to play—
What happened then?
The thing in the room took another step closer.
I clenched my fists.
Then, for the first time since the game started—
I did nothing.
And the room went silent.
The silence pressed in on me, thick and absolute.
I didn’t move.
The thing in the room didn’t either.
The only sound was my own heartbeat, hammering inside my chest like it was trying to escape.
I kept my hands in my lap, fingers curled so tight they ached. My eyes flicked to the board.
No new moves.
The pieces remained frozen where they were. The knight still loomed over my king. A checkmate waiting to happen.
But it hadn’t happened yet.
The thing in the room shifted. I could hear it, the slow creak of weight pressing into the floor. The wet, dragging breaths—just behind me now. Close enough that I could feel the air change. Feel the cold creeping over my skin.
I kept my eyes down.
If I reacted, I’d lose.
My reflection in the mirror still watched, but something had changed. It wasn’t mirroring me anymore. It was moving on its own.
It raised its hand and tapped a finger against its temple.
Think.
I swallowed.
Then, slowly, I leaned forward and stared at the board.
There had to be something I was missing.
The game was still going. The thing in the room was still waiting.
Waiting for me to make the next move.
I studied the pieces. My opponent’s side.
And then—I saw it.
The one piece I hadn’t been paying attention to.
The king.
Not my king.
Theirs.
I inhaled sharply.
This wasn’t about survival. It never had been.
It was about winning.
And there was only one way to do that.
I reached out, slow and steady.
The thing in the room lurched forward.
I ignored it.
My fingers closed around my queen. I moved her.
The second I let go—
Checkmate.
The room convulsed.
A sound ripped through the air—something high-pitched and wrong, like metal scraping against bone. The walls blurred, folding in on themselves like paper. My desk split in half, the mirror cracked—
And the thing in the room—
It screamed.
Not a sound of pain.
A sound of rage.
I squeezed my eyes shut, gripping the edge of the table as the world collapsed around me.
And then—
Silence.
A different kind this time. Not heavy, not pressing.
Just... empty.
I opened my eyes.
The board was gone.
The room was normal again.
And I was alone.
At least, that’s what I thought.
Until I saw the mirror.
The reflection inside it?
It was still playing the game.
And this time—
It wasn’t me sitting in the chair.
The Late Night Text
The Late Night Text
I was about to go to bed when my phone buzzed.
A text from Olivia.
“Hey, can you come over?”
I frowned. Olivia was out of town. I knew that for a fact because I had dropped her off at the airport two days ago. We even joked about how her flight would probably be delayed, but she texted me when she landed. She was with her parents. Three states away.
I typed back: “Aren’t you in Chicago?”
Three dots appeared. Then they vanished.
A few seconds later, another message came through.
“I’m waiting for you inside.”
I felt my body go cold.
I stared at the screen, my fingers tightening around my phone. Maybe she left a key with someone. Maybe she came home early and forgot to tell me.
But then why did that message feel wrong?
I hesitated before replying. “Who is this?”
No answer.
The room around me suddenly felt too quiet, like the air itself was listening.
I stood up, grabbed my keys, and left.
The drive to Olivia’s apartment was a blur. The streets were nearly empty, just the occasional car passing by, headlights flashing like warnings. My mind raced through possibilities. A prank? A break-in?
Or something worse?
When I pulled up to her building, everything looked normal. Too normal. Her window was dark. The parking lot empty.
I climbed the stairs, every step echoing in the silence. When I reached her door, I hesitated.
Then, I knocked.
The sound barely carried down the hallway.
No answer.
I knocked again, harder this time. “Olivia?”
Nothing.
I tried the handle, expecting it to be locked.
It wasn’t.
The door swung open with a slow, aching creak.
The apartment was dark. Stale. Like no one had been inside for days.
I stepped in, my pulse hammering against my ribs. “Hello?”
Silence.
Then—
A soft creak from the bedroom.
I froze.
Something shifted in the darkness beyond the hallway. A floorboard settling. A breath.
I reached for the light switch and flicked it on. The living room looked exactly as Olivia had left it. A blanket draped over the couch. A half-full glass of water on the coffee table. A pile of unopened mail near the door.
But the air felt wrong. Thick. Heavy.
Like I wasn’t alone.
Another creak. The bedroom door was cracked open just an inch, a sliver of darkness pressing against the dim hallway light.
My feet moved before I could think. I reached for the doorknob.
Then—
My phone buzzed.
The sound made me jump. I fumbled to pull it out of my pocket, my fingers numb.
A new message.
From Olivia.
“Don’t go inside.”
My stomach dropped. My mouth went dry.
I wasn’t breathing. I wasn’t moving.
But I felt it.
A presence.
Right behind me.
And then—
The bedroom door creaked open wider.
I nearly dropped my phone. My heart was hammering so hard I could hear it in my ears.
The bedroom door creaked open wider, the darkness inside shifting. I braced myself, body locked in place, every instinct screaming at me to run.
Then—
A familiar shape stepped out.
A dog.
Olivia’s golden retriever, Milo.
Relief hit me so fast I almost laughed. My legs went weak, and I leaned against the wall, exhaling sharply. “Jesus, Milo. You scared the hell out of me.”
Milo blinked up at me, tail wagging slightly, but something about him seemed… off. His fur was matted in places, like he hadn’t been brushed in days. His paws left faint smudges on the hardwood, tracks of something I couldn’t quite make out. His eyes, usually warm and full of life, seemed darker. Duller.
“How’d you get out?” I muttered, kneeling to scratch behind his ears. He felt cold. Too cold.
I glanced around the apartment again. Everything looked the same, but that feeling—like something was watching me—hadn’t faded. If anything, it had settled deeper, like it had wrapped itself around the walls.
Milo whined softly, pressing his nose against my leg.
I looked down at him. “Where’s your leash?”
He just stared at me.
The air in the apartment was too still, like the whole place was holding its breath. I swallowed, shaking off the lingering unease. Maybe Olivia’s text was just a bad joke. Maybe she had asked someone to check on Milo, and they forgot to lock up.
Still, something gnawed at me.
I pulled out my phone, rereading the message:
“Don’t go inside.”
I hesitated, then typed back: “Very funny. Milo just scared me half to death.”
Three dots appeared. Then they vanished.
I frowned. Olivia always texted fast.
Milo let out a soft whimper. His ears flattened, eyes flicking toward the bedroom.
I followed his gaze. The door was still open, revealing nothing but thick, suffocating darkness inside.
I hadn’t turned the bedroom light off.
Had I?
Milo took a step back, pressing against my leg.
The air suddenly felt colder.
I swallowed hard and forced out a laugh. “Alright, bud. Let’s get you outside.”
I grabbed his leash from the hook by the door, clipping it onto his collar with shaking hands. The second I opened the front door, Milo bolted, nearly yanking me off my feet.
I barely managed to keep hold of the leash as he dragged me down the hallway, his nails clicking frantically against the tile. His whole body trembled like he couldn’t get away fast enough.
I didn’t look back.
I locked the apartment behind me and followed Milo down the stairs, that last message from Olivia burning in my mind.
If Milo was inside… who opened the bedroom door?
Milo didn’t stop pulling until we were outside, paws scuffing against the pavement as he dragged me toward the nearest patch of grass. He was shaking, ears flattened, tail tucked so tightly between his legs that it barely moved.
I knelt beside him, running my hands over his fur. His breathing was fast, his chest rising and falling in sharp, panicked bursts.
“It’s okay, buddy,” I murmured, though I wasn’t sure if I believed it. “You’re alright.”
He didn’t look up. He just stared at the apartment building, eyes locked on my window.
I followed his gaze.
The bedroom light was back on.
I sucked in a breath, pulse hammering in my throat. I hadn’t touched the switch before leaving. Hadn’t even stepped inside the room.
Slowly, I reached for my phone.
“Olivia. This isn’t funny. Is someone in your apartment?”
The message delivered instantly. No typing bubble appeared.
Milo let out a low whimper, pressing against my leg. I felt his whole body tense as if he was waiting for something.
I swallowed hard and looked back up at the window.
The light flickered.
Once.
Then, again.
Like someone was standing inside. Moving.
My stomach twisted.
“Olivia, answer me.”
Three dots appeared. My fingers clenched around the phone.
Then the reply came.
“Who’s with you?”
The words sent a sharp chill through me. I looked around, my breath fogging in the night air.
I was alone.
I stared at the message, confusion twisting into something colder.
“What are you talking about?”
Nothing. No response.
The window light flickered once more. Then it went out.
The apartment was dark again.
Milo let out a low growl.
Something about the night felt heavier, like the air had thickened, pressing in around me. I gripped his leash tighter, my free hand curling into a fist to stop the tremor in my fingers.
I needed to leave. I needed to turn around and walk away, call Olivia, and tell her to get her locks changed the second she got home.
But I couldn’t stop staring at that window.
Because the longer I looked… the more I was sure—
Someone was still standing there. Watching.
Waiting.
Milo’s growl deepened, a low, rumbling warning that sent another chill up my spine. I wanted to look away from the window, to convince myself I was imagining things, but I couldn’t.
There was a shape in the darkness.
Not a reflection, not a shadow—something was standing inside Olivia’s apartment. It wasn’t moving, but I could feel it watching me.
I took a step back. Milo let out a sharp bark, yanking against the leash. The noise echoed down the quiet street, but nothing inside the apartment changed. The figure didn’t shift. Didn’t flinch. It just stood there.
My phone buzzed in my hand.
“Get out of there.”
I barely had time to process the message before the light in her apartment flickered back on.
And the figure was gone.
My breath caught in my throat. My legs felt locked in place, every muscle screaming at me to move. I forced myself to look around—at the street, at the other buildings, at the empty parking lot. Everything else was completely normal.
Then my phone buzzed again.
“I’m serious. Don’t go back inside.”
I swallowed hard and typed with shaky fingers.
“Who is in your apartment?”
The reply came instantly.
“It’s not my apartment.”
The cold inside my chest spread like ice water through my veins.
Not hers? I stared at the screen, rereading the words over and over. My pulse hammered in my ears, drowning out everything else.
I turned to Milo, who was still tense, ears pinned back. His body trembled under my hand. He was scared. More scared than I’d ever seen him.
That should have been enough.
That should have sent me running.
But instead, I found myself stepping forward, gripping my keys so tightly they bit into my palm.
I needed to know.
I needed to see.
Because if that wasn’t Olivia’s apartment…
Then whose was it?
And why did it know my name?
My feet felt heavy as I stepped toward the apartment door. Every instinct screamed at me to turn around, to listen to Olivia, to listen to Milo—who was now whining, pulling at his leash in the opposite direction.
But I couldn’t leave. Not yet.
I reached out, my fingers grazing the doorknob. Cold. Too cold. Like it had been sitting in ice. My stomach twisted, but I forced myself to turn it. The door swung open with a slow creak.
The apartment was exactly as I had left it.
Lights on. Couch slightly askew. The kitchen counter still had my half-drunk coffee from earlier. Nothing out of place.
But it felt wrong.
The air was thick, heavy, pressing down on me like a weight. And it smelled different—stale, like the air hadn’t moved in years. My own apartment had never smelled like this.
Milo refused to come inside. He planted his paws firmly at the threshold, leash stretched tight, eyes locked on something I couldn’t see.
I swallowed. “Milo, come on.”
He whined again, taking a step back.
I sighed, unhooking his leash. “Fine. Stay out here.”
He didn’t hesitate. He bolted down the hallway, tail tucked.
I stared after him, unease curling in my chest. Milo had never run from anything before.
The door shut behind me with a soft click.
The sound made my breath catch. I hadn’t touched it.
I turned slowly, heart hammering.
The living room was empty.
I forced myself to breathe, to move. My phone buzzed in my pocket, but I ignored it. Instead, I walked toward the hallway leading to my bedroom—step by step, my legs stiff, my body resisting.
I reached my door. It was slightly open. Had it been like that before?
I pushed it fully open.
My bed was made. My dresser untouched. The only thing out of place was my closet door.
It was open. Just a crack.
And something was breathing inside.
Shallow, raspy, like the air was being pulled through teeth.
I froze.
The sound didn’t stop.
Didn’t move.
Didn’t acknowledge me.
I reached for my phone, hands trembling, finally looking at the message Olivia had sent.
“Don’t go near the closet.”
I didn’t have time to react before the closet door creaked open another inch.
And something inside whispered, “I told you not to come back.”
The whisper curled through the air like smoke, seeping into my skin. My breath hitched, and I stepped back, my body screaming at me to run.
Then the closet door slammed open.
An icy gust shot through the room, knocking over a lamp and rattling the pictures on the wall. My phone slipped from my fingers, clattering to the floor. I tried to move, but something wrapped around my wrist—invisible, cold, crushing.
I choked on a scream.
The pressure tightened, yanking me forward with a force that sent me stumbling toward the closet. My knees hit the ground hard. The room blurred around me as the grip spread, clawing up my arm, pressing into my skin like fingers of ice.
I struggled, kicking, twisting—but there was nothing there. No hands. No body. Just a crushing, suffocating force that refused to let go.
Then, a voice—low, guttural, right against my ear.
"You let me in."
Pain lanced through my chest, cold and sharp, like something had reached inside me and gripped my ribs. My vision wavered. The walls around me flickered—my bedroom, then darkness, then something else. A rotting hallway. A place that wasn't here.
No, no, no—
I thrashed, but the force only pulled harder. My body inched closer to the gaping darkness of the closet. The air inside it wasn’t just dark—it was wrong. It had depth, like an open mouth waiting to swallow me whole.
I was being dragged in.
A guttural snarl ripped through the air.
Milo.
He shot into the room, teeth bared, his growl deep and primal. He lunged, snapping at whatever had me.
The force let go.
I gasped as I collapsed backward, my body trembling. The air shifted—the presence recoiling.
Milo barked, snapping at the darkness inside the closet. The second his teeth clicked shut, the closet door slammed shut on its own.
The room fell silent.
My hands were shaking as I crawled backward, gasping for breath. My wrist throbbed—when I looked down, dark bruises were already blooming, shaped like fingerprints.
Milo stood between me and the closet, still growling, his fur bristling.
I forced myself up, grabbed my phone, and ran.
I didn’t stop. Not when the lights flickered as I passed. Not when I heard something scraping against the walls. Not even when I felt the icy breath on the back of my neck as I reached the door.
I threw it open, nearly tripping over myself as I stumbled into the hallway.
Milo followed, and the door slammed shut behind us.
I stood there, panting, staring at the door. My apartment. My home.
And from inside, muffled but clear—
A whisper.
“This isn’t over.”
My hands were still shaking when I unlocked my phone. I barely registered the sweat slicking my fingers or the way my breath came in sharp, ragged gasps. All I knew was that I had to call for help.
I tapped 9-1-1.
The ringing felt like it stretched for hours before a voice finally clicked in.
"Nine-one-one, what’s your emergency?"
I swallowed hard. "Please, you have to send someone. There’s—there’s something in my apartment. It attacked me. It’s not human."
A pause. Then, in the most patronizing voice I’d ever heard:
"Ma’am, are you in immediate danger?"
I looked at my wrist. The bruises were deepening, spreading up my forearm like ink soaking into paper. I licked my lips. "Yes. I don’t know what it is, but it’s real. Please, just send someone!"
Another pause.
"Are you alone?"
I glanced down at Milo. His ears were still pinned back, his tail stiff. He hadn’t taken his eyes off the door.
"No," I said. "My dog is with me."
Another beat of silence. Then, with the kind of detached boredom that made my stomach drop, the dispatcher said, "Ma’am, have you been drinking or taking any substances tonight?"
My stomach twisted.
"No! I told you, something attacked me! I have bruises—"
"Have you been experiencing any stress recently? Lack of sleep? Have you had any prior—"
I hung up.
I knew that tone. The same one people use when they think you’re crazy.
Milo whined, pressing his head into my leg. My breath hitched, and I ran a hand through my hair, trying to keep from shaking apart.
They didn’t believe me.
No one would believe me.
Then the pounding on my door sent Milo into a frenzy. His barking was sharp, frantic, but I barely heard it over the ringing in my ears. The laughter from my phone had stopped the moment the first knock hit.
"Police!" a voice called. "Open up!"
I hesitated.
For days, I had begged for someone to believe me. But now that they were here, dread coiled in my stomach.
I forced myself to my feet and opened the door.
Two officers stood there—a man and a woman, both watching me with careful, unreadable expressions. Behind them, my neighbor, Mrs. Calloway, peered out from her doorway, clutching her robe closed.
"Ma’am, we received multiple calls about screaming from this unit," the male officer said. His name tag read Officer Reynolds. His partner, Officer Vega, stood with her arms crossed, scanning the apartment.
I swallowed.
"I—It wasn’t me," I said, but my voice cracked.
Vega’s gaze landed on my bruised arms.
"Are you hurt?" she asked.
I shook my head. "It’s not—It’s not what you think."
Reynolds sighed. "Ma’am, can we step inside?"
I hesitated. If they came in, they’d feel it. The way the air in my apartment was wrong. The way the shadows clung to the corners like they were waiting.
But I stepped aside.
Vega’s eyes flickered to my living room. The mess of papers, the empty coffee cups, the scattered printouts on hauntings, possessions—proof that I was deep in something I couldn’t escape.
"You been sleeping much?" Reynolds asked.
I clenched my jaw. "I—"
Vega’s radio crackled.
"10-96," the dispatcher’s voice said.
My stomach dropped. 10-96.
They weren’t here to help me.
They were here to take me in.
I took a step back, but Vega caught my arm. "Ma’am, we’re going to have you come with us for a quick evaluation, okay?"
"No." I pulled away. "You don’t understand. There’s something here. It’s real. It—"
Reynolds pulled out handcuffs. "Let’s not make this difficult."
Milo growled.
The room tilted.
Something shifted behind me. I felt the air grow heavy, the unseen presence curling around my neck like fingers ready to squeeze.
I tried one last time. "Please. You have to listen to me."
Reynolds just sighed. "Yeah. I’ve heard that one before."
The psych ward smelled like antiseptic and old air conditioning. The walls were white. Too white. Like a place built to scrub the mind clean.
They took my phone. My camera. My notes.
They gave me a gray jumpsuit and a stiff bed in a room with no sharp edges. The window didn’t open. The door had a small slot for food trays.
I sat on the bed, staring at my bruised arms, at the way the darkness still lingered under my skin like fingerprints.
Maybe they were right. Maybe I had lost it.
But then—
A creak.
The air shifted.
I turned slowly.
The chair in the corner moved an inch.
A whisper slid along the walls, curling into my ear.
"I told you. I see you."
I was about to go to bed when my phone buzzed.
A text from Olivia.
“Hey, can you come over?”
I frowned. Olivia was out of town. I knew that for a fact because I had dropped her off at the airport two days ago. We even joked about how her flight would probably be delayed, but she texted me when she landed. She was with her parents. Three states away.
I typed back: “Aren’t you in Chicago?”
Three dots appeared. Then they vanished.
A few seconds later, another message came through.
“I’m waiting for you inside.”
I felt my body go cold.
I stared at the screen, my fingers tightening around my phone. Maybe she left a key with someone. Maybe she came home early and forgot to tell me.
But then why did that message feel wrong?
I hesitated before replying. “Who is this?”
No answer.
The room around me suddenly felt too quiet, like the air itself was listening.
I stood up, grabbed my keys, and left.
The drive to Olivia’s apartment was a blur. The streets were nearly empty, just the occasional car passing by, headlights flashing like warnings. My mind raced through possibilities. A prank? A break-in?
Or something worse?
When I pulled up to her building, everything looked normal. Too normal. Her window was dark. The parking lot empty.
I climbed the stairs, every step echoing in the silence. When I reached her door, I hesitated.
Then, I knocked.
The sound barely carried down the hallway.
No answer.
I knocked again, harder this time. “Olivia?”
Nothing.
I tried the handle, expecting it to be locked.
It wasn’t.
The door swung open with a slow, aching creak.
The apartment was dark. Stale. Like no one had been inside for days.
I stepped in, my pulse hammering against my ribs. “Hello?”
Silence.
Then—
A soft creak from the bedroom.
I froze.
Something shifted in the darkness beyond the hallway. A floorboard settling. A breath.
I reached for the light switch and flicked it on. The living room looked exactly as Olivia had left it. A blanket draped over the couch. A half-full glass of water on the coffee table. A pile of unopened mail near the door.
But the air felt wrong. Thick. Heavy.
Like I wasn’t alone.
Another creak. The bedroom door was cracked open just an inch, a sliver of darkness pressing against the dim hallway light.
My feet moved before I could think. I reached for the doorknob.
Then—
My phone buzzed.
The sound made me jump. I fumbled to pull it out of my pocket, my fingers numb.
A new message.
From Olivia.
“Don’t go inside.”
My stomach dropped. My mouth went dry.
I wasn’t breathing. I wasn’t moving.
But I felt it.
A presence.
Right behind me.
And then—
The bedroom door creaked open wider.
I nearly dropped my phone. My heart was hammering so hard I could hear it in my ears.
The bedroom door creaked open wider, the darkness inside shifting. I braced myself, body locked in place, every instinct screaming at me to run.
Then—
A familiar shape stepped out.
A dog.
Olivia’s golden retriever, Milo.
Relief hit me so fast I almost laughed. My legs went weak, and I leaned against the wall, exhaling sharply. “Jesus, Milo. You scared the hell out of me.”
Milo blinked up at me, tail wagging slightly, but something about him seemed… off. His fur was matted in places, like he hadn’t been brushed in days. His paws left faint smudges on the hardwood, tracks of something I couldn’t quite make out. His eyes, usually warm and full of life, seemed darker. Duller.
“How’d you get out?” I muttered, kneeling to scratch behind his ears. He felt cold. Too cold.
I glanced around the apartment again. Everything looked the same, but that feeling—like something was watching me—hadn’t faded. If anything, it had settled deeper, like it had wrapped itself around the walls.
Milo whined softly, pressing his nose against my leg.
I looked down at him. “Where’s your leash?”
He just stared at me.
The air in the apartment was too still, like the whole place was holding its breath. I swallowed, shaking off the lingering unease. Maybe Olivia’s text was just a bad joke. Maybe she had asked someone to check on Milo, and they forgot to lock up.
Still, something gnawed at me.
I pulled out my phone, rereading the message:
“Don’t go inside.”
I hesitated, then typed back: “Very funny. Milo just scared me half to death.”
Three dots appeared. Then they vanished.
I frowned. Olivia always texted fast.
Milo let out a soft whimper. His ears flattened, eyes flicking toward the bedroom.
I followed his gaze. The door was still open, revealing nothing but thick, suffocating darkness inside.
I hadn’t turned the bedroom light off.
Had I?
Milo took a step back, pressing against my leg.
The air suddenly felt colder.
I swallowed hard and forced out a laugh. “Alright, bud. Let’s get you outside.”
I grabbed his leash from the hook by the door, clipping it onto his collar with shaking hands. The second I opened the front door, Milo bolted, nearly yanking me off my feet.
I barely managed to keep hold of the leash as he dragged me down the hallway, his nails clicking frantically against the tile. His whole body trembled like he couldn’t get away fast enough.
I didn’t look back.
I locked the apartment behind me and followed Milo down the stairs, that last message from Olivia burning in my mind.
If Milo was inside… who opened the bedroom door?
Milo didn’t stop pulling until we were outside, paws scuffing against the pavement as he dragged me toward the nearest patch of grass. He was shaking, ears flattened, tail tucked so tightly between his legs that it barely moved.
I knelt beside him, running my hands over his fur. His breathing was fast, his chest rising and falling in sharp, panicked bursts.
“It’s okay, buddy,” I murmured, though I wasn’t sure if I believed it. “You’re alright.”
He didn’t look up. He just stared at the apartment building, eyes locked on my window.
I followed his gaze.
The bedroom light was back on.
I sucked in a breath, pulse hammering in my throat. I hadn’t touched the switch before leaving. Hadn’t even stepped inside the room.
Slowly, I reached for my phone.
“Olivia. This isn’t funny. Is someone in your apartment?”
The message delivered instantly. No typing bubble appeared.
Milo let out a low whimper, pressing against my leg. I felt his whole body tense as if he was waiting for something.
I swallowed hard and looked back up at the window.
The light flickered.
Once.
Then, again.
Like someone was standing inside. Moving.
My stomach twisted.
“Olivia, answer me.”
Three dots appeared. My fingers clenched around the phone.
Then the reply came.
“Who’s with you?”
The words sent a sharp chill through me. I looked around, my breath fogging in the night air.
I was alone.
I stared at the message, confusion twisting into something colder.
“What are you talking about?”
Nothing. No response.
The window light flickered once more. Then it went out.
The apartment was dark again.
Milo let out a low growl.
Something about the night felt heavier, like the air had thickened, pressing in around me. I gripped his leash tighter, my free hand curling into a fist to stop the tremor in my fingers.
I needed to leave. I needed to turn around and walk away, call Olivia, and tell her to get her locks changed the second she got home.
But I couldn’t stop staring at that window.
Because the longer I looked… the more I was sure—
Someone was still standing there. Watching.
Waiting.
Milo’s growl deepened, a low, rumbling warning that sent another chill up my spine. I wanted to look away from the window, to convince myself I was imagining things, but I couldn’t.
There was a shape in the darkness.
Not a reflection, not a shadow—something was standing inside Olivia’s apartment. It wasn’t moving, but I could feel it watching me.
I took a step back. Milo let out a sharp bark, yanking against the leash. The noise echoed down the quiet street, but nothing inside the apartment changed. The figure didn’t shift. Didn’t flinch. It just stood there.
My phone buzzed in my hand.
“Get out of there.”
I barely had time to process the message before the light in her apartment flickered back on.
And the figure was gone.
My breath caught in my throat. My legs felt locked in place, every muscle screaming at me to move. I forced myself to look around—at the street, at the other buildings, at the empty parking lot. Everything else was completely normal.
Then my phone buzzed again.
“I’m serious. Don’t go back inside.”
I swallowed hard and typed with shaky fingers.
“Who is in your apartment?”
The reply came instantly.
“It’s not my apartment.”
The cold inside my chest spread like ice water through my veins.
Not hers? I stared at the screen, rereading the words over and over. My pulse hammered in my ears, drowning out everything else.
I turned to Milo, who was still tense, ears pinned back. His body trembled under my hand. He was scared. More scared than I’d ever seen him.
That should have been enough.
That should have sent me running.
But instead, I found myself stepping forward, gripping my keys so tightly they bit into my palm.
I needed to know.
I needed to see.
Because if that wasn’t Olivia’s apartment…
Then whose was it?
And why did it know my name?
My feet felt heavy as I stepped toward the apartment door. Every instinct screamed at me to turn around, to listen to Olivia, to listen to Milo—who was now whining, pulling at his leash in the opposite direction.
But I couldn’t leave. Not yet.
I reached out, my fingers grazing the doorknob. Cold. Too cold. Like it had been sitting in ice. My stomach twisted, but I forced myself to turn it. The door swung open with a slow creak.
The apartment was exactly as I had left it.
Lights on. Couch slightly askew. The kitchen counter still had my half-drunk coffee from earlier. Nothing out of place.
But it felt wrong.
The air was thick, heavy, pressing down on me like a weight. And it smelled different—stale, like the air hadn’t moved in years. My own apartment had never smelled like this.
Milo refused to come inside. He planted his paws firmly at the threshold, leash stretched tight, eyes locked on something I couldn’t see.
I swallowed. “Milo, come on.”
He whined again, taking a step back.
I sighed, unhooking his leash. “Fine. Stay out here.”
He didn’t hesitate. He bolted down the hallway, tail tucked.
I stared after him, unease curling in my chest. Milo had never run from anything before.
The door shut behind me with a soft click.
The sound made my breath catch. I hadn’t touched it.
I turned slowly, heart hammering.
The living room was empty.
I forced myself to breathe, to move. My phone buzzed in my pocket, but I ignored it. Instead, I walked toward the hallway leading to my bedroom—step by step, my legs stiff, my body resisting.
I reached my door. It was slightly open. Had it been like that before?
I pushed it fully open.
My bed was made. My dresser untouched. The only thing out of place was my closet door.
It was open. Just a crack.
And something was breathing inside.
Shallow, raspy, like the air was being pulled through teeth.
I froze.
The sound didn’t stop.
Didn’t move.
Didn’t acknowledge me.
I reached for my phone, hands trembling, finally looking at the message Olivia had sent.
“Don’t go near the closet.”
I didn’t have time to react before the closet door creaked open another inch.
And something inside whispered, “I told you not to come back.”
The whisper curled through the air like smoke, seeping into my skin. My breath hitched, and I stepped back, my body screaming at me to run.
Then the closet door slammed open.
An icy gust shot through the room, knocking over a lamp and rattling the pictures on the wall. My phone slipped from my fingers, clattering to the floor. I tried to move, but something wrapped around my wrist—invisible, cold, crushing.
I choked on a scream.
The pressure tightened, yanking me forward with a force that sent me stumbling toward the closet. My knees hit the ground hard. The room blurred around me as the grip spread, clawing up my arm, pressing into my skin like fingers of ice.
I struggled, kicking, twisting—but there was nothing there. No hands. No body. Just a crushing, suffocating force that refused to let go.
Then, a voice—low, guttural, right against my ear.
"You let me in."
Pain lanced through my chest, cold and sharp, like something had reached inside me and gripped my ribs. My vision wavered. The walls around me flickered—my bedroom, then darkness, then something else. A rotting hallway. A place that wasn't here.
No, no, no—
I thrashed, but the force only pulled harder. My body inched closer to the gaping darkness of the closet. The air inside it wasn’t just dark—it was wrong. It had depth, like an open mouth waiting to swallow me whole.
I was being dragged in.
A guttural snarl ripped through the air.
Milo.
He shot into the room, teeth bared, his growl deep and primal. He lunged, snapping at whatever had me.
The force let go.
I gasped as I collapsed backward, my body trembling. The air shifted—the presence recoiling.
Milo barked, snapping at the darkness inside the closet. The second his teeth clicked shut, the closet door slammed shut on its own.
The room fell silent.
My hands were shaking as I crawled backward, gasping for breath. My wrist throbbed—when I looked down, dark bruises were already blooming, shaped like fingerprints.
Milo stood between me and the closet, still growling, his fur bristling.
I forced myself up, grabbed my phone, and ran.
I didn’t stop. Not when the lights flickered as I passed. Not when I heard something scraping against the walls. Not even when I felt the icy breath on the back of my neck as I reached the door.
I threw it open, nearly tripping over myself as I stumbled into the hallway.
Milo followed, and the door slammed shut behind us.
I stood there, panting, staring at the door. My apartment. My home.
And from inside, muffled but clear—
A whisper.
“This isn’t over.”
My hands were still shaking when I unlocked my phone. I barely registered the sweat slicking my fingers or the way my breath came in sharp, ragged gasps. All I knew was that I had to call for help.
I tapped 9-1-1.
The ringing felt like it stretched for hours before a voice finally clicked in.
"Nine-one-one, what’s your emergency?"
I swallowed hard. "Please, you have to send someone. There’s—there’s something in my apartment. It attacked me. It’s not human."
A pause. Then, in the most patronizing voice I’d ever heard:
"Ma’am, are you in immediate danger?"
I looked at my wrist. The bruises were deepening, spreading up my forearm like ink soaking into paper. I licked my lips. "Yes. I don’t know what it is, but it’s real. Please, just send someone!"
Another pause.
"Are you alone?"
I glanced down at Milo. His ears were still pinned back, his tail stiff. He hadn’t taken his eyes off the door.
"No," I said. "My dog is with me."
Another beat of silence. Then, with the kind of detached boredom that made my stomach drop, the dispatcher said, "Ma’am, have you been drinking or taking any substances tonight?"
My stomach twisted.
"No! I told you, something attacked me! I have bruises—"
"Have you been experiencing any stress recently? Lack of sleep? Have you had any prior—"
I hung up.
I knew that tone. The same one people use when they think you’re crazy.
Milo whined, pressing his head into my leg. My breath hitched, and I ran a hand through my hair, trying to keep from shaking apart.
They didn’t believe me.
No one would believe me.
Then the pounding on my door sent Milo into a frenzy. His barking was sharp, frantic, but I barely heard it over the ringing in my ears. The laughter from my phone had stopped the moment the first knock hit.
"Police!" a voice called. "Open up!"
I hesitated.
For days, I had begged for someone to believe me. But now that they were here, dread coiled in my stomach.
I forced myself to my feet and opened the door.
Two officers stood there—a man and a woman, both watching me with careful, unreadable expressions. Behind them, my neighbor, Mrs. Calloway, peered out from her doorway, clutching her robe closed.
"Ma’am, we received multiple calls about screaming from this unit," the male officer said. His name tag read Officer Reynolds. His partner, Officer Vega, stood with her arms crossed, scanning the apartment.
I swallowed.
"I—It wasn’t me," I said, but my voice cracked.
Vega’s gaze landed on my bruised arms.
"Are you hurt?" she asked.
I shook my head. "It’s not—It’s not what you think."
Reynolds sighed. "Ma’am, can we step inside?"
I hesitated. If they came in, they’d feel it. The way the air in my apartment was wrong. The way the shadows clung to the corners like they were waiting.
But I stepped aside.
Vega’s eyes flickered to my living room. The mess of papers, the empty coffee cups, the scattered printouts on hauntings, possessions—proof that I was deep in something I couldn’t escape.
"You been sleeping much?" Reynolds asked.
I clenched my jaw. "I—"
Vega’s radio crackled.
"10-96," the dispatcher’s voice said.
My stomach dropped. 10-96.
They weren’t here to help me.
They were here to take me in.
I took a step back, but Vega caught my arm. "Ma’am, we’re going to have you come with us for a quick evaluation, okay?"
"No." I pulled away. "You don’t understand. There’s something here. It’s real. It—"
Reynolds pulled out handcuffs. "Let’s not make this difficult."
Milo growled.
The room tilted.
Something shifted behind me. I felt the air grow heavy, the unseen presence curling around my neck like fingers ready to squeeze.
I tried one last time. "Please. You have to listen to me."
Reynolds just sighed. "Yeah. I’ve heard that one before."
The psych ward smelled like antiseptic and old air conditioning. The walls were white. Too white. Like a place built to scrub the mind clean.
They took my phone. My camera. My notes.
They gave me a gray jumpsuit and a stiff bed in a room with no sharp edges. The window didn’t open. The door had a small slot for food trays.
I sat on the bed, staring at my bruised arms, at the way the darkness still lingered under my skin like fingerprints.
Maybe they were right. Maybe I had lost it.
But then—
A creak.
The air shifted.
I turned slowly.
The chair in the corner moved an inch.
A whisper slid along the walls, curling into my ear.
"I told you. I see you."
The Extra Roommate
I found the listing online. Cheap rent, fully furnished, and close to work. It almost seemed too good to be true. The landlord, Mr. Thompson, was an older man who barely looked at me as I signed the lease. “It’s a quiet place,” he said. “Not many tenants. You’ll like it.”
I moved in on a Friday. The apartment was small but cozy—two bedrooms, a tiny kitchen, and a living room with an outdated TV. By Saturday morning, I’d already met her.
Her name was Emily. She was sitting on the couch when I woke up, sipping coffee and flipping through a magazine. “Morning,” she said, smiling. “You must be the new tenant.”
She seemed nice. Friendly, but not overbearing. We talked a little, nothing too personal. She told me she’d been living there a while and that the landlord rarely checked in. We fell into an easy routine—coffee in the mornings, TV in the evenings. It felt like I had lucked out with a great roommate.
Until I mentioned her to the landlord.
It was a week later. He had stopped by to drop off some paperwork and asked if everything was alright. I casually brought her up, saying how nice it was to have a good roommate.
He frowned. “You’re the only one on the lease.”
I let out a small laugh. “Yeah, but Emily’s been here for a while, right?”
His face didn’t change. “No one’s lived there for months.”
A cold, creeping feeling spread through my chest. “That’s not possible. I talk to her every day.”
He gave me a strange look. “Are you sure?”
I almost asked him to come inside, to see for himself. But when I turned toward the apartment, the blinds were shut. The living room light was off. I suddenly felt foolish.
“Never mind,” I muttered. “I must’ve misunderstood.”
He nodded slowly, then left. I locked the door behind him and turned to the couch.
Emily wasn’t there. But her coffee cup was. Half-full, steam still rising.
I spent the rest of the afternoon convincing myself that I wasn’t crazy. There had to be an explanation. Maybe she wasn’t on the lease but still lived here. Maybe she was a former tenant who never really left. Or maybe Mr. Thompson was just forgetful.
That night, I sat on the couch, waiting for her to come back. The apartment was silent, the air thick with something I couldn’t quite name. I checked my phone, scrolling mindlessly, trying to distract myself.
Then, the bathroom door creaked open.
I jumped. Emily stepped out, rubbing her hands on a towel. “You okay?” she asked.
I hesitated. “Where were you earlier?”
She frowned. “What do you mean?”
I swallowed hard. “When the landlord came by. You weren’t here.”
She tilted her head. “I was in my room.”
Her room. The second bedroom. I had never gone in there. Something about it felt… off. Like it wasn’t really meant to be mine.
“Look,” she said, sitting next to me. “I know this place is a little weird. But you’ll get used to it.”
“Used to what?”
She smiled, but there was something hollow about it. “Sharing.”
A shiver ran down my spine. I tried to shake it off, but when I glanced down at the coffee table, her cup was gone.
I never saw her move it.
I couldn’t sleep. I lay awake, staring at my ceiling, listening. The apartment was too quiet, like it was holding its breath.
Then, a soft knock.
I sat up, heart pounding. It came from the second bedroom.
I wasn’t going to answer it. But my feet moved before I could stop them. I crossed the hall and pressed my ear to the door.
Silence.
I knocked once. “Emily?”
Nothing.
I turned the knob. The door swung open.
The room was empty.
No bed. No furniture. Just a bare mattress on the floor, covered in dust. The air was thick, stale, like no one had stepped inside for years.
I backed away slowly, but as I did, I caught something in the corner of my eye.
A coffee cup. Sitting in the middle of the floor.
Emily’s coffee cup.
Then, the door slammed shut.
And behind me, someone whispered my name.
I spun around so fast I nearly tripped over my own feet. My back hit the door as I pressed myself against it, heart hammering against my ribs.
The room was empty.
But I wasn’t alone.
I could feel it—something just beyond my line of sight. The air was thick, heavy with a presence I couldn’t explain. My breathing came fast and shallow as I reached for the doorknob behind me. My fingers fumbled, slipping against the cold metal.
Then, the whisper came again. Right next to my ear.
“Why did you open the door?”
I shoved my way out of the room, slamming the door behind me. My hands trembled as I locked it, as if that could somehow keep whatever was inside from getting out.
I stumbled back into the living room, gasping for air. My gaze landed on the couch, on the spot where Emily always sat. It was empty now, but the impression of her body was still there, like someone had been sitting only moments ago.
I turned on every light in the apartment.
Then, I did the one thing I had been avoiding since the landlord’s visit. I grabbed my phone and started searching.
There wasn’t much. The apartment complex wasn’t exactly famous, just an old building that had been through several owners. But then I found it—an old newspaper article from over a decade ago.
A woman had died here.
Her name was Emily.
I stared at the screen, my stomach twisting into knots. The article was brief, just a small blurb in the crime section. "Emily Graves, 26, was found dead in her apartment after neighbors reported a foul odor. Authorities ruled it a tragic accident, though details remain unclear."
I shut my phone off. My whole body was shaking.
I wasn’t crazy. Emily was real. But she wasn’t alive.
I needed to leave. Now.
I grabbed my keys and bolted for the front door. My hands fumbled with the lock, my pulse pounding in my ears. But just as I twisted the knob—
The TV turned on.
Static filled the apartment, hissing and crackling. The screen flickered, shadows dancing across the walls.
And there, in the reflection of the darkened screen—
Emily.
She stood behind me, her head tilted, her eyes dark and hollow.
“Why are you leaving?” she whispered.
My scream caught in my throat.
The lights flickered. The air grew thick and cold.
Then, the TV shut off.
And she was gone.
I moved in on a Friday. The apartment was small but cozy—two bedrooms, a tiny kitchen, and a living room with an outdated TV. By Saturday morning, I’d already met her.
Her name was Emily. She was sitting on the couch when I woke up, sipping coffee and flipping through a magazine. “Morning,” she said, smiling. “You must be the new tenant.”
She seemed nice. Friendly, but not overbearing. We talked a little, nothing too personal. She told me she’d been living there a while and that the landlord rarely checked in. We fell into an easy routine—coffee in the mornings, TV in the evenings. It felt like I had lucked out with a great roommate.
Until I mentioned her to the landlord.
It was a week later. He had stopped by to drop off some paperwork and asked if everything was alright. I casually brought her up, saying how nice it was to have a good roommate.
He frowned. “You’re the only one on the lease.”
I let out a small laugh. “Yeah, but Emily’s been here for a while, right?”
His face didn’t change. “No one’s lived there for months.”
A cold, creeping feeling spread through my chest. “That’s not possible. I talk to her every day.”
He gave me a strange look. “Are you sure?”
I almost asked him to come inside, to see for himself. But when I turned toward the apartment, the blinds were shut. The living room light was off. I suddenly felt foolish.
“Never mind,” I muttered. “I must’ve misunderstood.”
He nodded slowly, then left. I locked the door behind him and turned to the couch.
Emily wasn’t there. But her coffee cup was. Half-full, steam still rising.
I spent the rest of the afternoon convincing myself that I wasn’t crazy. There had to be an explanation. Maybe she wasn’t on the lease but still lived here. Maybe she was a former tenant who never really left. Or maybe Mr. Thompson was just forgetful.
That night, I sat on the couch, waiting for her to come back. The apartment was silent, the air thick with something I couldn’t quite name. I checked my phone, scrolling mindlessly, trying to distract myself.
Then, the bathroom door creaked open.
I jumped. Emily stepped out, rubbing her hands on a towel. “You okay?” she asked.
I hesitated. “Where were you earlier?”
She frowned. “What do you mean?”
I swallowed hard. “When the landlord came by. You weren’t here.”
She tilted her head. “I was in my room.”
Her room. The second bedroom. I had never gone in there. Something about it felt… off. Like it wasn’t really meant to be mine.
“Look,” she said, sitting next to me. “I know this place is a little weird. But you’ll get used to it.”
“Used to what?”
She smiled, but there was something hollow about it. “Sharing.”
A shiver ran down my spine. I tried to shake it off, but when I glanced down at the coffee table, her cup was gone.
I never saw her move it.
I couldn’t sleep. I lay awake, staring at my ceiling, listening. The apartment was too quiet, like it was holding its breath.
Then, a soft knock.
I sat up, heart pounding. It came from the second bedroom.
I wasn’t going to answer it. But my feet moved before I could stop them. I crossed the hall and pressed my ear to the door.
Silence.
I knocked once. “Emily?”
Nothing.
I turned the knob. The door swung open.
The room was empty.
No bed. No furniture. Just a bare mattress on the floor, covered in dust. The air was thick, stale, like no one had stepped inside for years.
I backed away slowly, but as I did, I caught something in the corner of my eye.
A coffee cup. Sitting in the middle of the floor.
Emily’s coffee cup.
Then, the door slammed shut.
And behind me, someone whispered my name.
I spun around so fast I nearly tripped over my own feet. My back hit the door as I pressed myself against it, heart hammering against my ribs.
The room was empty.
But I wasn’t alone.
I could feel it—something just beyond my line of sight. The air was thick, heavy with a presence I couldn’t explain. My breathing came fast and shallow as I reached for the doorknob behind me. My fingers fumbled, slipping against the cold metal.
Then, the whisper came again. Right next to my ear.
“Why did you open the door?”
I shoved my way out of the room, slamming the door behind me. My hands trembled as I locked it, as if that could somehow keep whatever was inside from getting out.
I stumbled back into the living room, gasping for air. My gaze landed on the couch, on the spot where Emily always sat. It was empty now, but the impression of her body was still there, like someone had been sitting only moments ago.
I turned on every light in the apartment.
Then, I did the one thing I had been avoiding since the landlord’s visit. I grabbed my phone and started searching.
There wasn’t much. The apartment complex wasn’t exactly famous, just an old building that had been through several owners. But then I found it—an old newspaper article from over a decade ago.
A woman had died here.
Her name was Emily.
I stared at the screen, my stomach twisting into knots. The article was brief, just a small blurb in the crime section. "Emily Graves, 26, was found dead in her apartment after neighbors reported a foul odor. Authorities ruled it a tragic accident, though details remain unclear."
I shut my phone off. My whole body was shaking.
I wasn’t crazy. Emily was real. But she wasn’t alive.
I needed to leave. Now.
I grabbed my keys and bolted for the front door. My hands fumbled with the lock, my pulse pounding in my ears. But just as I twisted the knob—
The TV turned on.
Static filled the apartment, hissing and crackling. The screen flickered, shadows dancing across the walls.
And there, in the reflection of the darkened screen—
Emily.
She stood behind me, her head tilted, her eyes dark and hollow.
“Why are you leaving?” she whispered.
My scream caught in my throat.
The lights flickered. The air grew thick and cold.
Then, the TV shut off.
And she was gone.
Static In The Baby Monitor (PT2)
It had been three months since the night everything changed. Three months since I unplugged the baby monitor and swore I’d never use one again. Every creak of the house, every flicker of light, had started to feel like a warning. I tried to tell myself it was over. That whatever I’d heard—and seen—was a figment of exhaustion and stress. But no matter how much I tried, the memory clung to me.
Emily’s laugh pulled me out of my thoughts. She was sitting in her high chair, cheeks smeared with mashed carrots, giggling at the way the spoon wobbled on the tray. Her joy was contagious, and for a moment, the weight in my chest lifted. I smiled, wiping her face as she squirmed.
“You’re messy today, aren’t you?” I said, my voice soft. She babbled back, her words still forming in that beautiful, indecipherable way babies speak.
It was just us now. Jeremy had left two weeks ago—not forever, but for work. He’d been offered a contract overseas, something too good to pass up. I’d encouraged him to take it, even though the thought of being alone in this house terrified me. I didn’t want him to know that. He already thought I was losing it.
I couldn’t blame him. After that night with the monitor, I’d spent weeks obsessing over every sound Emily made. I didn’t sleep. I paced the house, checking locks and windows, feeling watched. Jeremy tried to reason with me, but I could see it in his eyes—he thought I was being irrational. I started to believe it too. Maybe the whispers and shadows were just my imagination. Maybe the voice on the monitor… wasn’t real.
Or so I told myself.
I tucked Emily into her crib that night, as I always did, humming a soft tune. The nursery was the one place in the house that still felt safe. Pale pink walls, stuffed animals lined neatly on the shelf, the soft glow of a night light shaped like a star. It was a bubble of warmth in a house that often felt too cold.
But as I turned to leave, I hesitated. The faintest itch of unease prickled at my neck. The crib’s mobile—a simple one with pastel moons and clouds—swayed slightly. There was no draft. I stared at it, my chest tightening.
“Stop it,” I muttered to myself. “It’s nothing.”
I closed the door halfway and retreated to the living room, settling onto the couch with a book I wasn’t actually interested in. The silence was heavier than usual, pressing against my ears. I’d gotten used to Jeremy’s presence, the sound of his footsteps or the hum of his voice as he worked in his office. Without him, the house felt too big.
My phone buzzed. A text from him: How’s Emily? How’s my favorite girls?
I typed back quickly: She’s great. Misses her dad, though. We’re fine. Don’t worry.
I hesitated before hitting send, my thumb hovering over the screen. It was a lie, but what was the point of telling him otherwise? He couldn’t do anything from halfway across the world. I needed to handle this. Alone.
The hours ticked by. Emily was a good sleeper, rarely waking once she drifted off. Still, I found myself tiptoeing to the nursery every hour, just to peek in. She was always fine, her tiny chest rising and falling in rhythm with her soft snores.
At midnight, I decided to call it a night. I’d just climbed into bed when the sound started.
Static.
It was faint at first, like a whisper carried in the wind. My body froze. I didn’t have a monitor anymore. I’d thrown it out after that night. But the sound was unmistakable, crackling and hissing, filling the quiet.
I sat up slowly, my pulse pounding in my ears. The static was coming from somewhere in the house. It wasn’t loud, but it was persistent, like it wanted to be heard. My first thought was the TV. Maybe I’d left it on by accident. I forced myself out of bed, every step feeling heavier than the last.
The living room was dark, the TV screen black. The sound wasn’t coming from there.
I followed it down the hall, my breath shallow. The static grew louder as I approached the nursery. My heart dropped.
The door was open.
I was sure I’d closed it halfway. Positive. But now it stood ajar, the faint glow of the nightlight spilling into the hall. The static was louder now, sharp and grating. It was coming from inside.
“Emily?” My voice was barely a whisper.
I stepped into the room, my hand trembling as I flicked on the light. The static stopped. The silence that followed was deafening.
Emily was still in her crib, fast asleep. Her mobile swayed gently, though there was no breeze. I scanned the room, my eyes darting to every corner, every shadow. Nothing. No source of the sound. Just the faint hum of the nightlight.
I approached the crib, my legs unsteady. Emily stirred but didn’t wake. Her face was peaceful, her tiny hands clutching the edge of her blanket. I let out a shaky breath, brushing a strand of hair from her forehead.
And then I saw it.
On the floor, beneath the crib, something glinted. I crouched down, my fingers brushing against cold plastic. I pulled it out and stared, my stomach twisting.
It was the baby monitor. The one I’d thrown away.
The screen was cracked, the buttons worn, but it was unmistakably the same. My mind raced, trying to make sense of it. I’d thrown it in the trash. I’d watched the garbage truck take it away. There was no way it could be here.
But it was.
And the light on the monitor was blinking.
I wanted to throw it. Smash it. Do anything but keep holding it. But something compelled me to press the button. My thumb hovered over it for what felt like an eternity before I finally gave in.
The screen flickered to life, filled with static. At first, there was nothing. Just the same crackling hiss I’d heard before. But then, faintly, a voice emerged.
“You shouldn’t have left me.”
I dropped the monitor. The voice was gone, replaced by static. My chest tightened, the air in the room feeling too thick to breathe. I backed away, my eyes never leaving the device.
And then Emily’s mobile stopped swaying.
I stayed by the window for what felt like hours. The street outside was quiet, the only movement coming from the faint sway of tree branches in the cold wind. But the unease clung to me. My fingers trembled as I clutched the monitor in one hand, its plastic casing warm from how long I’d been holding it.
The static returned, soft at first, like the hiss of a distant storm. I flinched and pressed the volume button down, almost muting it. I didn’t want to hear it again—not the voice, not the whispers. But I couldn’t turn it off completely.
What if Emma cried?
What if… something else spoke?
I shook my head and paced the living room. Maybe it was my lack of sleep, or the way the events of last night still rattled around in my brain. But the house felt different, heavier. It wasn’t just in my head; even the air seemed thick, harder to breathe. Every creak of the floorboards under my feet sent a jolt through me.
When Emma finally stirred through the faint static, I almost cried from relief. Her soft coos broke through the tension, and I hurried to her room. She was standing in her crib, her tiny hands gripping the edge as she rocked back and forth.
“Hey, sweetheart,” I said, forcing my voice to sound steady.
She looked at me and smiled, but there was something off about it. Her eyes, so bright and curious, seemed to dart past me, focusing on the corner of the room. I turned, but there was nothing there—just the rocking chair and the little bookshelf my husband had built before she was born.
“Time to get up,” I said, scooping her into my arms.
Her gaze lingered on the corner as I carried her out of the room.
I tried to shake off the feeling. Babies stare at nothing all the time, didn’t they? But as I brought her downstairs and set her in her highchair, I caught myself glancing over my shoulder more often than usual.
Breakfast was quiet. Too quiet. Emma usually babbled non-stop, laughing at the clatter of her spoon or the way oatmeal stuck to her fingers. But today, she was silent. Her tiny head tilted toward the baby monitor I’d left on the counter.
The static hissed softly, then popped.
“Hello?” a voice whispered.
I froze. My hand gripped the edge of the counter so hard my knuckles turned white.
“Bring her back,” the voice said.
It was clearer this time, no longer muffled by interference. A woman’s voice, trembling, pleading.
I lunged for the monitor and shut it off.
Emma giggled.
“Did you hear that?” I asked, even though she couldn’t answer.
She just smiled at me, her hands clapping together. The sound of her laughter should’ve calmed me, but instead, it made my stomach twist. It wasn’t her usual laugh. It sounded… wrong.
I spent the rest of the day trying to distract myself. I cleaned the kitchen, folded laundry, and played with Emma on the living room rug. But no matter what I did, the monitor kept catching my eye.
I told myself I wouldn’t turn it back on. There was no reason to. But when Emma went down for her nap, I found myself standing over it, my hand hovering above the power button.
I pressed it.
Static.
I let out a breath, relieved. No voices. No whispers. Just the harmless sound of interference.
But then it changed.
A low hum crept in, like the sound of a faraway engine. It grew louder, vibrating through the speaker.
“Why did you leave us?” the voice said, breaking through the hum.
I dropped the monitor. It hit the floor with a crack, but the voice didn’t stop.
“We waited for you.”
I stared at the monitor, my chest heaving.
The hum grew louder, drowning out the voice. It was deafening now, filling the room. I covered my ears, but it didn’t help. The sound wasn’t just coming from the monitor anymore—it was everywhere.
And then, just as suddenly as it started, it stopped.
The silence was suffocating.
I reached down, my hands trembling, and picked up the monitor. The screen was black, the light off. It was as if it had never been turned on.
Behind me, Emma started crying.
I ran upstairs, taking the steps two at a time. Her cries were sharp and panicked, the kind that made my heart race. I burst into her room, expecting to find her tangled in her blankets or standing in her crib again.
But she wasn’t in her crib.
The blankets were untouched, the crib empty.
“Emma?” I called, my voice shaking.
Her cries echoed through the house, distant now, coming from somewhere I couldn’t place.
I turned, my eyes darting to every corner of the room. And that’s when I saw it.
The rocking chair in the corner was moving, swaying back and forth.
The rocking chair creaked softly, swaying back and forth in the corner of the room. My chest tightened, and I felt like I couldn’t breathe.
“Emma?” I whispered, taking a step forward.
Her cries still echoed, faint and distant, like they were coming from somewhere far away but somehow all around me. My legs felt like lead as I approached the chair. The air in the room was ice cold, and my breath came out in short, visible puffs.
The chair stopped moving the moment I reached out to touch it.
“Emma!” I shouted now, panic surging through me. I tore through the room, checking under the crib, inside the closet, behind the curtains. Nothing. She wasn’t here.
But her cries… they didn’t stop.
I froze when I realized where they were coming from.
The baby monitor.
I turned to look at it, still clenched in my hand. The screen was dark, the power light off. It wasn’t even plugged in anymore—it shouldn’t have been making any sound.
And yet her cries spilled out, warped and muffled, like they were trapped in the static.
“No, no, no,” I muttered, fumbling with the buttons. I pressed everything I could, trying to turn it off, trying to make it stop. But nothing happened.
Then the cries shifted.
They started to warp, slowing down and distorting until they no longer sounded like Emma at all. The noise became deeper, more guttural, like something was imitating her voice but failing.
I dropped the monitor and backed away, my back hitting the edge of the crib.
The static cut out.
And then the voice returned.
“She belongs to us now.”
The voice was deeper this time, and there was no mistaking it—it wasn’t human.
“No!” I shouted. “You can’t have her!”
I grabbed the monitor off the floor and threw it across the room. It shattered against the wall, pieces of plastic scattering everywhere.
The room went silent.
I stood there, shaking, my heart pounding so hard it hurt. I couldn’t think straight. My baby was gone. Gone.
I ran out of the room, my footsteps pounding down the stairs. Her cries had stopped, but the silence was worse. It was too still, too heavy.
The living room was exactly as I’d left it. The toys scattered on the rug, her favorite blanket draped over the couch. But no sign of her.
“Emma!” I screamed again, my voice cracking.
Nothing.
I grabbed my phone off the counter and dialed 911 with trembling fingers.
“911, what’s your emergency?” the operator’s calm voice answered.
“My daughter—she’s missing!” I said, struggling to catch my breath. “She was just here, in her crib, and now she’s gone!”
“Ma’am, please stay calm,” the operator said. “Can you tell me your location?”
I gave her my address, pacing back and forth as I tried to explain what had happened. But how could I explain this? How could I tell her about the voice on the monitor, the cries that weren’t human?
“I’ll send an officer to your location,” the operator said. “Stay on the line with me.”
I nodded, even though she couldn’t see me. My hands were shaking so badly I almost dropped the phone.
Then I heard it.
The creak of a door opening.
I turned slowly, my heart in my throat. The basement door, which I was certain had been closed, now stood ajar.
The air coming from the basement was damp and cold, carrying the faint smell of earth and mildew.
“Ma’am?” the operator’s voice broke through the silence. “Are you still there?”
“Yes,” I whispered, staring at the dark stairway leading down.
“Is someone in the house with you?” she asked.
“I don’t know,” I said, my voice trembling.
I stepped closer to the basement door, my phone clutched tightly in one hand. The floorboards creaked under my weight, and the sound echoed down the stairs.
And then I heard it.
Her laugh.
It was faint, but unmistakable. Emma’s laugh, coming from the basement.
“She’s down there,” I said into the phone, my voice barely above a whisper.
“Ma’am, I advise you to wait for the officers to arrive,” the operator said. “Do not go down there.”
But I couldn’t wait. That was my baby. I couldn’t just stand here while she was down there, alone in the dark.
“I have to go,” I said, ending the call before she could protest.
The basement stairs groaned under my weight as I descended, each step feeling like it took an eternity. The light switch at the top of the stairs didn’t work, leaving the space below shrouded in darkness.
“Emma?” I called, my voice echoing off the stone walls.
Her laugh came again, closer this time.
I reached the bottom of the stairs and fumbled for the pull chain to the single bulb that hung from the ceiling. The light flickered on, casting long, jagged shadows across the room.
The basement was empty.
But her laugh came again, louder now, coming from behind the old wooden door that led to the crawlspace.
I hesitated, my hand hovering over the rusted doorknob.
“Emma?” I called again, my voice trembling.
The laugh stopped.
And then I heard it.
The voice.
“Come closer,” it said, low and gravelly.
My blood ran cold, but I couldn’t move. The air around me felt heavy, pressing against my chest.
The door creaked open, just an inch, and a gust of cold air rushed out.
“Bring her back,” the voice whispered, so close it felt like it was right in my ear.
The door to the crawlspace hung open just wide enough for me to see darkness beyond. The air that wafted out felt alive, heavy with something I couldn’t explain. My hands shook as I stared into the black void. I should’ve run—I knew that much—but I couldn’t leave her. Not Emma.
“Emma,” I whispered, barely able to hear my own voice over the pounding of my heart.
No response. Only silence.
And then, faintly, from somewhere deep in the crawlspace: “Mama…”
Her voice was small and soft, like it always was when she was on the verge of sleep. But something was wrong. It wasn’t just her voice anymore. It was layered, like someone else was speaking underneath it, a low, guttural sound that didn’t belong to her.
“Emma, baby, I’m here,” I said, reaching for the edge of the door. The words felt wrong as they left my mouth. They sounded too loud, too sharp in the suffocating silence.
The moment my fingers touched the door, the laughter returned. It erupted from deep within the crawlspace, echoing and bouncing off the stone walls. It wasn’t just Emma’s laugh anymore. It was a chorus—children’s laughter, dozens of them, all overlapping and spilling out into the room. But it was distorted, warped, the kind of sound that makes your stomach churn and your legs want to buckle.
“Emma, come out, please,” I begged. My voice cracked as tears spilled down my cheeks. “Come to Mama, okay?”
The laughter stopped.
I could hear her breathing now, soft and steady, just on the other side of the doorway. It was so close. My fingers tightened on the doorframe as I forced myself to step inside.
The crawlspace wasn’t what I remembered. It had always been small, just a cramped area filled with old boxes and cobwebs. But now, the space stretched on endlessly, the walls disappearing into the shadows. The dirt floor was damp under my bare feet, the scent of mildew and rot filling my nose.
“Emma?” I called out, my voice shaking. “Where are you?”
“I’m here, Mama,” she said. Her voice was closer now, almost at my feet.
I dropped to my knees, my hands searching blindly in the dark. “Baby, come to me.”
My fingers brushed against something soft. A foot. Relief washed over me as I pulled her toward me, holding her tiny body in my arms. She felt warm, solid. She felt real.
“I’ve got you,” I whispered, tears streaming down my face. “I’ve got you, baby.”
But she didn’t move. She didn’t wrap her arms around me the way she always did. She just stayed limp in my grasp.
That’s when I realized her breathing had stopped.
I pulled back, trying to look at her face, but the darkness was too thick. My hands shook as I felt for her cheek, her nose, her mouth. Her skin was cold now, unnaturally cold.
“Emma?” I whispered, my voice barely audible.
And then she moved.
Her head tilted back, and I could feel her staring at me even though I couldn’t see her eyes. Her mouth opened, far wider than it should have, and from her lips came that voice again, the one from the monitor.
“She doesn’t belong to you anymore,” it said, low and guttural.
I screamed and scrambled backward, dropping her as I did. The moment she hit the ground, the laughter started again—louder this time, echoing all around me. I turned and ran, my hands clawing at the dirt as I tried to find the door.
But the crawlspace was different now. It wasn’t just endless—it was alive. The walls seemed to shift and breathe, the dirt floor writhing beneath me as if it was trying to pull me under. The laughter grew louder, filling my ears until I thought my head would split open.
And then I heard her.
“Mommy!” Emma’s real voice, high-pitched and desperate, cutting through the noise like a blade.
I stopped, my heart lurching. “Emma!” I screamed, spinning around.
She was there, just a few feet away. Her tiny form was bathed in a dim, flickering light that seemed to come from nowhere. She reached out to me, her face streaked with tears.
“Mommy, help me!” she cried.
I lunged toward her, my arms outstretched. But just as my fingers brushed hers, she was pulled back into the darkness. Her screams echoed around me, blending with the laughter.
“No! No!” I screamed, chasing after her. But the ground beneath me gave way, and I fell, tumbling into the void.
When I hit the ground, the air was knocked from my lungs. I lay there, gasping, as the darkness around me began to shift. Shapes emerged from the shadows—small, childlike figures with hollow eyes and wide, unnatural grins.
They surrounded me, their movements jerky and unnatural. One by one, they began to speak, their voices overlapping in a horrifying cacophony.
“She was promised to us,” they said. “You can’t take her back.”
I tried to move, to crawl away, but the ground held me in place, cold hands grasping at my ankles and wrists. The children closed in, their hollow eyes boring into mine.
“Who promised her?” I managed to choke out. My voice was hoarse, barely audible.
They stopped, their heads tilting in unison as if considering my question. And then one of them stepped forward, its grin widening until it split its face in two.
“You did,” it said.
I stared at the thing in front of me, its face still contorted into that inhuman grin. My mind reeled, trying to make sense of its words.
“I—I didn’t,” I stammered. “I would never…”
The figure tilted its head, mocking curiosity. The other childlike shapes stood still, their hollow eyes locked on me. The ground beneath me was cold and unyielding, the invisible hands still holding me in place. My breath came in shallow gasps as I fought against the panic rising in my chest.
“You promised her to us,” it repeated, its voice sharp and accusing. “Don’t you remember?”
“I don’t!” I shouted, shaking my head. My voice cracked as I fought back tears. “I don’t know what you’re talking about!”
The figure stepped closer, its movements disjointed and unnatural. Its face was inches from mine now, and I could see the black emptiness where its eyes should have been.
“You don’t remember,” it said, almost gleefully. “But you did. A long time ago.”
“What do you mean?” I whispered. My voice was barely audible. “What are you talking about?”
It didn’t answer. Instead, it raised one skeletal hand and pressed a single finger against my forehead. The moment it made contact, my vision went white.
I was no longer in the crawlspace. I was standing in a room I didn’t recognize. The walls were bare, and the air smelled of damp wood and something faintly metallic. A single bulb hung from the ceiling, casting a dim yellow light over the scene.
I saw myself sitting at a table in the center of the room. My hands were clasped tightly together, and my face was pale. I looked younger—years younger—but there was something else about me that I didn’t recognize. My eyes were wide, almost vacant, and my lips moved as if I were whispering something.
There was someone else in the room with me.
The figure was tall and shrouded in shadow. I couldn’t make out any features, but its presence was suffocating. It leaned down toward the younger version of me, its voice low and rumbling.
“Do we have a deal?” it asked.
Younger me nodded, her hands trembling. “Just make it stop,” she whispered. “Please, I’ll do anything. Just make it stop.”
The figure laughed—a deep, guttural sound that made my stomach turn. “Anything?” it asked.
“Yes,” I said, my voice breaking. “Anything.”
The figure reached out, placing a hand over mine. Its fingers were long and clawed, the skin pale and cracked. “Then it’s done,” it said. “You won’t remember this, but when the time comes, you’ll know.”
The scene began to dissolve around me, the walls melting into darkness. I tried to hold onto it, to make sense of what I’d just seen, but it slipped away like smoke.
I was back in the crawlspace. The figure in front of me had withdrawn its hand, and the hollow-eyed children were staring at me with twisted smiles. My chest heaved as I tried to process what I’d just seen.
“I didn’t know,” I said, my voice barely a whisper. “I didn’t know what I was agreeing to.”
“But you did,” the figure said. “You asked for it, and we delivered. And now it’s time to collect.”
“What did I ask for?” I demanded. “What was so important that I would give up my own daughter?”
The figure didn’t answer. Instead, it raised its hand again, and the children began to move, their twisted laughter filling the air. They closed in around me, their small hands grabbing at my arms and legs.
“Wait!” I screamed, thrashing against them. “You can’t take her! Please, I’ll do anything! Take me instead!”
The laughter stopped abruptly. The children froze, their heads snapping toward the figure as if waiting for instruction.
The figure tilted its head, considering me. “You would trade yourself for her?” it asked, its voice low and rumbling.
“Yes,” I said without hesitation. Tears streamed down my face as I stared into the void where its eyes should have been. “Take me instead. Just let her go.”
The figure smiled, a slow, deliberate movement that sent a chill down my spine. “Interesting,” it said. “We’ll consider your offer.”
Before I could respond, the ground beneath me gave way. I fell, tumbling through darkness, the children’s laughter echoing in my ears. Their voices twisted into a single word, repeated over and over.
“Promise.”
When I woke, I was lying on the floor of the nursery. The crawl space door was shut, and the room was silent except for the soft hum of the baby monitor. My head throbbed as I pushed myself to my feet, my eyes scanning the room.
“Emma?” I called out, my voice trembling.
The crib was empty.
Panic surged through me as I ran to the door, throwing it open. “Emma!” I screamed, my voice echoing through the house.
But the house was silent. She was gone.
And I was alone.
I stumbled through the house, screaming Emma’s name until my throat burned. Every shadow in every corner felt alive, mocking me with the weight of my failure. The world felt off-kilter, as though reality itself had started to unravel. My feet dragged across the hardwood floor as I moved from room to room, my mind racing.
Where was she? Where had they taken her?
The house groaned under the weight of a sudden silence, thick and suffocating. My legs gave out beneath me, and I collapsed to the floor of the living room. The last place I’d seen her in my arms flooded my mind. She’d been so warm, so real. My hands trembled as I pressed them to my face, unable to stop the onslaught of memories clawing their way to the surface.
But not all the memories were mine.
A whisper curled through my ears like smoke. It wasn’t coming from the baby monitor this time. It was coming from inside me.
“Liar…”
The word was faint but sharp, slicing through my thoughts like a blade. My stomach churned.
“I’m not a liar,” I muttered, clutching my head.
But the whisper didn’t stop. It grew louder, spreading through my chest like poison.
“You were never supposed to have her.”
“What?” My voice cracked as I pressed my hands harder against my ears. “What do you mean? She’s my daughter!”
The laughter came next. Soft at first, then growing louder until it filled every corner of the room. It wasn’t the children’s laughter this time. It was deeper, older, and laced with something dark.
“Yours?” the voice hissed, dripping with disdain. “She doesn’t belong to you. She never did.”
“Stop it!” I screamed, but the laughter only grew. My vision blurred, and suddenly, I wasn’t in the living room anymore.
I was in a forest, the trees twisting and writhing like they were alive. The air smelled of damp earth and blood. I could hear faint cries in the distance—Emma’s cries. I ran toward them, my bare feet sinking into the muddy ground with each step.
But the forest didn’t end. No matter how far I ran, the cries stayed just out of reach.
Then I saw her.
Emma was sitting on the ground, her tiny hands clutching at the dirt. Her back was to me, and her soft whimpers pierced through the darkness. Relief flooded through me as I ran to her, dropping to my knees.
“Emma!” I cried, reaching out to scoop her up. But the moment my hands touched her, she dissolved into ash, slipping through my fingers like sand.
“No,” I whispered, staring at the empty space where she’d been. “No, no, no!”
“Do you see now?” the voice said, echoing all around me. “Do you remember?”
I didn’t want to. I tried to block it out, but the memories came anyway, rushing back like a dam had broken.
I saw myself standing over my husband, a kitchen knife in my hand. His eyes were wide with shock as blood pooled around him, his lips moving soundlessly.
He’d known. Somehow, he’d known what I was.
“You’re not real,” he’d said, his voice trembling as he backed away from me. “You’re not even human.”
I didn’t want to hurt him. But I couldn’t let him stop me.
The knife had felt heavy in my hand, but the weight disappeared the moment it pierced his flesh. I’d watched the life drain from his eyes, cold and detached, like I wasn’t even in my own body.
And then I’d buried him in the backyard, beneath the oak tree where we’d once dreamed of growing old together.
The memory shifted, dragging me further back. I saw flames, towering and endless, licking at my skin. I saw chains, red-hot and unyielding, wrapped around my wrists.
I had been one of them. A soul condemned to eternal torment.
But I had escaped.
I’d clawed my way out of the pit, tearing through flesh and bone, leaving behind the shrieks of the damned. I had stolen a body—a human shell to hide in. I had thought I could be free, that I could start over.
But then I had met him. My husband. And for the first time, I had felt something I wasn’t supposed to feel.
Love.
It had been a weakness, and I had paid the price.
Emma had been the price.
She wasn’t supposed to exist. She was an impossibility—a crack in the natural order.
The voices from the pit had found me through her. They had whispered through the static, reminding me of my crime. They had come to collect what was owed.
I snapped back to the present, the forest dissolving around me. I was back in the house, kneeling on the living room floor. My hands were smeared with blood, but I didn’t know if it was real or just a ghost of my memories.
The laughter had stopped, replaced by the sound of faint breathing behind me.
I turned slowly, my body trembling.
Emma stood in the doorway, her tiny figure bathed in shadow. Her eyes weren’t hers anymore. They were black as coal, endless and empty.
“They’re here, Mommy,” she said, her voice not her own.
Behind her, the figures emerged. The children with hollow eyes. The shadowed being from the crawlspace. They moved toward me, their steps slow and deliberate.
I backed away, but there was nowhere to go.
“They’ll take me back,” I whispered, my voice trembling. “That was the deal. Take me back and leave her alone!”
The shadow figure tilted its head, the twisted grin spreading across its face. “It’s too late,” it said. “She was never yours to save.”
Emma stepped closer, her small hand reaching out toward me. I wanted to run, to fight, but I couldn’t move.
“Mommy,” she whispered, her voice soft now. “Why did you let me exist?”
Tears streamed down my face as the shadows closed in around us. I reached out to her, my fingers brushing against hers.
And then there was nothing.
Just darkness.
Emily’s laugh pulled me out of my thoughts. She was sitting in her high chair, cheeks smeared with mashed carrots, giggling at the way the spoon wobbled on the tray. Her joy was contagious, and for a moment, the weight in my chest lifted. I smiled, wiping her face as she squirmed.
“You’re messy today, aren’t you?” I said, my voice soft. She babbled back, her words still forming in that beautiful, indecipherable way babies speak.
It was just us now. Jeremy had left two weeks ago—not forever, but for work. He’d been offered a contract overseas, something too good to pass up. I’d encouraged him to take it, even though the thought of being alone in this house terrified me. I didn’t want him to know that. He already thought I was losing it.
I couldn’t blame him. After that night with the monitor, I’d spent weeks obsessing over every sound Emily made. I didn’t sleep. I paced the house, checking locks and windows, feeling watched. Jeremy tried to reason with me, but I could see it in his eyes—he thought I was being irrational. I started to believe it too. Maybe the whispers and shadows were just my imagination. Maybe the voice on the monitor… wasn’t real.
Or so I told myself.
I tucked Emily into her crib that night, as I always did, humming a soft tune. The nursery was the one place in the house that still felt safe. Pale pink walls, stuffed animals lined neatly on the shelf, the soft glow of a night light shaped like a star. It was a bubble of warmth in a house that often felt too cold.
But as I turned to leave, I hesitated. The faintest itch of unease prickled at my neck. The crib’s mobile—a simple one with pastel moons and clouds—swayed slightly. There was no draft. I stared at it, my chest tightening.
“Stop it,” I muttered to myself. “It’s nothing.”
I closed the door halfway and retreated to the living room, settling onto the couch with a book I wasn’t actually interested in. The silence was heavier than usual, pressing against my ears. I’d gotten used to Jeremy’s presence, the sound of his footsteps or the hum of his voice as he worked in his office. Without him, the house felt too big.
My phone buzzed. A text from him: How’s Emily? How’s my favorite girls?
I typed back quickly: She’s great. Misses her dad, though. We’re fine. Don’t worry.
I hesitated before hitting send, my thumb hovering over the screen. It was a lie, but what was the point of telling him otherwise? He couldn’t do anything from halfway across the world. I needed to handle this. Alone.
The hours ticked by. Emily was a good sleeper, rarely waking once she drifted off. Still, I found myself tiptoeing to the nursery every hour, just to peek in. She was always fine, her tiny chest rising and falling in rhythm with her soft snores.
At midnight, I decided to call it a night. I’d just climbed into bed when the sound started.
Static.
It was faint at first, like a whisper carried in the wind. My body froze. I didn’t have a monitor anymore. I’d thrown it out after that night. But the sound was unmistakable, crackling and hissing, filling the quiet.
I sat up slowly, my pulse pounding in my ears. The static was coming from somewhere in the house. It wasn’t loud, but it was persistent, like it wanted to be heard. My first thought was the TV. Maybe I’d left it on by accident. I forced myself out of bed, every step feeling heavier than the last.
The living room was dark, the TV screen black. The sound wasn’t coming from there.
I followed it down the hall, my breath shallow. The static grew louder as I approached the nursery. My heart dropped.
The door was open.
I was sure I’d closed it halfway. Positive. But now it stood ajar, the faint glow of the nightlight spilling into the hall. The static was louder now, sharp and grating. It was coming from inside.
“Emily?” My voice was barely a whisper.
I stepped into the room, my hand trembling as I flicked on the light. The static stopped. The silence that followed was deafening.
Emily was still in her crib, fast asleep. Her mobile swayed gently, though there was no breeze. I scanned the room, my eyes darting to every corner, every shadow. Nothing. No source of the sound. Just the faint hum of the nightlight.
I approached the crib, my legs unsteady. Emily stirred but didn’t wake. Her face was peaceful, her tiny hands clutching the edge of her blanket. I let out a shaky breath, brushing a strand of hair from her forehead.
And then I saw it.
On the floor, beneath the crib, something glinted. I crouched down, my fingers brushing against cold plastic. I pulled it out and stared, my stomach twisting.
It was the baby monitor. The one I’d thrown away.
The screen was cracked, the buttons worn, but it was unmistakably the same. My mind raced, trying to make sense of it. I’d thrown it in the trash. I’d watched the garbage truck take it away. There was no way it could be here.
But it was.
And the light on the monitor was blinking.
I wanted to throw it. Smash it. Do anything but keep holding it. But something compelled me to press the button. My thumb hovered over it for what felt like an eternity before I finally gave in.
The screen flickered to life, filled with static. At first, there was nothing. Just the same crackling hiss I’d heard before. But then, faintly, a voice emerged.
“You shouldn’t have left me.”
I dropped the monitor. The voice was gone, replaced by static. My chest tightened, the air in the room feeling too thick to breathe. I backed away, my eyes never leaving the device.
And then Emily’s mobile stopped swaying.
I stayed by the window for what felt like hours. The street outside was quiet, the only movement coming from the faint sway of tree branches in the cold wind. But the unease clung to me. My fingers trembled as I clutched the monitor in one hand, its plastic casing warm from how long I’d been holding it.
The static returned, soft at first, like the hiss of a distant storm. I flinched and pressed the volume button down, almost muting it. I didn’t want to hear it again—not the voice, not the whispers. But I couldn’t turn it off completely.
What if Emma cried?
What if… something else spoke?
I shook my head and paced the living room. Maybe it was my lack of sleep, or the way the events of last night still rattled around in my brain. But the house felt different, heavier. It wasn’t just in my head; even the air seemed thick, harder to breathe. Every creak of the floorboards under my feet sent a jolt through me.
When Emma finally stirred through the faint static, I almost cried from relief. Her soft coos broke through the tension, and I hurried to her room. She was standing in her crib, her tiny hands gripping the edge as she rocked back and forth.
“Hey, sweetheart,” I said, forcing my voice to sound steady.
She looked at me and smiled, but there was something off about it. Her eyes, so bright and curious, seemed to dart past me, focusing on the corner of the room. I turned, but there was nothing there—just the rocking chair and the little bookshelf my husband had built before she was born.
“Time to get up,” I said, scooping her into my arms.
Her gaze lingered on the corner as I carried her out of the room.
I tried to shake off the feeling. Babies stare at nothing all the time, didn’t they? But as I brought her downstairs and set her in her highchair, I caught myself glancing over my shoulder more often than usual.
Breakfast was quiet. Too quiet. Emma usually babbled non-stop, laughing at the clatter of her spoon or the way oatmeal stuck to her fingers. But today, she was silent. Her tiny head tilted toward the baby monitor I’d left on the counter.
The static hissed softly, then popped.
“Hello?” a voice whispered.
I froze. My hand gripped the edge of the counter so hard my knuckles turned white.
“Bring her back,” the voice said.
It was clearer this time, no longer muffled by interference. A woman’s voice, trembling, pleading.
I lunged for the monitor and shut it off.
Emma giggled.
“Did you hear that?” I asked, even though she couldn’t answer.
She just smiled at me, her hands clapping together. The sound of her laughter should’ve calmed me, but instead, it made my stomach twist. It wasn’t her usual laugh. It sounded… wrong.
I spent the rest of the day trying to distract myself. I cleaned the kitchen, folded laundry, and played with Emma on the living room rug. But no matter what I did, the monitor kept catching my eye.
I told myself I wouldn’t turn it back on. There was no reason to. But when Emma went down for her nap, I found myself standing over it, my hand hovering above the power button.
I pressed it.
Static.
I let out a breath, relieved. No voices. No whispers. Just the harmless sound of interference.
But then it changed.
A low hum crept in, like the sound of a faraway engine. It grew louder, vibrating through the speaker.
“Why did you leave us?” the voice said, breaking through the hum.
I dropped the monitor. It hit the floor with a crack, but the voice didn’t stop.
“We waited for you.”
I stared at the monitor, my chest heaving.
The hum grew louder, drowning out the voice. It was deafening now, filling the room. I covered my ears, but it didn’t help. The sound wasn’t just coming from the monitor anymore—it was everywhere.
And then, just as suddenly as it started, it stopped.
The silence was suffocating.
I reached down, my hands trembling, and picked up the monitor. The screen was black, the light off. It was as if it had never been turned on.
Behind me, Emma started crying.
I ran upstairs, taking the steps two at a time. Her cries were sharp and panicked, the kind that made my heart race. I burst into her room, expecting to find her tangled in her blankets or standing in her crib again.
But she wasn’t in her crib.
The blankets were untouched, the crib empty.
“Emma?” I called, my voice shaking.
Her cries echoed through the house, distant now, coming from somewhere I couldn’t place.
I turned, my eyes darting to every corner of the room. And that’s when I saw it.
The rocking chair in the corner was moving, swaying back and forth.
The rocking chair creaked softly, swaying back and forth in the corner of the room. My chest tightened, and I felt like I couldn’t breathe.
“Emma?” I whispered, taking a step forward.
Her cries still echoed, faint and distant, like they were coming from somewhere far away but somehow all around me. My legs felt like lead as I approached the chair. The air in the room was ice cold, and my breath came out in short, visible puffs.
The chair stopped moving the moment I reached out to touch it.
“Emma!” I shouted now, panic surging through me. I tore through the room, checking under the crib, inside the closet, behind the curtains. Nothing. She wasn’t here.
But her cries… they didn’t stop.
I froze when I realized where they were coming from.
The baby monitor.
I turned to look at it, still clenched in my hand. The screen was dark, the power light off. It wasn’t even plugged in anymore—it shouldn’t have been making any sound.
And yet her cries spilled out, warped and muffled, like they were trapped in the static.
“No, no, no,” I muttered, fumbling with the buttons. I pressed everything I could, trying to turn it off, trying to make it stop. But nothing happened.
Then the cries shifted.
They started to warp, slowing down and distorting until they no longer sounded like Emma at all. The noise became deeper, more guttural, like something was imitating her voice but failing.
I dropped the monitor and backed away, my back hitting the edge of the crib.
The static cut out.
And then the voice returned.
“She belongs to us now.”
The voice was deeper this time, and there was no mistaking it—it wasn’t human.
“No!” I shouted. “You can’t have her!”
I grabbed the monitor off the floor and threw it across the room. It shattered against the wall, pieces of plastic scattering everywhere.
The room went silent.
I stood there, shaking, my heart pounding so hard it hurt. I couldn’t think straight. My baby was gone. Gone.
I ran out of the room, my footsteps pounding down the stairs. Her cries had stopped, but the silence was worse. It was too still, too heavy.
The living room was exactly as I’d left it. The toys scattered on the rug, her favorite blanket draped over the couch. But no sign of her.
“Emma!” I screamed again, my voice cracking.
Nothing.
I grabbed my phone off the counter and dialed 911 with trembling fingers.
“911, what’s your emergency?” the operator’s calm voice answered.
“My daughter—she’s missing!” I said, struggling to catch my breath. “She was just here, in her crib, and now she’s gone!”
“Ma’am, please stay calm,” the operator said. “Can you tell me your location?”
I gave her my address, pacing back and forth as I tried to explain what had happened. But how could I explain this? How could I tell her about the voice on the monitor, the cries that weren’t human?
“I’ll send an officer to your location,” the operator said. “Stay on the line with me.”
I nodded, even though she couldn’t see me. My hands were shaking so badly I almost dropped the phone.
Then I heard it.
The creak of a door opening.
I turned slowly, my heart in my throat. The basement door, which I was certain had been closed, now stood ajar.
The air coming from the basement was damp and cold, carrying the faint smell of earth and mildew.
“Ma’am?” the operator’s voice broke through the silence. “Are you still there?”
“Yes,” I whispered, staring at the dark stairway leading down.
“Is someone in the house with you?” she asked.
“I don’t know,” I said, my voice trembling.
I stepped closer to the basement door, my phone clutched tightly in one hand. The floorboards creaked under my weight, and the sound echoed down the stairs.
And then I heard it.
Her laugh.
It was faint, but unmistakable. Emma’s laugh, coming from the basement.
“She’s down there,” I said into the phone, my voice barely above a whisper.
“Ma’am, I advise you to wait for the officers to arrive,” the operator said. “Do not go down there.”
But I couldn’t wait. That was my baby. I couldn’t just stand here while she was down there, alone in the dark.
“I have to go,” I said, ending the call before she could protest.
The basement stairs groaned under my weight as I descended, each step feeling like it took an eternity. The light switch at the top of the stairs didn’t work, leaving the space below shrouded in darkness.
“Emma?” I called, my voice echoing off the stone walls.
Her laugh came again, closer this time.
I reached the bottom of the stairs and fumbled for the pull chain to the single bulb that hung from the ceiling. The light flickered on, casting long, jagged shadows across the room.
The basement was empty.
But her laugh came again, louder now, coming from behind the old wooden door that led to the crawlspace.
I hesitated, my hand hovering over the rusted doorknob.
“Emma?” I called again, my voice trembling.
The laugh stopped.
And then I heard it.
The voice.
“Come closer,” it said, low and gravelly.
My blood ran cold, but I couldn’t move. The air around me felt heavy, pressing against my chest.
The door creaked open, just an inch, and a gust of cold air rushed out.
“Bring her back,” the voice whispered, so close it felt like it was right in my ear.
The door to the crawlspace hung open just wide enough for me to see darkness beyond. The air that wafted out felt alive, heavy with something I couldn’t explain. My hands shook as I stared into the black void. I should’ve run—I knew that much—but I couldn’t leave her. Not Emma.
“Emma,” I whispered, barely able to hear my own voice over the pounding of my heart.
No response. Only silence.
And then, faintly, from somewhere deep in the crawlspace: “Mama…”
Her voice was small and soft, like it always was when she was on the verge of sleep. But something was wrong. It wasn’t just her voice anymore. It was layered, like someone else was speaking underneath it, a low, guttural sound that didn’t belong to her.
“Emma, baby, I’m here,” I said, reaching for the edge of the door. The words felt wrong as they left my mouth. They sounded too loud, too sharp in the suffocating silence.
The moment my fingers touched the door, the laughter returned. It erupted from deep within the crawlspace, echoing and bouncing off the stone walls. It wasn’t just Emma’s laugh anymore. It was a chorus—children’s laughter, dozens of them, all overlapping and spilling out into the room. But it was distorted, warped, the kind of sound that makes your stomach churn and your legs want to buckle.
“Emma, come out, please,” I begged. My voice cracked as tears spilled down my cheeks. “Come to Mama, okay?”
The laughter stopped.
I could hear her breathing now, soft and steady, just on the other side of the doorway. It was so close. My fingers tightened on the doorframe as I forced myself to step inside.
The crawlspace wasn’t what I remembered. It had always been small, just a cramped area filled with old boxes and cobwebs. But now, the space stretched on endlessly, the walls disappearing into the shadows. The dirt floor was damp under my bare feet, the scent of mildew and rot filling my nose.
“Emma?” I called out, my voice shaking. “Where are you?”
“I’m here, Mama,” she said. Her voice was closer now, almost at my feet.
I dropped to my knees, my hands searching blindly in the dark. “Baby, come to me.”
My fingers brushed against something soft. A foot. Relief washed over me as I pulled her toward me, holding her tiny body in my arms. She felt warm, solid. She felt real.
“I’ve got you,” I whispered, tears streaming down my face. “I’ve got you, baby.”
But she didn’t move. She didn’t wrap her arms around me the way she always did. She just stayed limp in my grasp.
That’s when I realized her breathing had stopped.
I pulled back, trying to look at her face, but the darkness was too thick. My hands shook as I felt for her cheek, her nose, her mouth. Her skin was cold now, unnaturally cold.
“Emma?” I whispered, my voice barely audible.
And then she moved.
Her head tilted back, and I could feel her staring at me even though I couldn’t see her eyes. Her mouth opened, far wider than it should have, and from her lips came that voice again, the one from the monitor.
“She doesn’t belong to you anymore,” it said, low and guttural.
I screamed and scrambled backward, dropping her as I did. The moment she hit the ground, the laughter started again—louder this time, echoing all around me. I turned and ran, my hands clawing at the dirt as I tried to find the door.
But the crawlspace was different now. It wasn’t just endless—it was alive. The walls seemed to shift and breathe, the dirt floor writhing beneath me as if it was trying to pull me under. The laughter grew louder, filling my ears until I thought my head would split open.
And then I heard her.
“Mommy!” Emma’s real voice, high-pitched and desperate, cutting through the noise like a blade.
I stopped, my heart lurching. “Emma!” I screamed, spinning around.
She was there, just a few feet away. Her tiny form was bathed in a dim, flickering light that seemed to come from nowhere. She reached out to me, her face streaked with tears.
“Mommy, help me!” she cried.
I lunged toward her, my arms outstretched. But just as my fingers brushed hers, she was pulled back into the darkness. Her screams echoed around me, blending with the laughter.
“No! No!” I screamed, chasing after her. But the ground beneath me gave way, and I fell, tumbling into the void.
When I hit the ground, the air was knocked from my lungs. I lay there, gasping, as the darkness around me began to shift. Shapes emerged from the shadows—small, childlike figures with hollow eyes and wide, unnatural grins.
They surrounded me, their movements jerky and unnatural. One by one, they began to speak, their voices overlapping in a horrifying cacophony.
“She was promised to us,” they said. “You can’t take her back.”
I tried to move, to crawl away, but the ground held me in place, cold hands grasping at my ankles and wrists. The children closed in, their hollow eyes boring into mine.
“Who promised her?” I managed to choke out. My voice was hoarse, barely audible.
They stopped, their heads tilting in unison as if considering my question. And then one of them stepped forward, its grin widening until it split its face in two.
“You did,” it said.
I stared at the thing in front of me, its face still contorted into that inhuman grin. My mind reeled, trying to make sense of its words.
“I—I didn’t,” I stammered. “I would never…”
The figure tilted its head, mocking curiosity. The other childlike shapes stood still, their hollow eyes locked on me. The ground beneath me was cold and unyielding, the invisible hands still holding me in place. My breath came in shallow gasps as I fought against the panic rising in my chest.
“You promised her to us,” it repeated, its voice sharp and accusing. “Don’t you remember?”
“I don’t!” I shouted, shaking my head. My voice cracked as I fought back tears. “I don’t know what you’re talking about!”
The figure stepped closer, its movements disjointed and unnatural. Its face was inches from mine now, and I could see the black emptiness where its eyes should have been.
“You don’t remember,” it said, almost gleefully. “But you did. A long time ago.”
“What do you mean?” I whispered. My voice was barely audible. “What are you talking about?”
It didn’t answer. Instead, it raised one skeletal hand and pressed a single finger against my forehead. The moment it made contact, my vision went white.
I was no longer in the crawlspace. I was standing in a room I didn’t recognize. The walls were bare, and the air smelled of damp wood and something faintly metallic. A single bulb hung from the ceiling, casting a dim yellow light over the scene.
I saw myself sitting at a table in the center of the room. My hands were clasped tightly together, and my face was pale. I looked younger—years younger—but there was something else about me that I didn’t recognize. My eyes were wide, almost vacant, and my lips moved as if I were whispering something.
There was someone else in the room with me.
The figure was tall and shrouded in shadow. I couldn’t make out any features, but its presence was suffocating. It leaned down toward the younger version of me, its voice low and rumbling.
“Do we have a deal?” it asked.
Younger me nodded, her hands trembling. “Just make it stop,” she whispered. “Please, I’ll do anything. Just make it stop.”
The figure laughed—a deep, guttural sound that made my stomach turn. “Anything?” it asked.
“Yes,” I said, my voice breaking. “Anything.”
The figure reached out, placing a hand over mine. Its fingers were long and clawed, the skin pale and cracked. “Then it’s done,” it said. “You won’t remember this, but when the time comes, you’ll know.”
The scene began to dissolve around me, the walls melting into darkness. I tried to hold onto it, to make sense of what I’d just seen, but it slipped away like smoke.
I was back in the crawlspace. The figure in front of me had withdrawn its hand, and the hollow-eyed children were staring at me with twisted smiles. My chest heaved as I tried to process what I’d just seen.
“I didn’t know,” I said, my voice barely a whisper. “I didn’t know what I was agreeing to.”
“But you did,” the figure said. “You asked for it, and we delivered. And now it’s time to collect.”
“What did I ask for?” I demanded. “What was so important that I would give up my own daughter?”
The figure didn’t answer. Instead, it raised its hand again, and the children began to move, their twisted laughter filling the air. They closed in around me, their small hands grabbing at my arms and legs.
“Wait!” I screamed, thrashing against them. “You can’t take her! Please, I’ll do anything! Take me instead!”
The laughter stopped abruptly. The children froze, their heads snapping toward the figure as if waiting for instruction.
The figure tilted its head, considering me. “You would trade yourself for her?” it asked, its voice low and rumbling.
“Yes,” I said without hesitation. Tears streamed down my face as I stared into the void where its eyes should have been. “Take me instead. Just let her go.”
The figure smiled, a slow, deliberate movement that sent a chill down my spine. “Interesting,” it said. “We’ll consider your offer.”
Before I could respond, the ground beneath me gave way. I fell, tumbling through darkness, the children’s laughter echoing in my ears. Their voices twisted into a single word, repeated over and over.
“Promise.”
When I woke, I was lying on the floor of the nursery. The crawl space door was shut, and the room was silent except for the soft hum of the baby monitor. My head throbbed as I pushed myself to my feet, my eyes scanning the room.
“Emma?” I called out, my voice trembling.
The crib was empty.
Panic surged through me as I ran to the door, throwing it open. “Emma!” I screamed, my voice echoing through the house.
But the house was silent. She was gone.
And I was alone.
I stumbled through the house, screaming Emma’s name until my throat burned. Every shadow in every corner felt alive, mocking me with the weight of my failure. The world felt off-kilter, as though reality itself had started to unravel. My feet dragged across the hardwood floor as I moved from room to room, my mind racing.
Where was she? Where had they taken her?
The house groaned under the weight of a sudden silence, thick and suffocating. My legs gave out beneath me, and I collapsed to the floor of the living room. The last place I’d seen her in my arms flooded my mind. She’d been so warm, so real. My hands trembled as I pressed them to my face, unable to stop the onslaught of memories clawing their way to the surface.
But not all the memories were mine.
A whisper curled through my ears like smoke. It wasn’t coming from the baby monitor this time. It was coming from inside me.
“Liar…”
The word was faint but sharp, slicing through my thoughts like a blade. My stomach churned.
“I’m not a liar,” I muttered, clutching my head.
But the whisper didn’t stop. It grew louder, spreading through my chest like poison.
“You were never supposed to have her.”
“What?” My voice cracked as I pressed my hands harder against my ears. “What do you mean? She’s my daughter!”
The laughter came next. Soft at first, then growing louder until it filled every corner of the room. It wasn’t the children’s laughter this time. It was deeper, older, and laced with something dark.
“Yours?” the voice hissed, dripping with disdain. “She doesn’t belong to you. She never did.”
“Stop it!” I screamed, but the laughter only grew. My vision blurred, and suddenly, I wasn’t in the living room anymore.
I was in a forest, the trees twisting and writhing like they were alive. The air smelled of damp earth and blood. I could hear faint cries in the distance—Emma’s cries. I ran toward them, my bare feet sinking into the muddy ground with each step.
But the forest didn’t end. No matter how far I ran, the cries stayed just out of reach.
Then I saw her.
Emma was sitting on the ground, her tiny hands clutching at the dirt. Her back was to me, and her soft whimpers pierced through the darkness. Relief flooded through me as I ran to her, dropping to my knees.
“Emma!” I cried, reaching out to scoop her up. But the moment my hands touched her, she dissolved into ash, slipping through my fingers like sand.
“No,” I whispered, staring at the empty space where she’d been. “No, no, no!”
“Do you see now?” the voice said, echoing all around me. “Do you remember?”
I didn’t want to. I tried to block it out, but the memories came anyway, rushing back like a dam had broken.
I saw myself standing over my husband, a kitchen knife in my hand. His eyes were wide with shock as blood pooled around him, his lips moving soundlessly.
He’d known. Somehow, he’d known what I was.
“You’re not real,” he’d said, his voice trembling as he backed away from me. “You’re not even human.”
I didn’t want to hurt him. But I couldn’t let him stop me.
The knife had felt heavy in my hand, but the weight disappeared the moment it pierced his flesh. I’d watched the life drain from his eyes, cold and detached, like I wasn’t even in my own body.
And then I’d buried him in the backyard, beneath the oak tree where we’d once dreamed of growing old together.
The memory shifted, dragging me further back. I saw flames, towering and endless, licking at my skin. I saw chains, red-hot and unyielding, wrapped around my wrists.
I had been one of them. A soul condemned to eternal torment.
But I had escaped.
I’d clawed my way out of the pit, tearing through flesh and bone, leaving behind the shrieks of the damned. I had stolen a body—a human shell to hide in. I had thought I could be free, that I could start over.
But then I had met him. My husband. And for the first time, I had felt something I wasn’t supposed to feel.
Love.
It had been a weakness, and I had paid the price.
Emma had been the price.
She wasn’t supposed to exist. She was an impossibility—a crack in the natural order.
The voices from the pit had found me through her. They had whispered through the static, reminding me of my crime. They had come to collect what was owed.
I snapped back to the present, the forest dissolving around me. I was back in the house, kneeling on the living room floor. My hands were smeared with blood, but I didn’t know if it was real or just a ghost of my memories.
The laughter had stopped, replaced by the sound of faint breathing behind me.
I turned slowly, my body trembling.
Emma stood in the doorway, her tiny figure bathed in shadow. Her eyes weren’t hers anymore. They were black as coal, endless and empty.
“They’re here, Mommy,” she said, her voice not her own.
Behind her, the figures emerged. The children with hollow eyes. The shadowed being from the crawlspace. They moved toward me, their steps slow and deliberate.
I backed away, but there was nowhere to go.
“They’ll take me back,” I whispered, my voice trembling. “That was the deal. Take me back and leave her alone!”
The shadow figure tilted its head, the twisted grin spreading across its face. “It’s too late,” it said. “She was never yours to save.”
Emma stepped closer, her small hand reaching out toward me. I wanted to run, to fight, but I couldn’t move.
“Mommy,” she whispered, her voice soft now. “Why did you let me exist?”
Tears streamed down my face as the shadows closed in around us. I reached out to her, my fingers brushing against hers.
And then there was nothing.
Just darkness.
Static In The Baby Monitor (PT1)
The baby monitor sat on the nightstand, its tiny green light blinking in steady intervals. I barely noticed it anymore—just another piece of technology blending into the chaos of new parenthood. Most nights, it buzzed with soft static or picked up the occasional creak of the crib as Emma shifted in her sleep. But tonight felt... off.
It was almost midnight when I first noticed it. I had just climbed into bed, exhausted from the day, but unable to fully relax. The monitor crackled to life, faint and uneven. At first, I thought it was just interference. The house was old, and the wiring wasn’t great. The monitor often picked up odd noises—garage door openers, stray radio signals.
But this time, it wasn’t just noise. Through the static, there were whispers.
I froze, my hand halfway to the lamp switch. The whispers were faint, but I could make out the rhythm of words. Someone was speaking, repeating the same phrase over and over.
“Bring her back.”
I stared at the monitor, waiting for the static to clear. My pulse thudded in my ears. I leaned in closer, hoping I’d misheard. The screen displayed a grainy, black-and-white image of Emma’s crib. She was there, tiny and peaceful, curled up under her blanket. But the whispers didn’t stop.
“Bring her back.”
My first thought was that someone nearby was using the same frequency. Baby monitors weren’t exactly secure, and I’d heard stories about signals crossing. It had to be that, right?
But the voice—it wasn’t normal. It wasn’t just words. There was a strange quality to it, a distortion, like it was being dragged through the static. The longer I listened, the harder it became to convince myself it was just a technical glitch.
I turned to my husband, Chris, who was snoring softly beside me. I shook his shoulder.
“Chris, wake up,” I whispered, my voice trembling.
He stirred, groaning. “What is it?”
“Listen.” I held the monitor up so he could hear.
He squinted at it, still half-asleep. “It’s just interference,” he mumbled, rolling over.
“It’s not,” I insisted, my voice sharper now. “Listen to what it’s saying.”
He sighed and sat up, rubbing his eyes. I pressed the monitor closer to him. The whispers continued, soft but insistent.
“Bring her back.”
Chris frowned, now fully awake. “That’s... weird,” he admitted. He took the monitor from me, staring at the screen. Emma hadn’t moved.
“Maybe it’s a neighbor’s signal,” he said, though he didn’t sound convinced.
“It’s on a closed frequency,” I said. “It shouldn’t be picking anything up.”
He didn’t answer right away. Instead, he fiddled with the monitor, adjusting the volume and flipping through the settings. The whispers persisted, unchanging.
“Bring her back.”
A chill ran down my spine. “What does that even mean?” I asked, my voice barely above a whisper.
Chris shook his head. “I don’t know.” He set the monitor down and stood up. “I’m going to check on her.”
“No,” I blurted out, grabbing his arm.
“What?”
I didn’t know how to explain the unease curling in my chest. “It’s... I don’t know. Something feels wrong.”
“She’s fine,” he said, his tone gentle but firm. “Look.” He pointed to the monitor. Emma was still there, still sleeping.
But I couldn’t shake the feeling that something was watching her.
Chris pulled his arm free and headed toward the nursery. I followed close behind, the cold hardwood floor biting at my feet.
The house was quiet except for the faint hum of the refrigerator and the occasional groan of the old pipes. When we reached Emma’s room, Chris pushed the door open slowly, the hinges creaking in protest.
She was there, just as the monitor had shown, tucked snugly into her crib. Her chest rose and fell with each tiny breath.
Chris turned to me, raising an eyebrow. “See? She’s fine.”
But as he said it, the whispers grew louder. They weren’t coming from the monitor anymore.
They were coming from the room.
I froze, my eyes darting around the nursery. The air felt heavier, like the room was holding its breath. The shadows in the corners seemed darker, deeper.
Chris didn’t seem to notice. He stepped closer to the crib, brushing a hand over Emma’s soft hair.
“Do you hear that?” I whispered, barely able to get the words out.
“Hear what?”
“Bring her back.”
The voice was louder now, more insistent. It felt like it was coming from everywhere at once—above us, behind us, inside us.
Chris turned to me, his face pale. “Okay, that’s... not normal.”
Before I could respond, the baby monitor crackled again. This time, the screen went black.
We both stared at it, waiting for it to come back on. When it did, the image on the screen wasn’t Emma’s crib anymore.
It was us.
We froze, staring at the monitor. The grainy black-and-white screen showed us standing in the nursery. I could see Chris with his hand still resting on the edge of Emma’s crib and me, wide-eyed, gripping the doorframe. The angle didn’t make sense.
“That’s not possible,” I said, my voice barely above a whisper.
Chris didn’t respond. His eyes were glued to the screen, his hand slowly pulling away from the crib as if it had burned him.
“Where’s the camera?” I asked, my voice shaking.
Chris turned, scanning the room. The baby monitor’s camera was mounted on the wall, aimed directly at Emma’s crib. It hadn’t moved. It couldn’t have moved.
“Maybe it’s a glitch,” Chris said, though he didn’t sound convinced.
“A glitch doesn’t show us like this,” I snapped. My chest was tight, and my breaths came shallow and quick.
The screen flickered, and for a moment, it went black again. When the image returned, Emma wasn’t in the crib.
My stomach dropped. I lunged forward, reaching for her, but she was still there—sleeping peacefully, exactly where she should be.
I turned back to the monitor. The screen still showed her empty crib. The whispering was gone, replaced by a faint hum that felt almost alive.
Chris grabbed my arm. “Let’s go back to our room. Maybe it’s the monitor itself, not the camera.”
I wanted to argue, but the weight in the air felt suffocating. The nursery, once a place of comfort and warmth, now felt foreign and wrong.
We backed out of the room, leaving the door slightly ajar. Chris grabbed the monitor off the nightstand when we returned to our bedroom. He sat on the bed, flipping through the settings again.
“Anything?” I asked, standing in the doorway.
“No,” he said. His voice was steady, but I could see the tension in his shoulders. “Everything looks normal.”
“It’s not normal,” I muttered. I sat down beside him, staring at the screen. The image was back to Emma’s crib—she was there again, her tiny form rising and falling with each breath. But something about the picture felt wrong.
It took me a moment to realize what it was.
“There’s no static,” I said.
Chris frowned. “What?”
“There’s always static,” I said. “Even when she’s sleeping, there’s a faint sound—breathing, the creak of the crib, something. But now it’s just... silent.”
Chris leaned closer to the screen, as if he could force it to make sense. The silence from the monitor felt louder than the whispers had been.
Suddenly, the screen flickered again. This time, the image warped. The edges of the crib stretched and twisted, and Emma’s tiny form seemed to flicker in and out of focus.
I grabbed Chris’s arm. “Turn it off,” I said.
He hesitated.
“Chris, turn it off!”
He fumbled with the buttons, but the monitor wouldn’t respond. The screen flickered more violently, the static returning in sharp bursts. And then the whispers came back.
“Bring her back.”
This time, the voice was louder. Clearer. It was still distorted, still unnatural, but now it sounded like it was coming from inside the room.
“Bring her back.”
Chris dropped the monitor like it was on fire. It hit the floor with a dull thud, but the screen stayed on, the image twisting and flickering.
“What does it mean?” I asked, my voice trembling.
Chris didn’t answer. He knelt down, picking up the monitor with shaking hands. The whispers had stopped again, but the screen was still flickering.
And then, for the first time, we heard a different voice.
“Where is she?”
The voice was deep and slow, each word dragging like it was being pulled through mud. It wasn’t coming from the monitor. It was coming from the hallway.
Chris shot to his feet, his eyes wide. “Did you hear that?”
I nodded, my heart pounding in my chest.
The air in the room felt heavier, colder. I could see my breath fogging in front of me.
“Where is she?” the voice asked again, closer this time.
I grabbed Chris’s arm, my nails digging into his skin. “What’s happening?”
He didn’t answer. Instead, he moved toward the door, peeking out into the hallway.
It was empty.
But the voice didn’t stop.
“Where is she?”
Chris shut the door and locked it, his chest heaving. “We need to call someone,” he said.
“Who?” I asked, my voice breaking. “What do we even say? ‘Hi, there’s a voice in our house asking creepy questions through a baby monitor’?”
He didn’t respond.
I backed away from the door, my eyes darting around the room. The walls seemed closer than they had before, the shadows darker.
“Bring her back.”
The voice was back on the monitor now, louder than ever.
And then Emma cried.
It was a sharp, piercing wail that cut through the whispers like a knife. Without thinking, I ran to the nursery.
Chris shouted behind me, but I didn’t stop.
When I reached the room, the air felt even colder. Emma was still in her crib, her tiny fists clenched, her face red and wet with tears.
But I wasn’t alone.
Something stood in the corner, barely visible in the shadows.
The thing in the corner didn’t move. At first, I thought maybe it was just a trick of the shadows, my mind playing games in the dim light. But as I stood frozen by the crib, I saw it shift ever so slightly. It wasn’t human. Its outline was wrong, the angles too sharp, the proportions too tall.
Emma’s cries filled the room, piercing and frantic. I wanted to pick her up, to comfort her, but I couldn’t tear my eyes away from the thing in the corner.
“Chris!” I shouted, my voice cracking.
Footsteps thundered down the hall. Chris burst into the room, skidding to a stop when he saw the look on my face. “What is it?” he asked, breathless.
I pointed to the corner, unable to speak.
Chris followed my gaze, squinting into the shadows. At first, he didn’t seem to see it. Then his whole body tensed, and he took a step back, pulling me with him.
“What the hell is that?” he whispered.
The figure leaned forward, just enough for the dim light from the nightlight to catch its face—or what should have been a face. There were no eyes, no mouth, no features at all. Just a blank, pale surface that seemed to pulse faintly, like it was alive.
Emma’s cries grew louder, more desperate. I reached for her, finally breaking free of my paralysis, and scooped her up into my arms. Her tiny body trembled against me, and I could feel my own heart hammering in my chest.
Chris moved in front of us, positioning himself between me and the thing in the corner. “What do you want?” he asked, his voice shaking but firm.
The figure didn’t respond. Instead, the baby monitor on the nightstand crackled to life.
“Bring her back,” the voice said again, distorted and hollow.
Chris turned toward the monitor, then back to the figure. “Who are you talking about? Bring who back?”
The figure tilted its head, like it was trying to understand him.
I held Emma tighter, her cries slowing to soft whimpers. The room felt colder now, the kind of cold that sinks into your bones. I could see my breath in the air, each exhale shaky and uneven.
The figure moved then, its body shifting in a jerky, unnatural way, like it wasn’t used to moving. It stepped out of the corner, and I stumbled back, nearly tripping over the edge of the rug.
“Chris,” I whispered, panic clawing at my throat.
“I see it,” he said, his voice low.
The figure raised a hand—or what looked like a hand. Its fingers were too long, too thin, and they ended in sharp, pointed tips. It gestured toward Emma, and I instinctively pulled her closer.
“No,” I said, my voice trembling.
The figure stopped, its head tilting again. The monitor crackled once more.
“Where is she?” the deep voice asked, slow and deliberate.
“She’s right here!” Chris shouted, his frustration boiling over. “Emma’s here! What do you want from us?”
The figure didn’t react. It just stood there, silent and still. Then, without warning, it took another step forward.
“Get back!” Chris shouted, grabbing the lamp from the nightstand and holding it like a weapon.
The figure stopped, its featureless face turning toward him. For a moment, I thought it might leave, but then the monitor crackled again, louder this time.
“She doesn’t belong to you.”
The words hit me like a punch to the gut. My knees went weak, and I clutched Emma even tighter. She started crying again, her tiny fists flailing.
“What does that mean?” I demanded, my voice breaking. “She’s our daughter! Of course, she belongs to us!”
The figure didn’t respond. Instead, it raised its other hand, pointing at the monitor.
The screen flickered, and the image changed. It was no longer showing Emma’s crib. Instead, it showed a room I didn’t recognize. The walls were dark, the floor bare. In the center of the room was a crib, but it wasn’t Emma’s crib. It was older, the wood worn and splintered.
And inside the crib was a baby.
My breath caught in my throat. The baby wasn’t Emma, but it looked like her—just slightly off. Her hair was darker, her cheeks fuller, but the resemblance was uncanny.
“What the hell is this?” Chris whispered, his grip on the lamp tightening.
The figure pointed at the monitor again.
“Bring her back,” the voice repeated, louder now.
The baby in the monitor’s crib started to cry, the sound tinny and distant. My head spun as I tried to make sense of what I was seeing.
Chris moved toward the figure, raising the lamp like he was about to swing. But before he could, the figure stepped back into the shadows and vanished.
The monitor went dark, and the room was silent again—except for Emma’s cries.
Chris lowered the lamp, his chest heaving. “What the hell just happened?”
I shook my head, unable to answer. My eyes were fixed on the monitor, waiting for it to come back to life.
“Whatever that thing was,” I said finally, my voice barely above a whisper, “it thinks Emma doesn’t belong to us.”
Chris turned to me, his face pale. “And it wants her back.”
For a long time, neither of us moved. The silence felt thick, suffocating. My ears strained for the faintest sound—anything to tell me that the figure was gone for good.
Emma stirred in my arms, her cries fading into soft hiccups. I could feel her heartbeat against my chest, fast and uneven, and I knew mine matched hers. Chris finally set the lamp down on the dresser, his hand shaking as he did.
“What now?” he whispered.
I shook my head, still staring at the monitor. The screen was blank, the tiny green power light glowing like nothing had happened. I didn’t know what to say. I didn’t know what we could do.
“Maybe we should call someone,” he said, his voice uncertain. “Like...the police? Or...I don’t know, someone who knows about this kind of thing.”
I looked at him, my eyes wide. “And what do we even tell them? That a shadow thing came into our baby’s room and showed us...that?” I gestured to the monitor, even though the image of the strange crib was gone. “They’ll think we’re insane.”
Chris ran a hand through his hair, pacing back and forth. “Okay, then what? Do we just sit here and wait for it to come back? Because I can’t do that, Claire. I can’t just do nothing.”
I wanted to argue, to tell him we needed to think this through, but the truth was, I didn’t have a better plan. My mind kept circling back to the same question: What did it want?
Chris stopped pacing and looked at me. “Let’s leave. Just for the night. We can go to my mom’s house or a hotel—anywhere but here.”
I hesitated, glancing down at Emma. She’d finally fallen asleep again, her tiny hand clutching the front of my shirt. The idea of leaving felt...wrong. Like we’d be giving up ground to whatever that thing was. But staying here? I couldn’t shake the feeling that it was waiting for something.
“Okay,” I said finally. “Let’s go.”
Chris nodded, relief washing over his face. He grabbed a bag from the closet and started tossing in essentials—diapers, bottles, a change of clothes. I stayed by the crib, holding Emma close. The room felt heavier now, like the air was pressing down on me.
As Chris zipped up the bag, the monitor crackled again.
I froze, my breath catching in my throat. Chris stopped, too, his eyes darting toward the screen.
“Bring her back,” the voice said, low and distorted.
I felt my knees buckle, and I had to grip the side of the crib to stay upright. The words hung in the air, heavier than before.
Chris grabbed the monitor and yanked the plug from the wall. “There,” he said, his voice tight. “No more of that.”
But even unplugged, the monitor flickered back to life. The screen glowed faintly, and static hissed from the speaker.
“Chris...” I whispered, backing away.
He stared at the monitor in his hands like it had burned him. Then he dropped it onto the dresser and stepped back.
The static grew louder, almost deafening. I clutched Emma tighter, her body squirming as she started to stir again. The screen on the monitor flickered, and for a split second, I thought I saw something—a flash of that dark room, the crib, the baby.
Then it was gone.
The static stopped, and the monitor went dark again.
Chris looked at me, his face pale. “We’re leaving. Now.”
I didn’t argue. We grabbed the bag and headed down the hallway, Emma still cradled in my arms. The house felt different as we moved through it, like it wasn’t ours anymore. Every shadow seemed to stretch too far, every creak of the floorboards felt deliberate.
We reached the front door, and Chris fumbled with the lock. His hands were shaking so badly that it took him three tries to get it open.
As the door swung open, I turned to look back down the hallway.
For just a moment, I thought I saw something move in the shadows near the stairs. A flicker of motion, too quick to make out.
I shook my head and followed Chris outside, my heart pounding.
We got into the car, and Chris started the engine. The headlights lit up the front of the house, casting long shadows across the yard.
“Where are we going?” I asked, my voice barely above a whisper.
Chris didn’t answer right away. He gripped the steering wheel tightly, his knuckles white.
“Somewhere safe,” he said finally.
But as we pulled out of the driveway, I couldn’t shake the feeling that we weren’t running to safety.
We were running from something we didn’t understand.
The road stretched out before us, empty and endless. Chris drove in silence, his hands gripping the steering wheel like it was the only thing tethering him to reality. I sat in the passenger seat, holding Emma close, her tiny breaths warm against my chest.
Neither of us had spoken since we left the house. The weight of what we’d seen—and heard—hung between us like a storm cloud. The soft hum of the car’s engine felt deafening in the silence.
“Where are we even going?” I asked finally, my voice barely audible over the hum of the tires on the pavement.
Chris glanced at me, his jaw tight. “I don’t know. Maybe my mom’s. Or a motel.”
I nodded, even though the thought of dragging this darkness into someone else’s home made my stomach twist. Emma stirred in my arms, letting out a soft whimper.
Chris looked at her through the rearview mirror. “She’s okay, right?”
“For now,” I said, though I didn’t really believe it.
The dashboard clock read 2:37 a.m. The world outside was pitch black, the kind of darkness that seemed to swallow the car’s headlights. Every so often, I’d catch a glimpse of something out of the corner of my eye—a shadow flickering at the edge of the road, a shape moving just beyond the reach of the light.
I told myself it was my imagination.
Chris turned onto a narrow, winding road lined with trees. Their branches arched overhead, forming a tunnel that made me feel like we were driving straight into the mouth of something alive.
“We need to stop soon,” he said, his voice strained. “I can’t keep driving all night.”
I didn’t argue. My body ached from the tension, and Emma needed a proper place to rest. But every part of me screamed that stopping was the wrong choice.
We passed a gas station with a single flickering light above the pumps. Chris slowed down, but I grabbed his arm.
“Don’t,” I said.
He looked at me, confused. “We need gas.”
“Not here,” I whispered.
There was something off about the place. The shadows seemed darker, deeper, like they were waiting for us to stop. Chris must have seen the fear in my eyes because he pressed the gas pedal and kept driving.
We finally pulled into the parking lot of a small roadside motel. The neon sign buzzed faintly, casting a sickly red glow over the cracked pavement. It looked deserted, but at least it wasn’t the gas station.
Chris got out and went to the office to check us in. I stayed in the car, my eyes scanning the darkness. The baby monitor was still in the diaper bag at my feet. I hadn’t touched it since we left the house, but now it felt like it was watching me, waiting for the right moment to come back to life.
Emma whimpered again, her little fists curling and uncurling in her sleep. I kissed the top of her head, murmuring soft reassurances even though I wasn’t sure who I was trying to comfort—her or myself.
Chris came back a few minutes later, holding a key. “Room 8,” he said, nodding toward the far end of the lot.
We carried Emma and our things inside. The room was small and dingy, with peeling wallpaper and a faint smell of mildew. The bed creaked loudly when Chris sat on it, and the flickering fluorescent light in the bathroom buzzed like a swarm of angry bees.
“It’s not much, but it’s better than the car,” Chris said, trying to sound reassuring.
I set Emma’s carrier on the bed and carefully laid her inside. She stirred but didn’t wake. Chris turned on the TV, keeping the volume low. Static filled the screen.
“Great,” he muttered, flipping through the channels. Every single one was static.
I froze. “Turn it off,” I said quickly.
He frowned but did as I asked, the screen going black with a faint click.
We sat in silence for a while, the room heavy with tension. I kept glancing at the diaper bag, half-expecting the monitor to start hissing again.
“Do you think it’ll follow us here?” I asked finally.
Chris didn’t answer right away. He rubbed a hand over his face, looking more exhausted than I’d ever seen him.
“I don’t know,” he admitted. “But if it does, we’ll figure it out.”
I wanted to believe him, but something about his tone told me he wasn’t as confident as he sounded.
The room grew colder as the night dragged on. I pulled the thin motel blanket tighter around Emma and myself, trying to ignore the feeling of being watched.
Around 4 a.m., I heard it again.
A faint whisper, so quiet I thought I might have imagined it.
“Bring her back.”
My heart stopped. I looked at Chris, but he was already asleep, his head resting against the wall.
The whisper came again, louder this time.
“Bring her back.”
It was coming from the diaper bag.
I didn’t want to move. My body felt frozen, every instinct screaming at me to stay still. But I couldn’t just sit there. Slowly, I reached down and unzipped the bag.
The baby monitor was glowing faintly, even though it was still unplugged.
“Bring her back.”
This time, the voice was clearer, almost pleading.
I turned the monitor over in my hands, trying to make sense of what was happening. The screen flickered, and for a brief moment, I saw it again—the dark room, the strange crib, the shadowy figure standing just out of view.
Then the screen went black.
“Claire?”
Chris’s voice startled me. I looked up to see him staring at me, his eyes wide with fear.
“What’s wrong?” he asked.
I held up the monitor. “It’s still happening,” I whispered.
Chris stood up, grabbing the monitor from me. He shook it like that would somehow make it stop, but it didn’t.
The voice came again, louder now.
“Bring her back.”
And then, as if on cue, Emma started crying.
Emma’s cries pierced the air, sharp and frantic. I scooped her up, holding her against my chest as Chris fiddled helplessly with the monitor. The voice continued, louder now, overlapping with Emma’s sobs like it was trying to drown her out.
“Bring her back. Bring her back.”
“Smash it,” I hissed at Chris. “Just break the damn thing.”
He didn’t move, his eyes fixed on the flickering screen. “What if it makes things worse?”
“What could possibly be worse than this?” I snapped.
Before he could answer, the screen flickered again, and the room plunged into an eerie silence. Even Emma’s cries faltered, her tiny body trembling against mine. The monitor’s glow shifted, revealing the dark room we’d seen before—only this time, the shadowy figure wasn’t lingering in the background.
It was closer.
The figure was standing in the center of the crib, its form sharper than before, though still cloaked in darkness. And then it turned its head. Slowly. Deliberately.
I gasped, stumbling back as Emma whimpered in my arms.
“Did you see that?” I whispered.
Chris nodded, his face pale. “It looked... at us.”
The monitor buzzed, static spilling into the room again. But this time, the voice was different. It wasn’t just repeating the same phrase. It was talking.
“Bring her back. You know why. You know what you did.”
Chris’s hand tightened around the monitor. “We didn’t do anything!” he shouted, his voice cracking.
The figure in the screen tilted its head, as if mocking him. The static warped, and the words that followed sent a chill down my spine.
“Not the child.”
I froze, my mind racing. Her? What did it mean? My first instinct was to think of Emma, but something in the voice—its tone, its deliberate emphasis—made me realize it wasn’t talking about her.
Chris looked at me, his eyes wide with confusion and... guilt?
“Claire,” he started, but the monitor buzzed again, cutting him off.
The scene on the screen changed. It wasn’t the strange room anymore. It was somewhere else, somewhere familiar.
My childhood bedroom.
I couldn’t breathe. The pink wallpaper with tiny yellow wilting daisies. The old wooden rocking chair by the window. The bloody stuffed bear that always sat on my bed.
“What the hell is this?” I whispered.
Chris didn’t answer. He was staring at the screen, his jaw clenched.
The voice came again, clearer than ever.
“You shouldn’t have left her. You shouldn’t have forgotten.”
The words hit me like a punch to the chest. Memories I’d buried deep started to claw their way to the surface—fragments of nights spent crying in that room, the sound of my mom’s voice singing me to sleep, and then the silence when she wasn’t there anymore.
“No,” I whispered, shaking my head. “This doesn’t make sense.”
Chris turned to me, his face pale. “Claire, what’s it talking about? Who is it talking about?”
I couldn’t answer. My mind was a whirlwind of confusion and fear. The monitor buzzed again, the image on the screen shifting once more.
This time, it was a woman.
She was sitting in the rocking chair, her face turned away. But I didn’t need to see her face to know who she was.
“Mom?” I whispered, my voice barely audible.
The woman turned her head slightly, just enough for me to catch a glimpse of her profile. It was her—her soft brown curls, the curve of her cheek, the way she always held her hands clasped in her lap.
Chris looked between me and the screen, his expression unreadable. “Claire, what the hell is going on?”
“I don’t know,” I said, my voice trembling. “I... I don’t know.”
The monitor buzzed again, and the woman’s figure started to dissolve into static. But before it disappeared completely, the voice came one last time, louder and clearer than ever.
“Bring her back, Claire. Or I will.”
The screen went dark.
I stared at it, my heart racing. The room felt impossibly cold, the air thick with something I couldn’t explain. Emma started crying again, her wails cutting through the silence like a knife.
Chris put a hand on my shoulder, his grip firm. “Claire. What does this mean? What does it want?”
I didn’t answer. I couldn’t.
Because deep down, I already knew.
It didn’t want Emma.
It wanted me.
And it wasn’t going to stop until it got what it came for.
It was almost midnight when I first noticed it. I had just climbed into bed, exhausted from the day, but unable to fully relax. The monitor crackled to life, faint and uneven. At first, I thought it was just interference. The house was old, and the wiring wasn’t great. The monitor often picked up odd noises—garage door openers, stray radio signals.
But this time, it wasn’t just noise. Through the static, there were whispers.
I froze, my hand halfway to the lamp switch. The whispers were faint, but I could make out the rhythm of words. Someone was speaking, repeating the same phrase over and over.
“Bring her back.”
I stared at the monitor, waiting for the static to clear. My pulse thudded in my ears. I leaned in closer, hoping I’d misheard. The screen displayed a grainy, black-and-white image of Emma’s crib. She was there, tiny and peaceful, curled up under her blanket. But the whispers didn’t stop.
“Bring her back.”
My first thought was that someone nearby was using the same frequency. Baby monitors weren’t exactly secure, and I’d heard stories about signals crossing. It had to be that, right?
But the voice—it wasn’t normal. It wasn’t just words. There was a strange quality to it, a distortion, like it was being dragged through the static. The longer I listened, the harder it became to convince myself it was just a technical glitch.
I turned to my husband, Chris, who was snoring softly beside me. I shook his shoulder.
“Chris, wake up,” I whispered, my voice trembling.
He stirred, groaning. “What is it?”
“Listen.” I held the monitor up so he could hear.
He squinted at it, still half-asleep. “It’s just interference,” he mumbled, rolling over.
“It’s not,” I insisted, my voice sharper now. “Listen to what it’s saying.”
He sighed and sat up, rubbing his eyes. I pressed the monitor closer to him. The whispers continued, soft but insistent.
“Bring her back.”
Chris frowned, now fully awake. “That’s... weird,” he admitted. He took the monitor from me, staring at the screen. Emma hadn’t moved.
“Maybe it’s a neighbor’s signal,” he said, though he didn’t sound convinced.
“It’s on a closed frequency,” I said. “It shouldn’t be picking anything up.”
He didn’t answer right away. Instead, he fiddled with the monitor, adjusting the volume and flipping through the settings. The whispers persisted, unchanging.
“Bring her back.”
A chill ran down my spine. “What does that even mean?” I asked, my voice barely above a whisper.
Chris shook his head. “I don’t know.” He set the monitor down and stood up. “I’m going to check on her.”
“No,” I blurted out, grabbing his arm.
“What?”
I didn’t know how to explain the unease curling in my chest. “It’s... I don’t know. Something feels wrong.”
“She’s fine,” he said, his tone gentle but firm. “Look.” He pointed to the monitor. Emma was still there, still sleeping.
But I couldn’t shake the feeling that something was watching her.
Chris pulled his arm free and headed toward the nursery. I followed close behind, the cold hardwood floor biting at my feet.
The house was quiet except for the faint hum of the refrigerator and the occasional groan of the old pipes. When we reached Emma’s room, Chris pushed the door open slowly, the hinges creaking in protest.
She was there, just as the monitor had shown, tucked snugly into her crib. Her chest rose and fell with each tiny breath.
Chris turned to me, raising an eyebrow. “See? She’s fine.”
But as he said it, the whispers grew louder. They weren’t coming from the monitor anymore.
They were coming from the room.
I froze, my eyes darting around the nursery. The air felt heavier, like the room was holding its breath. The shadows in the corners seemed darker, deeper.
Chris didn’t seem to notice. He stepped closer to the crib, brushing a hand over Emma’s soft hair.
“Do you hear that?” I whispered, barely able to get the words out.
“Hear what?”
“Bring her back.”
The voice was louder now, more insistent. It felt like it was coming from everywhere at once—above us, behind us, inside us.
Chris turned to me, his face pale. “Okay, that’s... not normal.”
Before I could respond, the baby monitor crackled again. This time, the screen went black.
We both stared at it, waiting for it to come back on. When it did, the image on the screen wasn’t Emma’s crib anymore.
It was us.
We froze, staring at the monitor. The grainy black-and-white screen showed us standing in the nursery. I could see Chris with his hand still resting on the edge of Emma’s crib and me, wide-eyed, gripping the doorframe. The angle didn’t make sense.
“That’s not possible,” I said, my voice barely above a whisper.
Chris didn’t respond. His eyes were glued to the screen, his hand slowly pulling away from the crib as if it had burned him.
“Where’s the camera?” I asked, my voice shaking.
Chris turned, scanning the room. The baby monitor’s camera was mounted on the wall, aimed directly at Emma’s crib. It hadn’t moved. It couldn’t have moved.
“Maybe it’s a glitch,” Chris said, though he didn’t sound convinced.
“A glitch doesn’t show us like this,” I snapped. My chest was tight, and my breaths came shallow and quick.
The screen flickered, and for a moment, it went black again. When the image returned, Emma wasn’t in the crib.
My stomach dropped. I lunged forward, reaching for her, but she was still there—sleeping peacefully, exactly where she should be.
I turned back to the monitor. The screen still showed her empty crib. The whispering was gone, replaced by a faint hum that felt almost alive.
Chris grabbed my arm. “Let’s go back to our room. Maybe it’s the monitor itself, not the camera.”
I wanted to argue, but the weight in the air felt suffocating. The nursery, once a place of comfort and warmth, now felt foreign and wrong.
We backed out of the room, leaving the door slightly ajar. Chris grabbed the monitor off the nightstand when we returned to our bedroom. He sat on the bed, flipping through the settings again.
“Anything?” I asked, standing in the doorway.
“No,” he said. His voice was steady, but I could see the tension in his shoulders. “Everything looks normal.”
“It’s not normal,” I muttered. I sat down beside him, staring at the screen. The image was back to Emma’s crib—she was there again, her tiny form rising and falling with each breath. But something about the picture felt wrong.
It took me a moment to realize what it was.
“There’s no static,” I said.
Chris frowned. “What?”
“There’s always static,” I said. “Even when she’s sleeping, there’s a faint sound—breathing, the creak of the crib, something. But now it’s just... silent.”
Chris leaned closer to the screen, as if he could force it to make sense. The silence from the monitor felt louder than the whispers had been.
Suddenly, the screen flickered again. This time, the image warped. The edges of the crib stretched and twisted, and Emma’s tiny form seemed to flicker in and out of focus.
I grabbed Chris’s arm. “Turn it off,” I said.
He hesitated.
“Chris, turn it off!”
He fumbled with the buttons, but the monitor wouldn’t respond. The screen flickered more violently, the static returning in sharp bursts. And then the whispers came back.
“Bring her back.”
This time, the voice was louder. Clearer. It was still distorted, still unnatural, but now it sounded like it was coming from inside the room.
“Bring her back.”
Chris dropped the monitor like it was on fire. It hit the floor with a dull thud, but the screen stayed on, the image twisting and flickering.
“What does it mean?” I asked, my voice trembling.
Chris didn’t answer. He knelt down, picking up the monitor with shaking hands. The whispers had stopped again, but the screen was still flickering.
And then, for the first time, we heard a different voice.
“Where is she?”
The voice was deep and slow, each word dragging like it was being pulled through mud. It wasn’t coming from the monitor. It was coming from the hallway.
Chris shot to his feet, his eyes wide. “Did you hear that?”
I nodded, my heart pounding in my chest.
The air in the room felt heavier, colder. I could see my breath fogging in front of me.
“Where is she?” the voice asked again, closer this time.
I grabbed Chris’s arm, my nails digging into his skin. “What’s happening?”
He didn’t answer. Instead, he moved toward the door, peeking out into the hallway.
It was empty.
But the voice didn’t stop.
“Where is she?”
Chris shut the door and locked it, his chest heaving. “We need to call someone,” he said.
“Who?” I asked, my voice breaking. “What do we even say? ‘Hi, there’s a voice in our house asking creepy questions through a baby monitor’?”
He didn’t respond.
I backed away from the door, my eyes darting around the room. The walls seemed closer than they had before, the shadows darker.
“Bring her back.”
The voice was back on the monitor now, louder than ever.
And then Emma cried.
It was a sharp, piercing wail that cut through the whispers like a knife. Without thinking, I ran to the nursery.
Chris shouted behind me, but I didn’t stop.
When I reached the room, the air felt even colder. Emma was still in her crib, her tiny fists clenched, her face red and wet with tears.
But I wasn’t alone.
Something stood in the corner, barely visible in the shadows.
The thing in the corner didn’t move. At first, I thought maybe it was just a trick of the shadows, my mind playing games in the dim light. But as I stood frozen by the crib, I saw it shift ever so slightly. It wasn’t human. Its outline was wrong, the angles too sharp, the proportions too tall.
Emma’s cries filled the room, piercing and frantic. I wanted to pick her up, to comfort her, but I couldn’t tear my eyes away from the thing in the corner.
“Chris!” I shouted, my voice cracking.
Footsteps thundered down the hall. Chris burst into the room, skidding to a stop when he saw the look on my face. “What is it?” he asked, breathless.
I pointed to the corner, unable to speak.
Chris followed my gaze, squinting into the shadows. At first, he didn’t seem to see it. Then his whole body tensed, and he took a step back, pulling me with him.
“What the hell is that?” he whispered.
The figure leaned forward, just enough for the dim light from the nightlight to catch its face—or what should have been a face. There were no eyes, no mouth, no features at all. Just a blank, pale surface that seemed to pulse faintly, like it was alive.
Emma’s cries grew louder, more desperate. I reached for her, finally breaking free of my paralysis, and scooped her up into my arms. Her tiny body trembled against me, and I could feel my own heart hammering in my chest.
Chris moved in front of us, positioning himself between me and the thing in the corner. “What do you want?” he asked, his voice shaking but firm.
The figure didn’t respond. Instead, the baby monitor on the nightstand crackled to life.
“Bring her back,” the voice said again, distorted and hollow.
Chris turned toward the monitor, then back to the figure. “Who are you talking about? Bring who back?”
The figure tilted its head, like it was trying to understand him.
I held Emma tighter, her cries slowing to soft whimpers. The room felt colder now, the kind of cold that sinks into your bones. I could see my breath in the air, each exhale shaky and uneven.
The figure moved then, its body shifting in a jerky, unnatural way, like it wasn’t used to moving. It stepped out of the corner, and I stumbled back, nearly tripping over the edge of the rug.
“Chris,” I whispered, panic clawing at my throat.
“I see it,” he said, his voice low.
The figure raised a hand—or what looked like a hand. Its fingers were too long, too thin, and they ended in sharp, pointed tips. It gestured toward Emma, and I instinctively pulled her closer.
“No,” I said, my voice trembling.
The figure stopped, its head tilting again. The monitor crackled once more.
“Where is she?” the deep voice asked, slow and deliberate.
“She’s right here!” Chris shouted, his frustration boiling over. “Emma’s here! What do you want from us?”
The figure didn’t react. It just stood there, silent and still. Then, without warning, it took another step forward.
“Get back!” Chris shouted, grabbing the lamp from the nightstand and holding it like a weapon.
The figure stopped, its featureless face turning toward him. For a moment, I thought it might leave, but then the monitor crackled again, louder this time.
“She doesn’t belong to you.”
The words hit me like a punch to the gut. My knees went weak, and I clutched Emma even tighter. She started crying again, her tiny fists flailing.
“What does that mean?” I demanded, my voice breaking. “She’s our daughter! Of course, she belongs to us!”
The figure didn’t respond. Instead, it raised its other hand, pointing at the monitor.
The screen flickered, and the image changed. It was no longer showing Emma’s crib. Instead, it showed a room I didn’t recognize. The walls were dark, the floor bare. In the center of the room was a crib, but it wasn’t Emma’s crib. It was older, the wood worn and splintered.
And inside the crib was a baby.
My breath caught in my throat. The baby wasn’t Emma, but it looked like her—just slightly off. Her hair was darker, her cheeks fuller, but the resemblance was uncanny.
“What the hell is this?” Chris whispered, his grip on the lamp tightening.
The figure pointed at the monitor again.
“Bring her back,” the voice repeated, louder now.
The baby in the monitor’s crib started to cry, the sound tinny and distant. My head spun as I tried to make sense of what I was seeing.
Chris moved toward the figure, raising the lamp like he was about to swing. But before he could, the figure stepped back into the shadows and vanished.
The monitor went dark, and the room was silent again—except for Emma’s cries.
Chris lowered the lamp, his chest heaving. “What the hell just happened?”
I shook my head, unable to answer. My eyes were fixed on the monitor, waiting for it to come back to life.
“Whatever that thing was,” I said finally, my voice barely above a whisper, “it thinks Emma doesn’t belong to us.”
Chris turned to me, his face pale. “And it wants her back.”
For a long time, neither of us moved. The silence felt thick, suffocating. My ears strained for the faintest sound—anything to tell me that the figure was gone for good.
Emma stirred in my arms, her cries fading into soft hiccups. I could feel her heartbeat against my chest, fast and uneven, and I knew mine matched hers. Chris finally set the lamp down on the dresser, his hand shaking as he did.
“What now?” he whispered.
I shook my head, still staring at the monitor. The screen was blank, the tiny green power light glowing like nothing had happened. I didn’t know what to say. I didn’t know what we could do.
“Maybe we should call someone,” he said, his voice uncertain. “Like...the police? Or...I don’t know, someone who knows about this kind of thing.”
I looked at him, my eyes wide. “And what do we even tell them? That a shadow thing came into our baby’s room and showed us...that?” I gestured to the monitor, even though the image of the strange crib was gone. “They’ll think we’re insane.”
Chris ran a hand through his hair, pacing back and forth. “Okay, then what? Do we just sit here and wait for it to come back? Because I can’t do that, Claire. I can’t just do nothing.”
I wanted to argue, to tell him we needed to think this through, but the truth was, I didn’t have a better plan. My mind kept circling back to the same question: What did it want?
Chris stopped pacing and looked at me. “Let’s leave. Just for the night. We can go to my mom’s house or a hotel—anywhere but here.”
I hesitated, glancing down at Emma. She’d finally fallen asleep again, her tiny hand clutching the front of my shirt. The idea of leaving felt...wrong. Like we’d be giving up ground to whatever that thing was. But staying here? I couldn’t shake the feeling that it was waiting for something.
“Okay,” I said finally. “Let’s go.”
Chris nodded, relief washing over his face. He grabbed a bag from the closet and started tossing in essentials—diapers, bottles, a change of clothes. I stayed by the crib, holding Emma close. The room felt heavier now, like the air was pressing down on me.
As Chris zipped up the bag, the monitor crackled again.
I froze, my breath catching in my throat. Chris stopped, too, his eyes darting toward the screen.
“Bring her back,” the voice said, low and distorted.
I felt my knees buckle, and I had to grip the side of the crib to stay upright. The words hung in the air, heavier than before.
Chris grabbed the monitor and yanked the plug from the wall. “There,” he said, his voice tight. “No more of that.”
But even unplugged, the monitor flickered back to life. The screen glowed faintly, and static hissed from the speaker.
“Chris...” I whispered, backing away.
He stared at the monitor in his hands like it had burned him. Then he dropped it onto the dresser and stepped back.
The static grew louder, almost deafening. I clutched Emma tighter, her body squirming as she started to stir again. The screen on the monitor flickered, and for a split second, I thought I saw something—a flash of that dark room, the crib, the baby.
Then it was gone.
The static stopped, and the monitor went dark again.
Chris looked at me, his face pale. “We’re leaving. Now.”
I didn’t argue. We grabbed the bag and headed down the hallway, Emma still cradled in my arms. The house felt different as we moved through it, like it wasn’t ours anymore. Every shadow seemed to stretch too far, every creak of the floorboards felt deliberate.
We reached the front door, and Chris fumbled with the lock. His hands were shaking so badly that it took him three tries to get it open.
As the door swung open, I turned to look back down the hallway.
For just a moment, I thought I saw something move in the shadows near the stairs. A flicker of motion, too quick to make out.
I shook my head and followed Chris outside, my heart pounding.
We got into the car, and Chris started the engine. The headlights lit up the front of the house, casting long shadows across the yard.
“Where are we going?” I asked, my voice barely above a whisper.
Chris didn’t answer right away. He gripped the steering wheel tightly, his knuckles white.
“Somewhere safe,” he said finally.
But as we pulled out of the driveway, I couldn’t shake the feeling that we weren’t running to safety.
We were running from something we didn’t understand.
The road stretched out before us, empty and endless. Chris drove in silence, his hands gripping the steering wheel like it was the only thing tethering him to reality. I sat in the passenger seat, holding Emma close, her tiny breaths warm against my chest.
Neither of us had spoken since we left the house. The weight of what we’d seen—and heard—hung between us like a storm cloud. The soft hum of the car’s engine felt deafening in the silence.
“Where are we even going?” I asked finally, my voice barely audible over the hum of the tires on the pavement.
Chris glanced at me, his jaw tight. “I don’t know. Maybe my mom’s. Or a motel.”
I nodded, even though the thought of dragging this darkness into someone else’s home made my stomach twist. Emma stirred in my arms, letting out a soft whimper.
Chris looked at her through the rearview mirror. “She’s okay, right?”
“For now,” I said, though I didn’t really believe it.
The dashboard clock read 2:37 a.m. The world outside was pitch black, the kind of darkness that seemed to swallow the car’s headlights. Every so often, I’d catch a glimpse of something out of the corner of my eye—a shadow flickering at the edge of the road, a shape moving just beyond the reach of the light.
I told myself it was my imagination.
Chris turned onto a narrow, winding road lined with trees. Their branches arched overhead, forming a tunnel that made me feel like we were driving straight into the mouth of something alive.
“We need to stop soon,” he said, his voice strained. “I can’t keep driving all night.”
I didn’t argue. My body ached from the tension, and Emma needed a proper place to rest. But every part of me screamed that stopping was the wrong choice.
We passed a gas station with a single flickering light above the pumps. Chris slowed down, but I grabbed his arm.
“Don’t,” I said.
He looked at me, confused. “We need gas.”
“Not here,” I whispered.
There was something off about the place. The shadows seemed darker, deeper, like they were waiting for us to stop. Chris must have seen the fear in my eyes because he pressed the gas pedal and kept driving.
We finally pulled into the parking lot of a small roadside motel. The neon sign buzzed faintly, casting a sickly red glow over the cracked pavement. It looked deserted, but at least it wasn’t the gas station.
Chris got out and went to the office to check us in. I stayed in the car, my eyes scanning the darkness. The baby monitor was still in the diaper bag at my feet. I hadn’t touched it since we left the house, but now it felt like it was watching me, waiting for the right moment to come back to life.
Emma whimpered again, her little fists curling and uncurling in her sleep. I kissed the top of her head, murmuring soft reassurances even though I wasn’t sure who I was trying to comfort—her or myself.
Chris came back a few minutes later, holding a key. “Room 8,” he said, nodding toward the far end of the lot.
We carried Emma and our things inside. The room was small and dingy, with peeling wallpaper and a faint smell of mildew. The bed creaked loudly when Chris sat on it, and the flickering fluorescent light in the bathroom buzzed like a swarm of angry bees.
“It’s not much, but it’s better than the car,” Chris said, trying to sound reassuring.
I set Emma’s carrier on the bed and carefully laid her inside. She stirred but didn’t wake. Chris turned on the TV, keeping the volume low. Static filled the screen.
“Great,” he muttered, flipping through the channels. Every single one was static.
I froze. “Turn it off,” I said quickly.
He frowned but did as I asked, the screen going black with a faint click.
We sat in silence for a while, the room heavy with tension. I kept glancing at the diaper bag, half-expecting the monitor to start hissing again.
“Do you think it’ll follow us here?” I asked finally.
Chris didn’t answer right away. He rubbed a hand over his face, looking more exhausted than I’d ever seen him.
“I don’t know,” he admitted. “But if it does, we’ll figure it out.”
I wanted to believe him, but something about his tone told me he wasn’t as confident as he sounded.
The room grew colder as the night dragged on. I pulled the thin motel blanket tighter around Emma and myself, trying to ignore the feeling of being watched.
Around 4 a.m., I heard it again.
A faint whisper, so quiet I thought I might have imagined it.
“Bring her back.”
My heart stopped. I looked at Chris, but he was already asleep, his head resting against the wall.
The whisper came again, louder this time.
“Bring her back.”
It was coming from the diaper bag.
I didn’t want to move. My body felt frozen, every instinct screaming at me to stay still. But I couldn’t just sit there. Slowly, I reached down and unzipped the bag.
The baby monitor was glowing faintly, even though it was still unplugged.
“Bring her back.”
This time, the voice was clearer, almost pleading.
I turned the monitor over in my hands, trying to make sense of what was happening. The screen flickered, and for a brief moment, I saw it again—the dark room, the strange crib, the shadowy figure standing just out of view.
Then the screen went black.
“Claire?”
Chris’s voice startled me. I looked up to see him staring at me, his eyes wide with fear.
“What’s wrong?” he asked.
I held up the monitor. “It’s still happening,” I whispered.
Chris stood up, grabbing the monitor from me. He shook it like that would somehow make it stop, but it didn’t.
The voice came again, louder now.
“Bring her back.”
And then, as if on cue, Emma started crying.
Emma’s cries pierced the air, sharp and frantic. I scooped her up, holding her against my chest as Chris fiddled helplessly with the monitor. The voice continued, louder now, overlapping with Emma’s sobs like it was trying to drown her out.
“Bring her back. Bring her back.”
“Smash it,” I hissed at Chris. “Just break the damn thing.”
He didn’t move, his eyes fixed on the flickering screen. “What if it makes things worse?”
“What could possibly be worse than this?” I snapped.
Before he could answer, the screen flickered again, and the room plunged into an eerie silence. Even Emma’s cries faltered, her tiny body trembling against mine. The monitor’s glow shifted, revealing the dark room we’d seen before—only this time, the shadowy figure wasn’t lingering in the background.
It was closer.
The figure was standing in the center of the crib, its form sharper than before, though still cloaked in darkness. And then it turned its head. Slowly. Deliberately.
I gasped, stumbling back as Emma whimpered in my arms.
“Did you see that?” I whispered.
Chris nodded, his face pale. “It looked... at us.”
The monitor buzzed, static spilling into the room again. But this time, the voice was different. It wasn’t just repeating the same phrase. It was talking.
“Bring her back. You know why. You know what you did.”
Chris’s hand tightened around the monitor. “We didn’t do anything!” he shouted, his voice cracking.
The figure in the screen tilted its head, as if mocking him. The static warped, and the words that followed sent a chill down my spine.
“Not the child.”
I froze, my mind racing. Her? What did it mean? My first instinct was to think of Emma, but something in the voice—its tone, its deliberate emphasis—made me realize it wasn’t talking about her.
Chris looked at me, his eyes wide with confusion and... guilt?
“Claire,” he started, but the monitor buzzed again, cutting him off.
The scene on the screen changed. It wasn’t the strange room anymore. It was somewhere else, somewhere familiar.
My childhood bedroom.
I couldn’t breathe. The pink wallpaper with tiny yellow wilting daisies. The old wooden rocking chair by the window. The bloody stuffed bear that always sat on my bed.
“What the hell is this?” I whispered.
Chris didn’t answer. He was staring at the screen, his jaw clenched.
The voice came again, clearer than ever.
“You shouldn’t have left her. You shouldn’t have forgotten.”
The words hit me like a punch to the chest. Memories I’d buried deep started to claw their way to the surface—fragments of nights spent crying in that room, the sound of my mom’s voice singing me to sleep, and then the silence when she wasn’t there anymore.
“No,” I whispered, shaking my head. “This doesn’t make sense.”
Chris turned to me, his face pale. “Claire, what’s it talking about? Who is it talking about?”
I couldn’t answer. My mind was a whirlwind of confusion and fear. The monitor buzzed again, the image on the screen shifting once more.
This time, it was a woman.
She was sitting in the rocking chair, her face turned away. But I didn’t need to see her face to know who she was.
“Mom?” I whispered, my voice barely audible.
The woman turned her head slightly, just enough for me to catch a glimpse of her profile. It was her—her soft brown curls, the curve of her cheek, the way she always held her hands clasped in her lap.
Chris looked between me and the screen, his expression unreadable. “Claire, what the hell is going on?”
“I don’t know,” I said, my voice trembling. “I... I don’t know.”
The monitor buzzed again, and the woman’s figure started to dissolve into static. But before it disappeared completely, the voice came one last time, louder and clearer than ever.
“Bring her back, Claire. Or I will.”
The screen went dark.
I stared at it, my heart racing. The room felt impossibly cold, the air thick with something I couldn’t explain. Emma started crying again, her wails cutting through the silence like a knife.
Chris put a hand on my shoulder, his grip firm. “Claire. What does this mean? What does it want?”
I didn’t answer. I couldn’t.
Because deep down, I already knew.
It didn’t want Emma.
It wanted me.
And it wasn’t going to stop until it got what it came for.
The Wrong Voice
I was in bed, scrolling through my phone. The room was dark except for the faint glow of the screen. It was past midnight, and I should’ve been asleep, but my mind wouldn’t shut off. There was this nagging feeling, like I’d forgotten something.
Without thinking, I opened my call log and tapped on my mom’s number. She always told me to call, no matter how late. “If you’re ever feeling off,” she’d say, “just call me.” So I did.
It rang twice before she answered.
“Hello?”
Her voice was soft, like she’d been sleeping. But there was something off. The way she said “hello” was too slow, almost deliberate, like she was trying to mimic how she usually sounded.
“Hey, Mom. Sorry, did I wake you?”
There was a long pause. Too long. Then she said, “No… you didn’t wake me, sweetheart.”
My stomach tightened. She sounded like her, but the way she said “sweetheart” made my skin crawl. The word stretched unnaturally, each syllable dripping with something I couldn’t place.
“Are you okay?” I asked, sitting up. My voice cracked a little.
“I’m fine,” she said, but her tone was wrong. It was flat, emotionless, like she was reading a script.
A chill ran down my spine. “Mom… is something wrong?”
The line crackled. I thought I heard her whisper something, but I couldn’t make it out.
“What did you say?” I asked, my voice louder now.
Silence.
“Mom?”
The call ended.
I stared at my phone, my heart pounding in my chest. The screen showed the call had lasted one minute and eleven seconds.
I didn’t hesitate—I called her again. This time, she picked up right away.
“Hey, honey,” she said, her voice warm and familiar. “What’s wrong? Why are you calling so late?”
My breath caught in my throat. “Mom… I just called you. A minute ago. You answered, but—” I stopped myself. How was I supposed to explain this without sounding insane?
She laughed softly. “Sweetheart, you didn’t call me. I’ve been asleep.”
“No, I did. You answered. We talked—well, kind of. It didn’t sound like you, though.”
“Maybe you dreamed it,” she said. But her voice carried a hint of unease now.
I shook my head, even though she couldn’t see me. “It wasn’t a dream.”
There was a pause. Then she said, “Honey, I swear I haven’t been on the phone tonight. Are you sure you’re okay?”
I wanted to believe her. I really did. But that voice… It wasn't a dream.
“Yeah,” I lied. “I’m fine. Sorry for waking you.”
“It’s okay,” she said, her voice soft again. “Call me if you need me, okay? I love you.”
“Love you too.”
When the call ended, I sat there, staring at the screen. My hands were shaking, and the room felt colder than before.
I didn’t call her again that night. But I couldn’t shake the sound of that voice, the way it had dragged my name out like it was testing the word. It sounded like my mom, but it wasn’t her.
It couldn’t have been.
I couldn’t sleep after that. I lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, listening to the faint hum of the street lights outside. My phone sat on the nightstand, screen dark, but I kept glancing at it like it might light up on its own.
The sound of her voice—that voice—played in my head on a loop. Slow, stretched, too deliberate. It was wrong, but it wasn’t entirely foreign. That’s what scared me the most.
At some point, I must’ve dozed off, but when I woke up, the clock read 3:12 a.m. I hadn’t set an alarm. The silence in my room felt heavier than usual, like the air itself had thickened.
Then, the phone rang.
I jumped, heart slamming against my ribs. The screen glowed, illuminating the room just enough for me to see the caller ID: Mom.
My hand hovered over the phone, hesitating. I told myself it was nothing. Just a normal call. Maybe she couldn’t sleep either.
I answered, trying to steady my voice. “Hello?”
But all I heard was static.
“Mom?” I said again, louder this time.
A crackling noise came through, sharp and grating, like an old radio struggling to tune into a station. Then, faintly, I heard my name.
“Sweetheart…”
My skin prickled. It was the same voice as before. Slow. Drawn out. Mocking.
“Who is this?” I demanded, gripping the phone so tightly my knuckles ached.
The voice ignored me. “It’s so late… you should be sleeping.”
I froze. The way it spoke felt personal, like it knew me, like it had been watching me.
“What do you want?” My voice cracked.
The static grew louder, drowning out the voice for a moment. Then, clear as day, it said, “Come find me.”
I hung up, throwing the phone onto the bed like it had burned me. My breathing was shallow, my chest tight.
For a while, I just sat there, staring at the phone, waiting for it to ring again. It didn’t.
Instead, there was a sound from outside my room. A faint creak, like someone had stepped on the floorboard in the hallway.
I told myself it was nothing. Just the old apartment settling. But then I heard it again, closer this time.
“Hello?” I called out, my voice shaky.
No answer.
I grabbed my phone and turned on the flashlight, the beam cutting through the darkness. Slowly, I got out of bed and crept toward the door.
The hallway was empty. Nothing but shadows. But the air felt colder out here, like something unseen was lurking just beyond the reach of the light.
Then I saw it.
My mom’s voice wasn’t the only thing that had been wrong. There, at the end of the hallway, was my reflection in the hallway mirror. But it wasn’t moving like me.
It was standing still, staring at me with wide, empty eyes. And then it smiled.
I froze, unable to look away. The reflection’s smile was wrong, stretched too wide, teeth gleaming in the dim light from my phone’s flashlight. My legs felt heavy, but I forced myself to take a step closer, each movement slow and hesitant.
The air in the hallway felt different now—denser, like walking through water. My breath came in shallow gasps, and my grip on the phone tightened, the light trembling as I moved.
“Who… who are you?” My voice barely rose above a whisper.
The reflection didn’t respond. It just stood there, grinning at me with a mockery of my own face. My hand twitched, the one holding the phone, and I realized it wasn’t even trying to mimic my movements anymore.
I stepped closer. The closer I got, the more I noticed little things about it—subtle differences. Its eyes were darker, almost black, and the skin around them seemed sunken, like it hadn’t slept in days.
And then it moved.
Not like a person, though. It jerked, its head tilting unnaturally to one side as its grin widened even further. My stomach churned.
“Stop it,” I said, my voice louder now. “You’re not real.”
It cocked its head, as if considering me. Then, it raised its hand. My hand. But instead of mimicking the way I held the phone, it pointed directly at me.
The hallway light flickered. My heart pounded so loudly I could barely hear myself think.
“I said, stop it!” I screamed this time, and my voice echoed down the hallway.
The reflection’s lips moved, forming words I couldn’t hear. It mouthed something, slow and deliberate, it's dark eyes locked onto mine. I couldn’t understand it, but whatever it was saying made my skin crawl.
My phone buzzed in my hand, startling me so badly that I nearly dropped it. I glanced down—another call. Mom.
I hesitated, my thumb hovering over the screen. The reflection didn’t move, but it's grin faltered for just a moment, like it knew what I was about to do.
I answered. “Hello?”
This time, her voice was clear. “Honey, are you okay? You sound out of breath.”
Relief washed over me, but it was quickly replaced by confusion. “Mom? Where are you?”
“I’m at home, sweetheart. It’s late—why are you calling so much?” Her tone was calm, gentle, but something about it felt… off.
I glanced back at the mirror. The reflection wasn’t there anymore. The hallway was empty, just my own flashlight beam shaking against the walls.
“Mom, I didn’t—” My voice faltered. “You called me.”
There was a long pause on the other end of the line. “No, I didn’t,” she said slowly. “Are you sure you’re okay?”
My throat tightened. I could still feel that dense, oppressive air around me, even though the hallway looked normal again.
“Yeah, I… I’m fine,” I lied.
“Okay. Get some rest, alright? You sound like you’ve had a long day.”
“Sure,” I said quickly. “Goodnight.”
I hung up before she could say anything else and stared at the mirror again. The glass was empty, just a reflection of the dim hallway. I took a step closer, the floor creaking beneath my bare feet.
I reached out, my hand trembling as I touched the surface. It was cold, much colder than it should’ve been.
And then, faintly, I heard it—her voice. But it wasn’t coming from the phone this time.
It was coming from behind the mirror.
The voice whispered my name, soft and low, like the way you might hum a lullaby. It wasn’t my mother’s voice anymore—not really. It had the same tone, the same rhythm, but it felt hollow, like someone was trying too hard to mimic her.
My hand shot back from the mirror, and I stumbled a few steps away, my back hitting the wall. The phone in my hand buzzed again, and I almost dropped it. Mom, the screen said.
I didn’t answer this time. I couldn’t. My thumb hovered over the screen as her voice whispered again, this time clearer.
“Why won’t you answer me, sweetheart?” The words slithered out from the mirror like they were alive, crawling into my ears and wrapping around my chest. “You always call me, don’t you? Don’t you want to hear my voice?”
I shook my head, squeezing my eyes shut. “You’re not real,” I muttered, more to myself than to the thing behind the glass. “This isn’t real.”
The air seemed heavier now, pressing against my chest like a weight. When I opened my eyes, the reflection was back. Only this time, it wasn’t just standing there.
It was closer.
Its face was inches from the surface of the mirror, but it wasn’t my face anymore. The skin was pale, stretched tight over sharp cheekbones. Its eyes were sunken, black pits that seemed to drink in the light from my phone.
And it was still smiling.
I didn’t move. I couldn’t. My legs felt like they were locked in place, my breath coming in short, shallow gasps.
“You don’t look happy to see me,” it said, its voice echoing faintly, like it was speaking from the bottom of a well.
It tilted its head, studying me. Its smile grew wider, impossibly wide, splitting its face in half.
“I’ve been waiting,” it whispered. “So long. For you.”
My stomach twisted, and I forced myself to look away. My phone buzzed again, the sound jarring in the oppressive silence.
Mom.
This time, I answered. “Mom?”
Her voice was frantic. “Honey, are you okay? You’re scaring me.”
“I…” My voice cracked. I glanced back at the mirror. The thing inside it was still watching me, its black eyes gleaming with something that looked like hunger. “Mom, where are you?”
“I told you, I’m at home. Are you sure you’re okay? You’re not making any sense.”
“Stay there,” I said quickly. “Don’t—don’t leave the house.”
“What’s going on?” she asked, her voice rising. “You’re scaring me, sweetheart.”
I didn’t answer. My eyes were locked on the mirror as the thing inside it reached out, its hand pressing against the glass. The surface rippled like water, and my stomach dropped.
“You shouldn’t have answered,” it said, its voice dripping with malice. “You opened the door.”
The glass cracked under its hand, thin fractures spreading like spiderwebs. I took a step back, my heart hammering in my chest.
“Mom,” I said into the phone, my voice shaking. “If anything happens—if I don’t call you back—just stay where you are, okay? Don’t come here.”
“What are you talking about?” she demanded. “What’s happening?”
The mirror shattered.
I screamed, dropping the phone as shards of glass flew in every direction. But there was no sound of them hitting the floor, no clatter or crash.
When I looked back, the hallway was empty. The mirror was gone.
But the voice wasn’t.
It was behind me now.
The voice came from just behind my ear, soft and low.
“Sweetheart,” it whispered, drawing the word out like it enjoyed tasting every syllable.
I spun around, heart pounding so hard it felt like it might burst. There was nothing there. The hallway stretched out in front of me, the dim light from the single bulb overhead flickering like it couldn’t decide whether to stay on or go out.
I fumbled for my phone, which lay face down on the floor where I’d dropped it. My fingers trembled as I picked it up, pressing it to my ear.
“Mom?” I croaked.
There was no response. Just static.
“Mom, please,” I said, my voice breaking. “Say something.”
The static shifted, crackling like someone was breathing into the phone. Then came a laugh—a soft, low chuckle that didn’t belong to her.
“You really thought she could help you?” the voice asked. It sounded closer now, more distinct. It wasn’t coming from the phone anymore.
I turned slowly, every nerve in my body screaming at me to run, but my legs wouldn’t obey. The air behind me felt colder, heavier, like the space itself was being swallowed up by something unseen.
The hallway seemed longer than it had before, stretching into darkness that didn’t belong in my apartment. At the end of it, a figure stood, barely visible in the flickering light.
It wasn’t me, but it was.
It had my face, my posture, even the way I held my arms close to my body when I was scared. But its eyes were wrong. They were too wide, too dark, and they didn’t blink.
“Why are you running?” it asked, its voice layered with mine and something deeper, more guttural. “You called me, remember?”
I couldn’t move. My back pressed against the wall as it started walking toward me, each step deliberate, as if it wanted me to feel every second of its approach.
“I’ve been waiting,” it said. Its mouth didn’t move when it spoke, but the words were clear. “Do you know how long I’ve been waiting?”
It stopped a few feet away, tilting its head to the side in a mockery of curiosity. Its grin stretched impossibly wide, splitting its face in a way that didn’t seem possible.
“Who are you?” I whispered, my voice barely audible.
It laughed again, the sound echoing around me. “You know who I am,” it said. “You’ve always known. You just didn’t want to admit it.”
“I don’t—”
It moved faster than I could react, closing the distance between us in a single, jerky motion. Its face was inches from mine now, and I could feel the cold radiating off its skin.
“You let me in,” it whispered. “When you picked up the phone. When you answered her voice.”
I shook my head, tears streaming down my face. “No,” I said, my voice breaking. “I didn’t mean to.”
“Doesn’t matter,” it said, grinning wider. “You’re mine now.”
The flickering light above us went out completely, plunging the hallway into darkness. My phone screen was the only source of light, casting a faint glow on the thing’s face.
And then it reached for me.
I stumbled backward, but there was nowhere to go. The wall behind me was unyielding, cold as ice. My breath came in shallow gasps, each one clouding the air in front of me as if the temperature had dropped ten degrees in an instant.
Its hand—my hand—reached out, pale and unnatural in the dim light of my phone screen. I tried to scream, but no sound came out. My voice, the one thing I could rely on, felt stolen.
“You won’t feel a thing,” it said. Its grin stretched wider than ever, splitting its face so grotesquely it hardly looked human anymore. “You’ll just… fade.”
I slammed my fist against the wall behind me, desperate for a way out. My eyes darted to the hallway, but it was different now—endless and dark, stretching into nothingness. My apartment, my sanctuary, was gone.
“Please,” I whispered, barely able to form the word.
It tilted its head, almost as if considering my plea. Then, in a voice that was half-mocking, half-genuine, it said, “You don’t even know what you’re begging for.”
The shadows around us thickened, rising like smoke, curling around my legs. They weren’t just darkness; they felt alive, cold and sticky as they climbed higher, wrapping around my waist and pulling me forward.
“No!” I screamed, finally finding my voice. I clawed at the wall, at the floor, but there was nothing to hold onto.
“You called me,” it said again, stepping closer. Its face loomed over mine, blocking out everything else. “You answered. That’s all it takes.”
I squeezed my eyes shut, trying to block it out, trying to will it all away. But its voice was inside me now, echoing in my head.
“I’ve been waiting for so long,” it whispered. “And now, you’ll wait too.”
I don’t know what happened next. The world shifted, like the ground beneath me disappeared. For a moment, there was only silence—deep, oppressive silence—and then the sensation of falling.
When I opened my eyes, I was no longer in my apartment.
I was in the hallway, but it wasn’t mine. It stretched endlessly in both directions, lined with doors that didn’t belong to me, didn’t belong anywhere. The air was thick and still, the kind of quiet that made my ears ring.
And then I saw it.
It was me. Or at least, it looked like me. It stood at the far end of the hallway, staring back at me with those wide, dark eyes. It didn’t smile this time. It just watched.
I tried to move, but my feet wouldn’t obey. I tried to scream, but no sound came out. I was trapped.
And then, slowly, it turned and began to walk away.
I don’t know how long I stood there, watching it disappear into the endless stretch of doors and shadows. Minutes? Hours? Time didn’t feel real anymore.
Eventually, I heard something—a faint sound, distant but growing louder.
It was a phone ringing.
I looked down, and there it was, glowing faintly in the dim light of the hallway floor. My phone.
It was vibrating, buzzing insistently, as if demanding I answer.
The screen lit up, showing a name I didn’t recognize. But as the ringing continued, the name changed, morphing letter by letter.
Until it read: Mom.
I didn’t want to pick it up. Every part of me screamed not to. But my hand moved on its own, reaching for the phone, fingers brushing against the cold glass.
I lifted it to my ear, heart hammering in my chest.
“Hello?” I whispered.
And then, in a voice that sounded just like mine, I heard:
“Sweetheart, I’ve been waiting for you.”
The call disconnected.
And the hallway went dark.
Without thinking, I opened my call log and tapped on my mom’s number. She always told me to call, no matter how late. “If you’re ever feeling off,” she’d say, “just call me.” So I did.
It rang twice before she answered.
“Hello?”
Her voice was soft, like she’d been sleeping. But there was something off. The way she said “hello” was too slow, almost deliberate, like she was trying to mimic how she usually sounded.
“Hey, Mom. Sorry, did I wake you?”
There was a long pause. Too long. Then she said, “No… you didn’t wake me, sweetheart.”
My stomach tightened. She sounded like her, but the way she said “sweetheart” made my skin crawl. The word stretched unnaturally, each syllable dripping with something I couldn’t place.
“Are you okay?” I asked, sitting up. My voice cracked a little.
“I’m fine,” she said, but her tone was wrong. It was flat, emotionless, like she was reading a script.
A chill ran down my spine. “Mom… is something wrong?”
The line crackled. I thought I heard her whisper something, but I couldn’t make it out.
“What did you say?” I asked, my voice louder now.
Silence.
“Mom?”
The call ended.
I stared at my phone, my heart pounding in my chest. The screen showed the call had lasted one minute and eleven seconds.
I didn’t hesitate—I called her again. This time, she picked up right away.
“Hey, honey,” she said, her voice warm and familiar. “What’s wrong? Why are you calling so late?”
My breath caught in my throat. “Mom… I just called you. A minute ago. You answered, but—” I stopped myself. How was I supposed to explain this without sounding insane?
She laughed softly. “Sweetheart, you didn’t call me. I’ve been asleep.”
“No, I did. You answered. We talked—well, kind of. It didn’t sound like you, though.”
“Maybe you dreamed it,” she said. But her voice carried a hint of unease now.
I shook my head, even though she couldn’t see me. “It wasn’t a dream.”
There was a pause. Then she said, “Honey, I swear I haven’t been on the phone tonight. Are you sure you’re okay?”
I wanted to believe her. I really did. But that voice… It wasn't a dream.
“Yeah,” I lied. “I’m fine. Sorry for waking you.”
“It’s okay,” she said, her voice soft again. “Call me if you need me, okay? I love you.”
“Love you too.”
When the call ended, I sat there, staring at the screen. My hands were shaking, and the room felt colder than before.
I didn’t call her again that night. But I couldn’t shake the sound of that voice, the way it had dragged my name out like it was testing the word. It sounded like my mom, but it wasn’t her.
It couldn’t have been.
I couldn’t sleep after that. I lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, listening to the faint hum of the street lights outside. My phone sat on the nightstand, screen dark, but I kept glancing at it like it might light up on its own.
The sound of her voice—that voice—played in my head on a loop. Slow, stretched, too deliberate. It was wrong, but it wasn’t entirely foreign. That’s what scared me the most.
At some point, I must’ve dozed off, but when I woke up, the clock read 3:12 a.m. I hadn’t set an alarm. The silence in my room felt heavier than usual, like the air itself had thickened.
Then, the phone rang.
I jumped, heart slamming against my ribs. The screen glowed, illuminating the room just enough for me to see the caller ID: Mom.
My hand hovered over the phone, hesitating. I told myself it was nothing. Just a normal call. Maybe she couldn’t sleep either.
I answered, trying to steady my voice. “Hello?”
But all I heard was static.
“Mom?” I said again, louder this time.
A crackling noise came through, sharp and grating, like an old radio struggling to tune into a station. Then, faintly, I heard my name.
“Sweetheart…”
My skin prickled. It was the same voice as before. Slow. Drawn out. Mocking.
“Who is this?” I demanded, gripping the phone so tightly my knuckles ached.
The voice ignored me. “It’s so late… you should be sleeping.”
I froze. The way it spoke felt personal, like it knew me, like it had been watching me.
“What do you want?” My voice cracked.
The static grew louder, drowning out the voice for a moment. Then, clear as day, it said, “Come find me.”
I hung up, throwing the phone onto the bed like it had burned me. My breathing was shallow, my chest tight.
For a while, I just sat there, staring at the phone, waiting for it to ring again. It didn’t.
Instead, there was a sound from outside my room. A faint creak, like someone had stepped on the floorboard in the hallway.
I told myself it was nothing. Just the old apartment settling. But then I heard it again, closer this time.
“Hello?” I called out, my voice shaky.
No answer.
I grabbed my phone and turned on the flashlight, the beam cutting through the darkness. Slowly, I got out of bed and crept toward the door.
The hallway was empty. Nothing but shadows. But the air felt colder out here, like something unseen was lurking just beyond the reach of the light.
Then I saw it.
My mom’s voice wasn’t the only thing that had been wrong. There, at the end of the hallway, was my reflection in the hallway mirror. But it wasn’t moving like me.
It was standing still, staring at me with wide, empty eyes. And then it smiled.
I froze, unable to look away. The reflection’s smile was wrong, stretched too wide, teeth gleaming in the dim light from my phone’s flashlight. My legs felt heavy, but I forced myself to take a step closer, each movement slow and hesitant.
The air in the hallway felt different now—denser, like walking through water. My breath came in shallow gasps, and my grip on the phone tightened, the light trembling as I moved.
“Who… who are you?” My voice barely rose above a whisper.
The reflection didn’t respond. It just stood there, grinning at me with a mockery of my own face. My hand twitched, the one holding the phone, and I realized it wasn’t even trying to mimic my movements anymore.
I stepped closer. The closer I got, the more I noticed little things about it—subtle differences. Its eyes were darker, almost black, and the skin around them seemed sunken, like it hadn’t slept in days.
And then it moved.
Not like a person, though. It jerked, its head tilting unnaturally to one side as its grin widened even further. My stomach churned.
“Stop it,” I said, my voice louder now. “You’re not real.”
It cocked its head, as if considering me. Then, it raised its hand. My hand. But instead of mimicking the way I held the phone, it pointed directly at me.
The hallway light flickered. My heart pounded so loudly I could barely hear myself think.
“I said, stop it!” I screamed this time, and my voice echoed down the hallway.
The reflection’s lips moved, forming words I couldn’t hear. It mouthed something, slow and deliberate, it's dark eyes locked onto mine. I couldn’t understand it, but whatever it was saying made my skin crawl.
My phone buzzed in my hand, startling me so badly that I nearly dropped it. I glanced down—another call. Mom.
I hesitated, my thumb hovering over the screen. The reflection didn’t move, but it's grin faltered for just a moment, like it knew what I was about to do.
I answered. “Hello?”
This time, her voice was clear. “Honey, are you okay? You sound out of breath.”
Relief washed over me, but it was quickly replaced by confusion. “Mom? Where are you?”
“I’m at home, sweetheart. It’s late—why are you calling so much?” Her tone was calm, gentle, but something about it felt… off.
I glanced back at the mirror. The reflection wasn’t there anymore. The hallway was empty, just my own flashlight beam shaking against the walls.
“Mom, I didn’t—” My voice faltered. “You called me.”
There was a long pause on the other end of the line. “No, I didn’t,” she said slowly. “Are you sure you’re okay?”
My throat tightened. I could still feel that dense, oppressive air around me, even though the hallway looked normal again.
“Yeah, I… I’m fine,” I lied.
“Okay. Get some rest, alright? You sound like you’ve had a long day.”
“Sure,” I said quickly. “Goodnight.”
I hung up before she could say anything else and stared at the mirror again. The glass was empty, just a reflection of the dim hallway. I took a step closer, the floor creaking beneath my bare feet.
I reached out, my hand trembling as I touched the surface. It was cold, much colder than it should’ve been.
And then, faintly, I heard it—her voice. But it wasn’t coming from the phone this time.
It was coming from behind the mirror.
The voice whispered my name, soft and low, like the way you might hum a lullaby. It wasn’t my mother’s voice anymore—not really. It had the same tone, the same rhythm, but it felt hollow, like someone was trying too hard to mimic her.
My hand shot back from the mirror, and I stumbled a few steps away, my back hitting the wall. The phone in my hand buzzed again, and I almost dropped it. Mom, the screen said.
I didn’t answer this time. I couldn’t. My thumb hovered over the screen as her voice whispered again, this time clearer.
“Why won’t you answer me, sweetheart?” The words slithered out from the mirror like they were alive, crawling into my ears and wrapping around my chest. “You always call me, don’t you? Don’t you want to hear my voice?”
I shook my head, squeezing my eyes shut. “You’re not real,” I muttered, more to myself than to the thing behind the glass. “This isn’t real.”
The air seemed heavier now, pressing against my chest like a weight. When I opened my eyes, the reflection was back. Only this time, it wasn’t just standing there.
It was closer.
Its face was inches from the surface of the mirror, but it wasn’t my face anymore. The skin was pale, stretched tight over sharp cheekbones. Its eyes were sunken, black pits that seemed to drink in the light from my phone.
And it was still smiling.
I didn’t move. I couldn’t. My legs felt like they were locked in place, my breath coming in short, shallow gasps.
“You don’t look happy to see me,” it said, its voice echoing faintly, like it was speaking from the bottom of a well.
It tilted its head, studying me. Its smile grew wider, impossibly wide, splitting its face in half.
“I’ve been waiting,” it whispered. “So long. For you.”
My stomach twisted, and I forced myself to look away. My phone buzzed again, the sound jarring in the oppressive silence.
Mom.
This time, I answered. “Mom?”
Her voice was frantic. “Honey, are you okay? You’re scaring me.”
“I…” My voice cracked. I glanced back at the mirror. The thing inside it was still watching me, its black eyes gleaming with something that looked like hunger. “Mom, where are you?”
“I told you, I’m at home. Are you sure you’re okay? You’re not making any sense.”
“Stay there,” I said quickly. “Don’t—don’t leave the house.”
“What’s going on?” she asked, her voice rising. “You’re scaring me, sweetheart.”
I didn’t answer. My eyes were locked on the mirror as the thing inside it reached out, its hand pressing against the glass. The surface rippled like water, and my stomach dropped.
“You shouldn’t have answered,” it said, its voice dripping with malice. “You opened the door.”
The glass cracked under its hand, thin fractures spreading like spiderwebs. I took a step back, my heart hammering in my chest.
“Mom,” I said into the phone, my voice shaking. “If anything happens—if I don’t call you back—just stay where you are, okay? Don’t come here.”
“What are you talking about?” she demanded. “What’s happening?”
The mirror shattered.
I screamed, dropping the phone as shards of glass flew in every direction. But there was no sound of them hitting the floor, no clatter or crash.
When I looked back, the hallway was empty. The mirror was gone.
But the voice wasn’t.
It was behind me now.
The voice came from just behind my ear, soft and low.
“Sweetheart,” it whispered, drawing the word out like it enjoyed tasting every syllable.
I spun around, heart pounding so hard it felt like it might burst. There was nothing there. The hallway stretched out in front of me, the dim light from the single bulb overhead flickering like it couldn’t decide whether to stay on or go out.
I fumbled for my phone, which lay face down on the floor where I’d dropped it. My fingers trembled as I picked it up, pressing it to my ear.
“Mom?” I croaked.
There was no response. Just static.
“Mom, please,” I said, my voice breaking. “Say something.”
The static shifted, crackling like someone was breathing into the phone. Then came a laugh—a soft, low chuckle that didn’t belong to her.
“You really thought she could help you?” the voice asked. It sounded closer now, more distinct. It wasn’t coming from the phone anymore.
I turned slowly, every nerve in my body screaming at me to run, but my legs wouldn’t obey. The air behind me felt colder, heavier, like the space itself was being swallowed up by something unseen.
The hallway seemed longer than it had before, stretching into darkness that didn’t belong in my apartment. At the end of it, a figure stood, barely visible in the flickering light.
It wasn’t me, but it was.
It had my face, my posture, even the way I held my arms close to my body when I was scared. But its eyes were wrong. They were too wide, too dark, and they didn’t blink.
“Why are you running?” it asked, its voice layered with mine and something deeper, more guttural. “You called me, remember?”
I couldn’t move. My back pressed against the wall as it started walking toward me, each step deliberate, as if it wanted me to feel every second of its approach.
“I’ve been waiting,” it said. Its mouth didn’t move when it spoke, but the words were clear. “Do you know how long I’ve been waiting?”
It stopped a few feet away, tilting its head to the side in a mockery of curiosity. Its grin stretched impossibly wide, splitting its face in a way that didn’t seem possible.
“Who are you?” I whispered, my voice barely audible.
It laughed again, the sound echoing around me. “You know who I am,” it said. “You’ve always known. You just didn’t want to admit it.”
“I don’t—”
It moved faster than I could react, closing the distance between us in a single, jerky motion. Its face was inches from mine now, and I could feel the cold radiating off its skin.
“You let me in,” it whispered. “When you picked up the phone. When you answered her voice.”
I shook my head, tears streaming down my face. “No,” I said, my voice breaking. “I didn’t mean to.”
“Doesn’t matter,” it said, grinning wider. “You’re mine now.”
The flickering light above us went out completely, plunging the hallway into darkness. My phone screen was the only source of light, casting a faint glow on the thing’s face.
And then it reached for me.
I stumbled backward, but there was nowhere to go. The wall behind me was unyielding, cold as ice. My breath came in shallow gasps, each one clouding the air in front of me as if the temperature had dropped ten degrees in an instant.
Its hand—my hand—reached out, pale and unnatural in the dim light of my phone screen. I tried to scream, but no sound came out. My voice, the one thing I could rely on, felt stolen.
“You won’t feel a thing,” it said. Its grin stretched wider than ever, splitting its face so grotesquely it hardly looked human anymore. “You’ll just… fade.”
I slammed my fist against the wall behind me, desperate for a way out. My eyes darted to the hallway, but it was different now—endless and dark, stretching into nothingness. My apartment, my sanctuary, was gone.
“Please,” I whispered, barely able to form the word.
It tilted its head, almost as if considering my plea. Then, in a voice that was half-mocking, half-genuine, it said, “You don’t even know what you’re begging for.”
The shadows around us thickened, rising like smoke, curling around my legs. They weren’t just darkness; they felt alive, cold and sticky as they climbed higher, wrapping around my waist and pulling me forward.
“No!” I screamed, finally finding my voice. I clawed at the wall, at the floor, but there was nothing to hold onto.
“You called me,” it said again, stepping closer. Its face loomed over mine, blocking out everything else. “You answered. That’s all it takes.”
I squeezed my eyes shut, trying to block it out, trying to will it all away. But its voice was inside me now, echoing in my head.
“I’ve been waiting for so long,” it whispered. “And now, you’ll wait too.”
I don’t know what happened next. The world shifted, like the ground beneath me disappeared. For a moment, there was only silence—deep, oppressive silence—and then the sensation of falling.
When I opened my eyes, I was no longer in my apartment.
I was in the hallway, but it wasn’t mine. It stretched endlessly in both directions, lined with doors that didn’t belong to me, didn’t belong anywhere. The air was thick and still, the kind of quiet that made my ears ring.
And then I saw it.
It was me. Or at least, it looked like me. It stood at the far end of the hallway, staring back at me with those wide, dark eyes. It didn’t smile this time. It just watched.
I tried to move, but my feet wouldn’t obey. I tried to scream, but no sound came out. I was trapped.
And then, slowly, it turned and began to walk away.
I don’t know how long I stood there, watching it disappear into the endless stretch of doors and shadows. Minutes? Hours? Time didn’t feel real anymore.
Eventually, I heard something—a faint sound, distant but growing louder.
It was a phone ringing.
I looked down, and there it was, glowing faintly in the dim light of the hallway floor. My phone.
It was vibrating, buzzing insistently, as if demanding I answer.
The screen lit up, showing a name I didn’t recognize. But as the ringing continued, the name changed, morphing letter by letter.
Until it read: Mom.
I didn’t want to pick it up. Every part of me screamed not to. But my hand moved on its own, reaching for the phone, fingers brushing against the cold glass.
I lifted it to my ear, heart hammering in my chest.
“Hello?” I whispered.
And then, in a voice that sounded just like mine, I heard:
“Sweetheart, I’ve been waiting for you.”
The call disconnected.
And the hallway went dark.
The Elevator
The building was abandoned. No one had set foot inside in years. That was the agreement. That was the warning. But I had a job to do.
I stepped into the lobby, my footsteps echoing against the cracked marble floor. The air was thick with dust, undisturbed except for the trail I left behind. The only light came from my flashlight, cutting through the gloom in thin, weak beams.
I’d been hired to survey the structure. An old corporate tower, once bustling with life, now a hollow skeleton of concrete and steel. They wanted to renovate it, make something new out of something forgotten. But I wasn’t here to dream. I was here to check the bones, see if they would hold.
The elevator was still operational. That was the first thing that felt wrong. The power in the building was supposed to be off. My instructions were clear: take the stairs, document structural weaknesses, and leave. But the elevator stood there, doors open, waiting.
Against my better judgment, I stepped inside. The panel flickered as I pressed the button for the top floor. The doors groaned shut, sealing me inside.
The ascent was smooth at first. Then, without warning, the elevator lurched to a stop. My stomach twisted. The doors slid open.
A floor halfway through demolition stretched out before me. Walls stripped to their frames, windows covered with dust so thick they barely let in any light. And then I saw them—footprints in the dust, leading inside.
They weren’t mine.
I hadn’t been here yet. No one had. The building was sealed. My breath caught in my throat. I leaned forward, scanning the dim corridor. Nothing moved. No sound except the distant creak of settling metal.
I reached for the panel, ready to close the doors and continue upward. But before I could press the button, a sound echoed from the hall.
A single, deliberate footstep.
I froze.
The elevator doors stayed open, waiting. My fingers hovered over the panel, but I hesitated.
Then another footstep. Closer this time.
I couldn’t move. My body refused. Something was coming, something just out of sight.
And then the doors closed on their own, sealing me in, swallowing the sound of footsteps with them. The elevator jolted and continued upward.
I should have left right then. I should have forced the doors open and run. But I didn’t.
Instead, I stood there, heart pounding, watching the panel flicker as the numbers climbed.
The elevator stopped again. The doors slid open. Another floor, another set of footprints leading inside.
And then I heard breathing.
I gripped my phone tighter, staring at the elevator doors as they slid open again. Another floor. Another empty hallway. Another set of footprints appearing in the dust, leading inside.
My breath came in short, uneven bursts. I wasn’t imagining this. I was alone in the building. I had been sure of it. Yet, something—someone—was stepping inside with me. But I never heard a sound.
The elevator dinged softly as the doors shut again, sealing me inside with whatever was leaving those prints. My stomach twisted, but I forced myself to stay calm. I jabbed the button for the lobby, willing this ride to be over.
The lights flickered.
The elevator trembled, a deep groan echoing through the walls as if the entire shaft had exhaled. The panel above flickered, skipping past numbers erratically. We were moving, but not where I wanted to go.
I pressed the emergency stop button.
Nothing happened.
My hands were shaking now. The air inside the elevator felt denser, pressing in on me like a living thing. The doors opened again—this time to a floor that shouldn’t exist.
Beyond the threshold, the walls stretched into darkness. No office spaces, no lights, just a long, yawning hallway lined with doorways. The footprints in the dust led forward, vanishing into the gloom.
A whisper slithered through the stale air. It wasn’t a voice. Not really. It was like the memory of one, a sound so faint I could barely tell if it was inside or outside my head.
I should have stayed inside. I should have kept pressing buttons until something worked. But my feet were already moving, stepping out onto the forbidden floor, following the footprints like I was meant to.
The moment I crossed the threshold, the elevator doors shut behind me.
I was trapped.
I slammed my hand against the elevator panel, pressing the "door close" button over and over, but the doors remained open. The footprints in the dust looked fresh, as if someone had just stepped inside, yet the space beside me was empty. I felt a chill slither up my spine.
My breathing was heavy, loud in the silent building. I dared to glance at the buttons. The number "6" was illuminated. The elevator had chosen a floor.
A slow creak echoed through the shaft, and the doors finally began to close. Relief washed over me, but it was short-lived. The lights flickered, and the entire car jolted, as if something heavy had just landed on the roof.
I froze.
A faint scraping noise came from above. It was rhythmic, deliberate. Something was moving up there.
"Hello?" My voice cracked. I felt ridiculous immediately—what was I expecting? A response?
The elevator started its ascent, rising past the second and third floors. The scraping stopped. The silence felt worse.
I pressed my back against the wall, staring at the ceiling panel. If something burst through, I had nowhere to go.
A ding.
The elevator stopped on the sixth floor.
The doors slid open. The hallway was dark except for the faint emergency lighting. The dust on the floor was thick, undisturbed—except for a set of footprints leading away from the elevator. They stopped a few feet ahead.
Then there was nothing.
As if whoever had made them had simply vanished.
I should've stayed inside. Pressed the button, gone straight back to the lobby. But I didn't.
Something compelled me to step forward.
I leaned out, scanning the hall. The air was thick, stale, but beneath it, there was something else. A faint metallic tang. Blood? Rust? I couldn’t tell.
A noise echoed from further down the corridor—a soft shuffle, like fabric brushing against the walls. I took another step.
And then, a whisper. Close. Too close.
"You shouldn't have come back."
I spun, heart slamming against my ribs. The hallway was empty.
But the elevator doors were closing.
I lunged, but they sealed shut before I could reach them. The button panel next to the door flickered. Then, with a sharp beep, every floor button lit up at once.
The elevator was going somewhere. With or without me.
Then, from the darkness behind me, the footsteps started again. Closer this time.
I turned slowly. And I wasn’t alone anymore.
The emergency lights flickered, casting long shadows against the walls. My breath felt too loud in the stillness. Whoever—or whatever—was behind me wasn’t moving now, but I could feel it watching.
I clenched my fists and turned fully around. The hallway was empty. But I knew better than to believe that.
The footprints were still there, leading to nothing. Or maybe… to something I couldn’t see.
My chest tightened. I needed to get back to the elevator, but when I turned, the panel next to the doors blinked red.
POWER DISABLED.
I swallowed hard. No way down. No way up. Just the sixth floor and whatever had been waiting here.
A door creaked open down the hallway. I whipped around, my pulse hammering. The noise came from the last door on the right, its frame barely visible in the dim light.
I took a step forward, then stopped. I wasn’t stupid. Horror movies taught me not to go toward the ominous door. But standing here wasn’t an option either.
Another step. Then another. The air grew colder with each inch closer, like I was stepping into a freezer. My fingers trembled as I reached out.
The door swung inward before I could touch it.
Inside, there was nothing but darkness. A void. I hesitated, then leaned forward slightly. My eyes adjusted enough to see the outline of a room, but something about it felt wrong. The dimensions weren’t right. The walls seemed to stretch on endlessly.
Then, from inside the room, a voice.
Familiar. Too familiar.
"Help me."
My throat tightened. It was my voice.
I stumbled back, but the darkness moved. Shifted. Something rushed toward me. A figure—no, a shadow—lunged from the void.
I turned and ran.
The hallway twisted, stretched. No matter how fast I moved, I wasn’t getting anywhere. The elevator was gone. The emergency lights flickered harder, and the whispering returned, dozens of voices overlapping.
"You shouldn’t have come back."
The shadows reached for me, pulling at my arms, my legs, dragging me back toward the open door. My fingers scraped against the floor as I tried to fight, but the darkness swallowed me whole.
Then, everything went silent.
And I fell.
I stepped into the lobby, my footsteps echoing against the cracked marble floor. The air was thick with dust, undisturbed except for the trail I left behind. The only light came from my flashlight, cutting through the gloom in thin, weak beams.
I’d been hired to survey the structure. An old corporate tower, once bustling with life, now a hollow skeleton of concrete and steel. They wanted to renovate it, make something new out of something forgotten. But I wasn’t here to dream. I was here to check the bones, see if they would hold.
The elevator was still operational. That was the first thing that felt wrong. The power in the building was supposed to be off. My instructions were clear: take the stairs, document structural weaknesses, and leave. But the elevator stood there, doors open, waiting.
Against my better judgment, I stepped inside. The panel flickered as I pressed the button for the top floor. The doors groaned shut, sealing me inside.
The ascent was smooth at first. Then, without warning, the elevator lurched to a stop. My stomach twisted. The doors slid open.
A floor halfway through demolition stretched out before me. Walls stripped to their frames, windows covered with dust so thick they barely let in any light. And then I saw them—footprints in the dust, leading inside.
They weren’t mine.
I hadn’t been here yet. No one had. The building was sealed. My breath caught in my throat. I leaned forward, scanning the dim corridor. Nothing moved. No sound except the distant creak of settling metal.
I reached for the panel, ready to close the doors and continue upward. But before I could press the button, a sound echoed from the hall.
A single, deliberate footstep.
I froze.
The elevator doors stayed open, waiting. My fingers hovered over the panel, but I hesitated.
Then another footstep. Closer this time.
I couldn’t move. My body refused. Something was coming, something just out of sight.
And then the doors closed on their own, sealing me in, swallowing the sound of footsteps with them. The elevator jolted and continued upward.
I should have left right then. I should have forced the doors open and run. But I didn’t.
Instead, I stood there, heart pounding, watching the panel flicker as the numbers climbed.
The elevator stopped again. The doors slid open. Another floor, another set of footprints leading inside.
And then I heard breathing.
I gripped my phone tighter, staring at the elevator doors as they slid open again. Another floor. Another empty hallway. Another set of footprints appearing in the dust, leading inside.
My breath came in short, uneven bursts. I wasn’t imagining this. I was alone in the building. I had been sure of it. Yet, something—someone—was stepping inside with me. But I never heard a sound.
The elevator dinged softly as the doors shut again, sealing me inside with whatever was leaving those prints. My stomach twisted, but I forced myself to stay calm. I jabbed the button for the lobby, willing this ride to be over.
The lights flickered.
The elevator trembled, a deep groan echoing through the walls as if the entire shaft had exhaled. The panel above flickered, skipping past numbers erratically. We were moving, but not where I wanted to go.
I pressed the emergency stop button.
Nothing happened.
My hands were shaking now. The air inside the elevator felt denser, pressing in on me like a living thing. The doors opened again—this time to a floor that shouldn’t exist.
Beyond the threshold, the walls stretched into darkness. No office spaces, no lights, just a long, yawning hallway lined with doorways. The footprints in the dust led forward, vanishing into the gloom.
A whisper slithered through the stale air. It wasn’t a voice. Not really. It was like the memory of one, a sound so faint I could barely tell if it was inside or outside my head.
I should have stayed inside. I should have kept pressing buttons until something worked. But my feet were already moving, stepping out onto the forbidden floor, following the footprints like I was meant to.
The moment I crossed the threshold, the elevator doors shut behind me.
I was trapped.
I slammed my hand against the elevator panel, pressing the "door close" button over and over, but the doors remained open. The footprints in the dust looked fresh, as if someone had just stepped inside, yet the space beside me was empty. I felt a chill slither up my spine.
My breathing was heavy, loud in the silent building. I dared to glance at the buttons. The number "6" was illuminated. The elevator had chosen a floor.
A slow creak echoed through the shaft, and the doors finally began to close. Relief washed over me, but it was short-lived. The lights flickered, and the entire car jolted, as if something heavy had just landed on the roof.
I froze.
A faint scraping noise came from above. It was rhythmic, deliberate. Something was moving up there.
"Hello?" My voice cracked. I felt ridiculous immediately—what was I expecting? A response?
The elevator started its ascent, rising past the second and third floors. The scraping stopped. The silence felt worse.
I pressed my back against the wall, staring at the ceiling panel. If something burst through, I had nowhere to go.
A ding.
The elevator stopped on the sixth floor.
The doors slid open. The hallway was dark except for the faint emergency lighting. The dust on the floor was thick, undisturbed—except for a set of footprints leading away from the elevator. They stopped a few feet ahead.
Then there was nothing.
As if whoever had made them had simply vanished.
I should've stayed inside. Pressed the button, gone straight back to the lobby. But I didn't.
Something compelled me to step forward.
I leaned out, scanning the hall. The air was thick, stale, but beneath it, there was something else. A faint metallic tang. Blood? Rust? I couldn’t tell.
A noise echoed from further down the corridor—a soft shuffle, like fabric brushing against the walls. I took another step.
And then, a whisper. Close. Too close.
"You shouldn't have come back."
I spun, heart slamming against my ribs. The hallway was empty.
But the elevator doors were closing.
I lunged, but they sealed shut before I could reach them. The button panel next to the door flickered. Then, with a sharp beep, every floor button lit up at once.
The elevator was going somewhere. With or without me.
Then, from the darkness behind me, the footsteps started again. Closer this time.
I turned slowly. And I wasn’t alone anymore.
The emergency lights flickered, casting long shadows against the walls. My breath felt too loud in the stillness. Whoever—or whatever—was behind me wasn’t moving now, but I could feel it watching.
I clenched my fists and turned fully around. The hallway was empty. But I knew better than to believe that.
The footprints were still there, leading to nothing. Or maybe… to something I couldn’t see.
My chest tightened. I needed to get back to the elevator, but when I turned, the panel next to the doors blinked red.
POWER DISABLED.
I swallowed hard. No way down. No way up. Just the sixth floor and whatever had been waiting here.
A door creaked open down the hallway. I whipped around, my pulse hammering. The noise came from the last door on the right, its frame barely visible in the dim light.
I took a step forward, then stopped. I wasn’t stupid. Horror movies taught me not to go toward the ominous door. But standing here wasn’t an option either.
Another step. Then another. The air grew colder with each inch closer, like I was stepping into a freezer. My fingers trembled as I reached out.
The door swung inward before I could touch it.
Inside, there was nothing but darkness. A void. I hesitated, then leaned forward slightly. My eyes adjusted enough to see the outline of a room, but something about it felt wrong. The dimensions weren’t right. The walls seemed to stretch on endlessly.
Then, from inside the room, a voice.
Familiar. Too familiar.
"Help me."
My throat tightened. It was my voice.
I stumbled back, but the darkness moved. Shifted. Something rushed toward me. A figure—no, a shadow—lunged from the void.
I turned and ran.
The hallway twisted, stretched. No matter how fast I moved, I wasn’t getting anywhere. The elevator was gone. The emergency lights flickered harder, and the whispering returned, dozens of voices overlapping.
"You shouldn’t have come back."
The shadows reached for me, pulling at my arms, my legs, dragging me back toward the open door. My fingers scraped against the floor as I tried to fight, but the darkness swallowed me whole.
Then, everything went silent.
And I fell.
The Wrong Voice
I was in bed, scrolling through my phone. The room was dark except for the faint glow of the screen. It was past midnight, and I should’ve been asleep, but my mind wouldn’t shut off. There was this nagging feeling, like I’d forgotten something.
Without thinking, I opened my call log and tapped on my mom’s number. She always told me to call, no matter how late. “If you’re ever feeling off,” she’d say, “just call me.” So I did.
It rang twice before she answered.
“Hello?”
Her voice was soft, like she’d been sleeping. But there was something off. The way she said “hello” was too slow, almost deliberate, like she was trying to mimic how she usually sounded.
“Hey, Mom. Sorry, did I wake you?”
There was a long pause. Too long. Then she said, “No… you didn’t wake me, sweetheart.”
My stomach tightened. She sounded like her, but the way she said “sweetheart” made my skin crawl. The word stretched unnaturally, each syllable dripping with something I couldn’t place.
“Are you okay?” I asked, sitting up. My voice cracked a little.
“I’m fine,” she said, but her tone was wrong. It was flat, emotionless, like she was reading a script.
A chill ran down my spine. “Mom… is something wrong?”
The line crackled. I thought I heard her whisper something, but I couldn’t make it out.
“What did you say?” I asked, my voice louder now.
Silence.
“Mom?”
The call ended.
I stared at my phone, my heart pounding in my chest. The screen showed the call had lasted one minute and eleven seconds.
I didn’t hesitate—I called her again. This time, she picked up right away.
“Hey, honey,” she said, her voice warm and familiar. “What’s wrong? Why are you calling so late?”
My breath caught in my throat. “Mom… I just called you. A minute ago. You answered, but—” I stopped myself. How was I supposed to explain this without sounding insane?
She laughed softly. “Sweetheart, you didn’t call me. I’ve been asleep.”
“No, I did. You answered. We talked—well, kind of. It didn’t sound like you, though.”
“Maybe you dreamed it,” she said. But her voice carried a hint of unease now.
I shook my head, even though she couldn’t see me. “It wasn’t a dream.”
There was a pause. Then she said, “Honey, I swear I haven’t been on the phone tonight. Are you sure you’re okay?”
I wanted to believe her. I really did. But that voice… it wasn’t a dream.
“Yeah,” I lied. “I’m fine. Sorry for waking you.”
“It’s okay,” she said, her voice soft again. “Call me if you need me, okay? I love you.”
“Love you too.”
When the call ended, I sat there, staring at the screen. My hands were shaking, and the room felt colder than before.
I didn’t call her again that night. But I couldn’t shake the sound of that voice, the way it had dragged my name out like it was testing the word. It sounded like my mom, but it wasn’t her.
It couldn’t have been.
I couldn’t sleep after that. I lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, listening to the faint hum of the streetlights outside. My phone sat on the nightstand, screen dark, but I kept glancing at it like it might light up on its own.
The sound of her voice—that voice—played in my head on a loop. Slow, stretched, too deliberate. It was wrong, but it wasn’t entirely foreign. That’s what scared me the most.
At some point, I must’ve dozed off, but when I woke up, the clock read 3:12 a.m. I hadn’t set an alarm. The silence in my room felt heavier than usual, like the air itself had thickened.
Then, the phone rang.
I jumped, heart slamming against my ribs. The screen glowed, illuminating the room just enough for me to see the caller ID: Mom.
My hand hovered over the phone, hesitating. I told myself it was nothing. Just a normal call. Maybe she couldn’t sleep either.
I answered, trying to steady my voice. “Hello?”
But all I heard was static.
“Mom?” I said again, louder this time.
A crackling noise came through, sharp and grating, like an old radio struggling to tune into a station. Then, faintly, I heard my name.
“Sweetheart…”
My skin prickled. It was the same voice as before. Slow. Drawn out. Mocking.
“Who is this?” I demanded, gripping the phone so tightly my knuckles ached.
The voice ignored me. “It’s so late… you should be sleeping.”
I froze. The way it spoke felt personal, like it knew me, like it had been watching me.
“What do you want?” My voice cracked.
The static grew louder, drowning out the voice for a moment. Then, clear as day, it said, “Come find me.”
I hung up, throwing the phone onto the bed like it had burned me. My breathing was shallow, my chest tight.
For a while, I just sat there, staring at the phone, waiting for it to ring again. It didn’t.
Instead, there was a sound from outside my room. A faint creak, like someone had stepped on the floorboard in the hallway.
I told myself it was nothing. Just the old apartment settling. But then I heard it again, closer this time.
“Hello?” I called out, my voice shaky.
No answer.
I grabbed my phone and turned on the flashlight, the beam cutting through the darkness. Slowly, I got out of bed and crept toward the door.
The hallway was empty. Nothing but shadows. But the air felt colder out here, like something unseen was lurking just beyond the reach of the light.
Then I saw it.
My mom’s voice wasn’t the only thing that had been wrong. There, at the end of the hallway, was my reflection in the hallway mirror. But it wasn’t moving like me.
It was standing still, staring at me with wide, empty eyes. And then it smiled.
I froze, unable to look away. The reflection’s smile was wrong, stretched too wide, teeth gleaming in the dim light from my phone’s flashlight. My legs felt heavy, but I forced myself to take a step closer, each movement slow and hesitant.
The air in the hallway felt different now—denser, like walking through water. My breath came in shallow gasps, and my grip on the phone tightened, the light trembling as I moved.
“Who… who are you?” My voice barely rose above a whisper.
The reflection didn’t respond. It just stood there, grinning at me with a mockery of my own face. My hand twitched, the one holding the phone, and I realized it wasn’t even trying to mimic my movements anymore.
I stepped closer. The closer I got, the more I noticed little things about it—subtle differences. Its eyes were darker, almost black, and the skin around them seemed sunken, like it hadn’t slept in days.
And then it moved.
Not like a person, though. It jerked, its head tilting unnaturally to one side as its grin widened even further. My stomach churned.
“Stop it,” I said, my voice louder now. “You’re not real.”
It cocked its head, as if considering me. Then, it raised its hand. My hand. But instead of mimicking the way I held the phone, it pointed directly at me.
The hallway light flickered. My heart pounded so loudly I could barely hear myself think.
“I said, stop it!” I screamed this time, and my voice echoed down the hallway.
The reflection’s lips moved, forming words I couldn’t hear. It mouthed something, slow and deliberate, its dark eyes locked onto mine. I couldn’t understand it, but whatever it was saying made my skin crawl.
My phone buzzed in my hand, startling me so badly that I nearly dropped it. I glanced down—another call. Mom.
I hesitated, my thumb hovering over the screen. The reflection didn’t move, but its grin faltered for just a moment, like it knew what I was about to do.
I answered. “Hello?”
This time, her voice was clear. “Honey, are you okay? You sound out of breath.”
Relief washed over me, but it was quickly replaced by confusion. “Mom? Where are you?”
“I’m at home, sweetheart. It’s late—why are you calling so much?” Her tone was calm, gentle, but something about it felt… off.
I glanced back at the mirror. The reflection wasn’t there anymore. The hallway was empty, just my own flashlight beam shaking against the walls.
“Mom, I didn’t—” My voice faltered. “You called me.”
There was a long pause on the other end of the line. “No, I didn’t,” she said slowly. “Are you sure you’re okay?”
My throat tightened. I could still feel that dense, oppressive air around me, even though the hallway looked normal again.
“Yeah, I… I’m fine,” I lied.
“Okay. Get some rest, alright? You sound like you’ve had a long day.”
“Sure,” I said quickly. “Goodnight.”
I hung up before she could say anything else and stared at the mirror again. The glass was empty, just a reflection of the dim hallway. I took a step closer, the floor creaking beneath my bare feet.
I reached out, my hand trembling as I touched the surface. It was cold, much colder than it should’ve been.
And then, faintly, I heard it—her voice. But it wasn’t coming from the phone this time.
It was coming from behind the mirror.
The voice whispered my name, soft and low, like the way you might hum a lullaby. It wasn’t my mother’s voice anymore—not really. It had the same tone, the same rhythm, but it felt hollow, like someone was trying too hard to mimic her.
My hand shot back from the mirror, and I stumbled a few steps away, my back hitting the wall. The phone in my hand buzzed again, and I almost dropped it. Mom, the screen said.
I didn’t answer this time. I couldn’t. My thumb hovered over the screen as her voice whispered again, this time clearer.
“Why won’t you answer me, sweetheart?” The words slithered out from the mirror like they were alive, crawling into my ears and wrapping around my chest. “You always call me, don’t you? Don’t you want to hear my voice?”
I shook my head, squeezing my eyes shut. “You’re not real,” I muttered, more to myself than to the thing behind the glass. “This isn’t real.”
The air seemed heavier now, pressing against my chest like a weight. When I opened my eyes, the reflection was back. Only this time, it wasn’t just standing there.
It was closer.
Its face was inches from the surface of the mirror, but it wasn’t my face anymore. The skin was pale, stretched tight over sharp cheekbones. Its eyes were sunken, black pits that seemed to drink in the light from my phone.
And it was still smiling.
I didn’t move. I couldn’t. My legs felt like they were locked in place, my breath coming in short, shallow gasps.
“You don’t look happy to see me,” it said, its voice echoing faintly, like it was speaking from the bottom of a well.
It tilted its head, studying me. Its smile grew wider, impossibly wide, splitting its face in half.
“I’ve been waiting,” it whispered. “So long. For you.”
My stomach twisted, and I forced myself to look away. My phone buzzed again, the sound jarring in the oppressive silence.
Mom.
This time, I answered. “Mom?”
Her voice was frantic. “Honey, are you okay? You’re scaring me.”
“I…” My voice cracked. I glanced back at the mirror. The thing inside it was still watching me, its black eyes gleaming with something that looked like hunger. “Mom, where are you?”
“I told you, I’m at home. Are you sure you’re okay? You’re not making any sense.”
“Stay there,” I said quickly. “Don’t—don’t leave the house.”
“What’s going on?” she asked, her voice rising. “You’re scaring me, sweetheart.”
I didn’t answer. My eyes were locked on the mirror as the thing inside it reached out, its hand pressing against the glass. The surface rippled like water, and my stomach dropped.
“You shouldn’t have answered,” it said, its voice dripping with malice. “You opened the door.”
The glass cracked under its hand, thin fractures spreading like spiderwebs. I took a step back, my heart hammering in my chest.
“Mom,” I said into the phone, my voice shaking. “If anything happens—if I don’t call you back—just stay where you are, okay? Don’t come here.”
“What are you talking about?” she demanded. “What’s happening?”
The mirror shattered.
I screamed, dropping the phone as shards of glass flew in every direction. But there was no sound of them hitting the floor, no clatter or crash.
When I looked back, the hallway was empty. The mirror was gone.
But the voice wasn’t.
It was behind me now.
The voice came from just behind my ear, soft and low.
“Sweetheart,” it whispered, drawing the word out like it enjoyed tasting every syllable.
I spun around, heart pounding so hard it felt like it might burst. There was nothing there. The hallway stretched out in front of me, the dim light from the single bulb overhead flickering like it couldn’t decide whether to stay on or go out.
I fumbled for my phone, which lay face down on the floor where I’d dropped it. My fingers trembled as I picked it up, pressing it to my ear.
“Mom?” I croaked.
There was no response. Just static.
“Mom, please,” I said, my voice breaking. “Say something.”
The static shifted, crackling like someone was breathing into the phone. Then came a laugh—a soft, low chuckle that didn’t belong to her.
“You really thought she could help you?” the voice asked. It sounded closer now, more distinct. It wasn’t coming from the phone anymore.
I turned slowly, every nerve in my body screaming at me to run, but my legs wouldn’t obey. The air behind me felt colder, heavier, like the space itself was being swallowed up by something unseen.
The hallway seemed longer than it had before, stretching into darkness that didn’t belong in my apartment. At the end of it, a figure stood, barely visible in the flickering light.
It wasn’t me, but it was.
It had my face, my posture, even the way I held my arms close to my body when I was scared. But its eyes were wrong. They were too wide, too dark, and they didn’t blink.
“Why are you running?” it asked, its voice layered with mine and something deeper, more guttural. “You called me, remember?”
I couldn’t move. My back pressed against the wall as it started walking toward me, each step deliberate, as if it wanted me to feel every second of its approach.
“I’ve been waiting,” it said. Its mouth didn’t move when it spoke, but the words were clear. “Do you know how long I’ve been waiting?”
It stopped a few feet away, tilting its head to the side in a mockery of curiosity. Its grin stretched impossibly wide, splitting its face in a way that didn’t seem possible.
“Who are you?” I whispered, my voice barely audible.
It laughed again, the sound echoing around me. “You know who I am,” it said. “You’ve always known. You just didn’t want to admit it.”
“I don’t—”
It moved faster than I could react, closing the distance between us in a single, jerky motion. Its face was inches from mine now, and I could feel the cold radiating off its skin.
“You let me in,” it whispered. “When you picked up the phone. When you answered her voice.”
I shook my head, tears streaming down my face. “No,” I said, my voice breaking. “I didn’t mean to.”
“Doesn’t matter,” it said, grinning wider. “You’re mine now.”
The flickering light above us went out completely, plunging the hallway into darkness. My phone screen was the only source of light, casting a faint glow on the thing’s face.
And then it reached for me.
I stumbled backward, but there was nowhere to go. The wall behind me was unyielding, cold as ice. My breath came in shallow gasps, each one clouding the air in front of me as if the temperature had dropped ten degrees in an instant.
Its hand—my hand—reached out, pale and unnatural in the dim light of my phone screen. I tried to scream, but no sound came out. My voice, the one thing I could rely on, felt stolen.
“You won’t feel a thing,” it said. Its grin stretched wider than ever, splitting its face so grotesquely it hardly looked human anymore. “You’ll just… fade.”
I slammed my fist against the wall behind me, desperate for a way out. My eyes darted to the hallway, but it was different now—endless and dark, stretching into nothingness. My apartment, my sanctuary, was gone.
“Please,” I whispered, barely able to form the word.
It tilted its head, almost as if considering my plea. Then, in a voice that was half-mocking, half-genuine, it said, “You don’t even know what you’re begging for.”
The shadows around us thickened, rising like smoke, curling around my legs. They weren’t just darkness; they felt alive, cold and sticky as they climbed higher, wrapping around my waist and pulling me forward.
“No!” I screamed, finally finding my voice. I clawed at the wall, at the floor, but there was nothing to hold onto.
“You called me,” it said again, stepping closer. Its face loomed over mine, blocking out everything else. “You answered. That’s all it takes.”
I squeezed my eyes shut, trying to block it out, trying to will it all away. But its voice was inside me now, echoing in my head.
“I’ve been waiting for so long,” it whispered. “And now, you’ll wait too.”
I don’t know what happened next. The world shifted, like the ground beneath me disappeared. For a moment, there was only silence—deep, oppressive silence—and then the sensation of falling.
When I opened my eyes, I was no longer in my apartment.
I was in the hallway, but it wasn’t mine. It stretched endlessly in both directions, lined with doors that didn’t belong to me, didn’t belong anywhere. The air was thick and still, the kind of quiet that made my ears ring.
And then I saw it.
It was me. Or at least, it looked like me. It stood at the far end of the hallway, staring back at me with those wide, dark eyes. It didn’t smile this time. It just watched.
I tried to move, but my feet wouldn’t obey. I tried to scream, but no sound came out. I was trapped.
And then, slowly, it turned and began to walk away.
I don’t know how long I stood there, watching it disappear into the endless stretch of doors and shadows. Minutes? Hours? Time didn’t feel real anymore.
Eventually, I heard something—a faint sound, distant but growing louder.
It was a phone ringing.
I looked down, and there it was, glowing faintly in the dim light of the hallway floor. My phone.
It was vibrating, buzzing insistently, as if demanding I answer.
The screen lit up, showing a name I didn’t recognize. But as the ringing continued, the name changed, morphing letter by letter.
Until it read: Mom.
I didn’t want to pick it up. Every part of me screamed not to. But my hand moved on its own, reaching for the phone, fingers brushing against the cold glass.
I lifted it to my ear, heart hammering in my chest.
“Hello?” I whispered.
And then, in a voice that sounded just like mine, I heard:
“Sweetheart, I’ve been waiting for you.”
The call disconnected.
And the hallway went dark.
Without thinking, I opened my call log and tapped on my mom’s number. She always told me to call, no matter how late. “If you’re ever feeling off,” she’d say, “just call me.” So I did.
It rang twice before she answered.
“Hello?”
Her voice was soft, like she’d been sleeping. But there was something off. The way she said “hello” was too slow, almost deliberate, like she was trying to mimic how she usually sounded.
“Hey, Mom. Sorry, did I wake you?”
There was a long pause. Too long. Then she said, “No… you didn’t wake me, sweetheart.”
My stomach tightened. She sounded like her, but the way she said “sweetheart” made my skin crawl. The word stretched unnaturally, each syllable dripping with something I couldn’t place.
“Are you okay?” I asked, sitting up. My voice cracked a little.
“I’m fine,” she said, but her tone was wrong. It was flat, emotionless, like she was reading a script.
A chill ran down my spine. “Mom… is something wrong?”
The line crackled. I thought I heard her whisper something, but I couldn’t make it out.
“What did you say?” I asked, my voice louder now.
Silence.
“Mom?”
The call ended.
I stared at my phone, my heart pounding in my chest. The screen showed the call had lasted one minute and eleven seconds.
I didn’t hesitate—I called her again. This time, she picked up right away.
“Hey, honey,” she said, her voice warm and familiar. “What’s wrong? Why are you calling so late?”
My breath caught in my throat. “Mom… I just called you. A minute ago. You answered, but—” I stopped myself. How was I supposed to explain this without sounding insane?
She laughed softly. “Sweetheart, you didn’t call me. I’ve been asleep.”
“No, I did. You answered. We talked—well, kind of. It didn’t sound like you, though.”
“Maybe you dreamed it,” she said. But her voice carried a hint of unease now.
I shook my head, even though she couldn’t see me. “It wasn’t a dream.”
There was a pause. Then she said, “Honey, I swear I haven’t been on the phone tonight. Are you sure you’re okay?”
I wanted to believe her. I really did. But that voice… it wasn’t a dream.
“Yeah,” I lied. “I’m fine. Sorry for waking you.”
“It’s okay,” she said, her voice soft again. “Call me if you need me, okay? I love you.”
“Love you too.”
When the call ended, I sat there, staring at the screen. My hands were shaking, and the room felt colder than before.
I didn’t call her again that night. But I couldn’t shake the sound of that voice, the way it had dragged my name out like it was testing the word. It sounded like my mom, but it wasn’t her.
It couldn’t have been.
I couldn’t sleep after that. I lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, listening to the faint hum of the streetlights outside. My phone sat on the nightstand, screen dark, but I kept glancing at it like it might light up on its own.
The sound of her voice—that voice—played in my head on a loop. Slow, stretched, too deliberate. It was wrong, but it wasn’t entirely foreign. That’s what scared me the most.
At some point, I must’ve dozed off, but when I woke up, the clock read 3:12 a.m. I hadn’t set an alarm. The silence in my room felt heavier than usual, like the air itself had thickened.
Then, the phone rang.
I jumped, heart slamming against my ribs. The screen glowed, illuminating the room just enough for me to see the caller ID: Mom.
My hand hovered over the phone, hesitating. I told myself it was nothing. Just a normal call. Maybe she couldn’t sleep either.
I answered, trying to steady my voice. “Hello?”
But all I heard was static.
“Mom?” I said again, louder this time.
A crackling noise came through, sharp and grating, like an old radio struggling to tune into a station. Then, faintly, I heard my name.
“Sweetheart…”
My skin prickled. It was the same voice as before. Slow. Drawn out. Mocking.
“Who is this?” I demanded, gripping the phone so tightly my knuckles ached.
The voice ignored me. “It’s so late… you should be sleeping.”
I froze. The way it spoke felt personal, like it knew me, like it had been watching me.
“What do you want?” My voice cracked.
The static grew louder, drowning out the voice for a moment. Then, clear as day, it said, “Come find me.”
I hung up, throwing the phone onto the bed like it had burned me. My breathing was shallow, my chest tight.
For a while, I just sat there, staring at the phone, waiting for it to ring again. It didn’t.
Instead, there was a sound from outside my room. A faint creak, like someone had stepped on the floorboard in the hallway.
I told myself it was nothing. Just the old apartment settling. But then I heard it again, closer this time.
“Hello?” I called out, my voice shaky.
No answer.
I grabbed my phone and turned on the flashlight, the beam cutting through the darkness. Slowly, I got out of bed and crept toward the door.
The hallway was empty. Nothing but shadows. But the air felt colder out here, like something unseen was lurking just beyond the reach of the light.
Then I saw it.
My mom’s voice wasn’t the only thing that had been wrong. There, at the end of the hallway, was my reflection in the hallway mirror. But it wasn’t moving like me.
It was standing still, staring at me with wide, empty eyes. And then it smiled.
I froze, unable to look away. The reflection’s smile was wrong, stretched too wide, teeth gleaming in the dim light from my phone’s flashlight. My legs felt heavy, but I forced myself to take a step closer, each movement slow and hesitant.
The air in the hallway felt different now—denser, like walking through water. My breath came in shallow gasps, and my grip on the phone tightened, the light trembling as I moved.
“Who… who are you?” My voice barely rose above a whisper.
The reflection didn’t respond. It just stood there, grinning at me with a mockery of my own face. My hand twitched, the one holding the phone, and I realized it wasn’t even trying to mimic my movements anymore.
I stepped closer. The closer I got, the more I noticed little things about it—subtle differences. Its eyes were darker, almost black, and the skin around them seemed sunken, like it hadn’t slept in days.
And then it moved.
Not like a person, though. It jerked, its head tilting unnaturally to one side as its grin widened even further. My stomach churned.
“Stop it,” I said, my voice louder now. “You’re not real.”
It cocked its head, as if considering me. Then, it raised its hand. My hand. But instead of mimicking the way I held the phone, it pointed directly at me.
The hallway light flickered. My heart pounded so loudly I could barely hear myself think.
“I said, stop it!” I screamed this time, and my voice echoed down the hallway.
The reflection’s lips moved, forming words I couldn’t hear. It mouthed something, slow and deliberate, its dark eyes locked onto mine. I couldn’t understand it, but whatever it was saying made my skin crawl.
My phone buzzed in my hand, startling me so badly that I nearly dropped it. I glanced down—another call. Mom.
I hesitated, my thumb hovering over the screen. The reflection didn’t move, but its grin faltered for just a moment, like it knew what I was about to do.
I answered. “Hello?”
This time, her voice was clear. “Honey, are you okay? You sound out of breath.”
Relief washed over me, but it was quickly replaced by confusion. “Mom? Where are you?”
“I’m at home, sweetheart. It’s late—why are you calling so much?” Her tone was calm, gentle, but something about it felt… off.
I glanced back at the mirror. The reflection wasn’t there anymore. The hallway was empty, just my own flashlight beam shaking against the walls.
“Mom, I didn’t—” My voice faltered. “You called me.”
There was a long pause on the other end of the line. “No, I didn’t,” she said slowly. “Are you sure you’re okay?”
My throat tightened. I could still feel that dense, oppressive air around me, even though the hallway looked normal again.
“Yeah, I… I’m fine,” I lied.
“Okay. Get some rest, alright? You sound like you’ve had a long day.”
“Sure,” I said quickly. “Goodnight.”
I hung up before she could say anything else and stared at the mirror again. The glass was empty, just a reflection of the dim hallway. I took a step closer, the floor creaking beneath my bare feet.
I reached out, my hand trembling as I touched the surface. It was cold, much colder than it should’ve been.
And then, faintly, I heard it—her voice. But it wasn’t coming from the phone this time.
It was coming from behind the mirror.
The voice whispered my name, soft and low, like the way you might hum a lullaby. It wasn’t my mother’s voice anymore—not really. It had the same tone, the same rhythm, but it felt hollow, like someone was trying too hard to mimic her.
My hand shot back from the mirror, and I stumbled a few steps away, my back hitting the wall. The phone in my hand buzzed again, and I almost dropped it. Mom, the screen said.
I didn’t answer this time. I couldn’t. My thumb hovered over the screen as her voice whispered again, this time clearer.
“Why won’t you answer me, sweetheart?” The words slithered out from the mirror like they were alive, crawling into my ears and wrapping around my chest. “You always call me, don’t you? Don’t you want to hear my voice?”
I shook my head, squeezing my eyes shut. “You’re not real,” I muttered, more to myself than to the thing behind the glass. “This isn’t real.”
The air seemed heavier now, pressing against my chest like a weight. When I opened my eyes, the reflection was back. Only this time, it wasn’t just standing there.
It was closer.
Its face was inches from the surface of the mirror, but it wasn’t my face anymore. The skin was pale, stretched tight over sharp cheekbones. Its eyes were sunken, black pits that seemed to drink in the light from my phone.
And it was still smiling.
I didn’t move. I couldn’t. My legs felt like they were locked in place, my breath coming in short, shallow gasps.
“You don’t look happy to see me,” it said, its voice echoing faintly, like it was speaking from the bottom of a well.
It tilted its head, studying me. Its smile grew wider, impossibly wide, splitting its face in half.
“I’ve been waiting,” it whispered. “So long. For you.”
My stomach twisted, and I forced myself to look away. My phone buzzed again, the sound jarring in the oppressive silence.
Mom.
This time, I answered. “Mom?”
Her voice was frantic. “Honey, are you okay? You’re scaring me.”
“I…” My voice cracked. I glanced back at the mirror. The thing inside it was still watching me, its black eyes gleaming with something that looked like hunger. “Mom, where are you?”
“I told you, I’m at home. Are you sure you’re okay? You’re not making any sense.”
“Stay there,” I said quickly. “Don’t—don’t leave the house.”
“What’s going on?” she asked, her voice rising. “You’re scaring me, sweetheart.”
I didn’t answer. My eyes were locked on the mirror as the thing inside it reached out, its hand pressing against the glass. The surface rippled like water, and my stomach dropped.
“You shouldn’t have answered,” it said, its voice dripping with malice. “You opened the door.”
The glass cracked under its hand, thin fractures spreading like spiderwebs. I took a step back, my heart hammering in my chest.
“Mom,” I said into the phone, my voice shaking. “If anything happens—if I don’t call you back—just stay where you are, okay? Don’t come here.”
“What are you talking about?” she demanded. “What’s happening?”
The mirror shattered.
I screamed, dropping the phone as shards of glass flew in every direction. But there was no sound of them hitting the floor, no clatter or crash.
When I looked back, the hallway was empty. The mirror was gone.
But the voice wasn’t.
It was behind me now.
The voice came from just behind my ear, soft and low.
“Sweetheart,” it whispered, drawing the word out like it enjoyed tasting every syllable.
I spun around, heart pounding so hard it felt like it might burst. There was nothing there. The hallway stretched out in front of me, the dim light from the single bulb overhead flickering like it couldn’t decide whether to stay on or go out.
I fumbled for my phone, which lay face down on the floor where I’d dropped it. My fingers trembled as I picked it up, pressing it to my ear.
“Mom?” I croaked.
There was no response. Just static.
“Mom, please,” I said, my voice breaking. “Say something.”
The static shifted, crackling like someone was breathing into the phone. Then came a laugh—a soft, low chuckle that didn’t belong to her.
“You really thought she could help you?” the voice asked. It sounded closer now, more distinct. It wasn’t coming from the phone anymore.
I turned slowly, every nerve in my body screaming at me to run, but my legs wouldn’t obey. The air behind me felt colder, heavier, like the space itself was being swallowed up by something unseen.
The hallway seemed longer than it had before, stretching into darkness that didn’t belong in my apartment. At the end of it, a figure stood, barely visible in the flickering light.
It wasn’t me, but it was.
It had my face, my posture, even the way I held my arms close to my body when I was scared. But its eyes were wrong. They were too wide, too dark, and they didn’t blink.
“Why are you running?” it asked, its voice layered with mine and something deeper, more guttural. “You called me, remember?”
I couldn’t move. My back pressed against the wall as it started walking toward me, each step deliberate, as if it wanted me to feel every second of its approach.
“I’ve been waiting,” it said. Its mouth didn’t move when it spoke, but the words were clear. “Do you know how long I’ve been waiting?”
It stopped a few feet away, tilting its head to the side in a mockery of curiosity. Its grin stretched impossibly wide, splitting its face in a way that didn’t seem possible.
“Who are you?” I whispered, my voice barely audible.
It laughed again, the sound echoing around me. “You know who I am,” it said. “You’ve always known. You just didn’t want to admit it.”
“I don’t—”
It moved faster than I could react, closing the distance between us in a single, jerky motion. Its face was inches from mine now, and I could feel the cold radiating off its skin.
“You let me in,” it whispered. “When you picked up the phone. When you answered her voice.”
I shook my head, tears streaming down my face. “No,” I said, my voice breaking. “I didn’t mean to.”
“Doesn’t matter,” it said, grinning wider. “You’re mine now.”
The flickering light above us went out completely, plunging the hallway into darkness. My phone screen was the only source of light, casting a faint glow on the thing’s face.
And then it reached for me.
I stumbled backward, but there was nowhere to go. The wall behind me was unyielding, cold as ice. My breath came in shallow gasps, each one clouding the air in front of me as if the temperature had dropped ten degrees in an instant.
Its hand—my hand—reached out, pale and unnatural in the dim light of my phone screen. I tried to scream, but no sound came out. My voice, the one thing I could rely on, felt stolen.
“You won’t feel a thing,” it said. Its grin stretched wider than ever, splitting its face so grotesquely it hardly looked human anymore. “You’ll just… fade.”
I slammed my fist against the wall behind me, desperate for a way out. My eyes darted to the hallway, but it was different now—endless and dark, stretching into nothingness. My apartment, my sanctuary, was gone.
“Please,” I whispered, barely able to form the word.
It tilted its head, almost as if considering my plea. Then, in a voice that was half-mocking, half-genuine, it said, “You don’t even know what you’re begging for.”
The shadows around us thickened, rising like smoke, curling around my legs. They weren’t just darkness; they felt alive, cold and sticky as they climbed higher, wrapping around my waist and pulling me forward.
“No!” I screamed, finally finding my voice. I clawed at the wall, at the floor, but there was nothing to hold onto.
“You called me,” it said again, stepping closer. Its face loomed over mine, blocking out everything else. “You answered. That’s all it takes.”
I squeezed my eyes shut, trying to block it out, trying to will it all away. But its voice was inside me now, echoing in my head.
“I’ve been waiting for so long,” it whispered. “And now, you’ll wait too.”
I don’t know what happened next. The world shifted, like the ground beneath me disappeared. For a moment, there was only silence—deep, oppressive silence—and then the sensation of falling.
When I opened my eyes, I was no longer in my apartment.
I was in the hallway, but it wasn’t mine. It stretched endlessly in both directions, lined with doors that didn’t belong to me, didn’t belong anywhere. The air was thick and still, the kind of quiet that made my ears ring.
And then I saw it.
It was me. Or at least, it looked like me. It stood at the far end of the hallway, staring back at me with those wide, dark eyes. It didn’t smile this time. It just watched.
I tried to move, but my feet wouldn’t obey. I tried to scream, but no sound came out. I was trapped.
And then, slowly, it turned and began to walk away.
I don’t know how long I stood there, watching it disappear into the endless stretch of doors and shadows. Minutes? Hours? Time didn’t feel real anymore.
Eventually, I heard something—a faint sound, distant but growing louder.
It was a phone ringing.
I looked down, and there it was, glowing faintly in the dim light of the hallway floor. My phone.
It was vibrating, buzzing insistently, as if demanding I answer.
The screen lit up, showing a name I didn’t recognize. But as the ringing continued, the name changed, morphing letter by letter.
Until it read: Mom.
I didn’t want to pick it up. Every part of me screamed not to. But my hand moved on its own, reaching for the phone, fingers brushing against the cold glass.
I lifted it to my ear, heart hammering in my chest.
“Hello?” I whispered.
And then, in a voice that sounded just like mine, I heard:
“Sweetheart, I’ve been waiting for you.”
The call disconnected.
And the hallway went dark.
The Watcher's Signal
PROLOGUE
Elias Rourke wrote in his journal as a storm battered the island. Lightning lit up the cliffs, and waves pounded the rocks below the lighthouse. He’d seen storms before, but this one felt wrong. The air was heavy, and the wind carried sounds that didn’t belong—low whispers just at the edge of hearing.
The light wasn’t working properly. He’d disconnected the machinery earlier, but it still flashed, throwing erratic beams into the night. Rourke noted this in his journal, trying to stay logical. But things were happening that logic couldn’t explain.
His dreams had changed. Each night, he saw his wife—long dead—waiting for him in places they’d never been together. In these dreams, shadows stood behind her, watching him. He woke up drenched in sweat, the whispers from the wind still in his ears.
The journal entries became frantic. He wrote about ships appearing on the horizon. They didn’t move like real ships. Some were broken, with torn sails. Others vanished as quickly as they came. He smashed the lighthouse lens in desperation. By morning, it was whole again.
In his final entry, Rourke wrote: "I tried to leave. The boat brought me back. I broke the light. It rebuilt itself. This place takes what you can’t bear to lose. If you see the light, turn away. Don’t let it see you."
The pages ended there. Outside, the lighthouse stood silent, its beam slicing through the dark, as if waiting for something new.
CHAPTER 1
The email was short. It came from someone named David Rhodes. I didn’t know him, but his message intrigued me.
Dr. Kane,
I’m writing to invite you to join a field study on a phenomenon we believe is connected to unexplained energy anomalies. The site is an abandoned lighthouse on an uninhabited island. I’ve read your work and believe your expertise is vital. If you’re interested, we can meet to discuss the details.
Best,
David Rhodes
I read it twice, then a third time. It wasn’t unusual for people to contact me about strange phenomena. Most of the time, their claims didn’t hold up. They’d seen something they couldn’t explain and assumed it was groundbreaking. But something about this felt different. The lighthouse’s location wasn’t listed, and the tone was straightforward. No fluff. Just enough to get my attention.
I replied the same day.
We met at a small coffee shop near the coast. David was younger than I expected, maybe mid-thirties, with a weathered look that came from too much time outdoors. He had a thick folder with him.
“Thank you for meeting me,” he said, sliding the folder across the table.
Inside were old photos of the lighthouse. Most were grainy, but a few were clear. The light beam looked strange in some of them, as if it wasn’t just illuminating the night but cutting through it.
“These are from the 1940s,” David said. “The lighthouse was decommissioned in 1937, but locals kept seeing the light. They say it’s never fully gone out.”
I studied the photos. One showed a shipwreck near the island, the hull cracked open like an egg. Another was a journal entry—the handwriting messy, the words desperate.
“Do you believe in ghosts?” David asked suddenly.
“No,” I said. “But I believe in unexplained energy fields."
He nodded, like that was the answer he’d expected.
“There’s something about this place,” he said. “I’ve been researching it for years. People see things when they get close. Ships go off course. Instruments fail. It’s like the lighthouse messes with reality itself.”
“And you think it’s connected to an energy anomaly?” I asked.
David shrugged. “I think it’s dangerous. But you’re the expert. That’s why I need you.”
We set out a week later. The team consisted of four people: me, David, a survivalist named Tom Halstead, and Angela Vega, who seemed more interested in filming everything than in the lighthouse itself.
We all gathered at Cloudy's Pub, a local pub off the shoreline from the lighthouse. The pub smelled of salt and damp wood. A soft hum of voices filled the air as locals shared stories over pints. I sat at a corner table, running my finger along the edge of a weathered map. My eyes flicked to the lighthouse’s mark on the map—a small black X surrounded by nothing but open sea and coastlines.
David Rhodes was the first to arrive. He approached the table with a leather-bound notebook tucked under his arm. His clothes were neat, though his glasses perched crookedly on his nose. He set the notebook down with care, like it contained something fragile.
“Dr. Kane, pleasure to meet you again,” he said, his voice measured and calm. “This lighthouse, it’s an enigma. Did you know that over thirty ships disappeared in its vicinity in the late 1800s?”
I nodded. “I read some of the records. But I’m more interested in the energy readings. The patterns are… unusual.”
He adjusted his glasses. “Unusual doesn’t begin to cover it. This place has a history that defies logic.”
Before I could reply, Angela Vega burst through the door. She wore a bright yellow jacket that seemed out of place in the dim pub. A camera hung around her neck, and her phone was already in her hand.
“Hey, are you Dr. Kane?” she asked, her tone light and eager. She pulled out a chair and sat before I could answer. “This is going to be epic. The lighthouse looks so creepy from the shore. My followers are going to love this.”
David frowned. “This isn’t a sightseeing trip, Miss Vega. We’re here to investigate.”
“Exactly,” she said, grinning. “And I’m here to document it. People eat this stuff up.”
Tom Halstead arrived last. He moved with purpose, his heavy boots scuffing against the floor. A backpack sagged on his shoulders, packed full of gear. He scanned the room before settling into the seat next to Angela. He looked at each of us in turn, his expression unreadable.
“So,” he said, leaning back in his chair. “Who’s actually in charge here?”
I cleared my throat. “I organized the trip. But we’re a team. Everyone’s input matters.”
Tom raised an eyebrow. “Sure. Just don’t expect me to buy into ghost stories.”
“It’s not about ghosts,” I said, keeping my voice steady. “There’s an unexplained energy signature coming from the lighthouse. That’s why we’re here.”
Angela smirked. “Energy, ghosts, shipwrecks. Whatever it is, it’s going to make a great story.”
David opened his notebook. “The lighthouse has been abandoned for decades. But there are accounts of strange lights and sounds, even as far back as the 19th century.”
“Accounts from drunk sailors,” Tom muttered.
“Not all of them,” David countered. “Some were experienced navigators. They reported seeing lights when the tower was dark, or hearing the sound of a foghorn when there was no mist.”
Tom leaned forward. “And what do you think? That the place is cursed?”
David hesitated, then shook his head. “I think there’s something there we don’t understand.”
I looked at the map again, tracing the coastline with my finger. “Whatever it is, we’ll find out. But we need to be prepared. The island’s isolated, and the weather can turn fast.”
Tom nodded. “I’ve got the gear we’ll need. But if anyone’s having second thoughts, now’s the time to speak up.”
Nobody said anything. The silence hung heavy, charged with a mix of excitement and unease.
“Alright then,” I said. “We leave at first light.”
The boat ride to the island was unnerving. The water grew unnaturally still as we approached. The air felt heavier, like it carried more than just moisture. Angela pointed her camera at the horizon and frowned.
“That’s weird,” she said. “The lens is picking up… static? I’ve never seen that before.”
I looked out at the lighthouse. It seemed to loom over the island, taller than it had any right to be. The beam was faint, but it moved steadily, cutting across the dark water.
“It’s not running on any power source I know of,” I said.
“It’s been like that for decades,” David said. “No one’s been able to explain it.”
CHAPTER 2
The boat rocked gently as the engine hummed. The mainland had already disappeared behind us, swallowed by the horizon. Tom sat at the helm, hands steady on the wheel, his face locked in concentration. Angela stood at the bow, her camera angled at the endless stretch of water. She was narrating for her audience, but the wind swallowed her voice.
David was beside me, flipping through his leather-bound journal. Every so often, he jotted a note or tapped the page as though solving some puzzle only he could see.
I tried to focus on the instruments in my lap. The portable electromagnetic field reader had been calibrated that morning, but the numbers didn’t make sense. The readings spiked and dropped, like a signal trying to break through static.
“It’s acting up again,” I muttered.
David glanced over. “What does it mean?”
“Nothing good,” I said. “Or maybe everything good, depending on your perspective.”
The sea stretched smooth and still, unnaturally calm. Tom leaned back and called out, “This is eerie. Where’s the chop?”
I nodded. He was right. Even with perfect weather, the ocean should have shown some resistance. A wave, a ripple, something.
Angela turned, camera in hand. “What are you two whispering about? Don’t keep the mystery to yourselves.”
“Just noticing the water,” I said.
“It’s dead calm,” Tom added, without looking away from the horizon.
“That’s perfect for filming,” Angela said, smiling. “My viewers are going to love this.” She lifted her camera again, but a frown crossed her face as she watched the playback.
“What’s wrong?” I asked.
“There’s... I don’t know. It’s glitchy.” She tilted the screen toward me.
The footage looked normal at first. Clear skies, smooth water, the faint outline of Tom steering the boat. But then came a flash—quick, almost imperceptible. I asked her to rewind it.
The flash came again. This time, I caught it. A shadow, tall and thin, swept across the frame. It was gone before I could make sense of it.
“Could be an issue with your camera,” I suggested.
She shook her head. “This camera doesn’t glitch.”
Tom cut the engine. “You guys seeing this?”
Ahead of us, the lighthouse emerged. Its silhouette was sharp against the pale sky. From a distance, it looked no different than the pictures I’d studied. But as we drew closer, it seemed to grow. Not just taller—larger in every way. The proportions felt wrong, like the tower was leaning toward us.
“That thing’s huge,” David said.
“It wasn’t that big in the photos,” Angela added.
I checked my compass. The needle spun wildly, refusing to settle. The GPS on my tablet displayed nothing but error codes.
Tom noticed my reaction. “What’s going on with your tech?”
“Same thing as before,” I said. “It’s like everything’s being scrambled.”
The lighthouse flickered. Its beam swept across the sea, even though it hadn’t been operational in decades. The light didn’t seem natural. It pulsed in uneven intervals, dimming and brightening as though alive.
We reached the beach a few minutes later. Rusted metal jutted out of the sand—pieces of old shipwrecks. Bones lay scattered among the wreckage, their surfaces almost polished. Too clean.
Angela stepped off the boat first, camera already rolling. “This place is amazing,” she said, her excitement masking any unease.
Tom followed, shouldering a pack of gear. “This is a bad idea,” he muttered.
David knelt to examine a bone. “Human,” he said.
I stepped onto the sand last, my gaze fixed on the lighthouse. The pulsing light was slower now, deliberate. Each flash seemed to carry weight, like a signal I couldn’t decode.
Tom looked at me. “You okay?”
“Fine,” I said, though I wasn’t sure if I believed it.
I picked up a small piece of glass and realized it was part of a lens, like the kind used in old lighthouses. It was warm to the touch.
Something about the island felt wrong. And I had a feeling it wasn’t going to get better.
“This isn’t normal,” I said, mostly to myself.
David looked at me. “That’s why we’re here.”
CHAPTER 3
The lighthouse door creaked as Tom pushed it open. A stale, damp smell hit us immediately. The air inside was colder, heavy like it carried its own weight. I stepped in behind him, my flashlight cutting through the dark.
The space felt abandoned, yet untouched. Thick layers of dust coated the floor, but the air itself buzzed faintly. It reminded me of the charge you feel before a storm.
“Don’t split up,” Tom said, his voice low.
“No one’s splitting up,” I replied.
Angela was already filming, her camera light bouncing off the walls. “This is so creepy,” she whispered. “It’s perfect.”
David lingered near the entrance, staring at the walls. “Look at these,” he said, pointing to strange carvings.
I moved closer. The symbols were etched deep into the stone. They looked like constellations, but the patterns didn’t match anything I recognized. Beside them were diagrams—circles within circles, intersecting lines, and jagged shapes that seemed to radiate outward.
“What do you think they mean?” David asked.
“I don’t know,” I admitted. “But whoever made these was trying to communicate something.”
Angela’s camera beeped as she zoomed in on the carvings. “Maybe your followers can figure it out,” Tom muttered.
“I’m documenting history,” she shot back, unfazed.
Something glinted in the corner of the room. I walked toward it and found an old leather-bound book on a rusted table. The cover was worn, the edges frayed, but the name “Elias Rourke” was faintly visible.
“His journal,” I said, holding it up.
David’s eyes lit up. “That’s priceless,” he said, reaching for it.
I handed it over, and he carefully flipped through the pages. The handwriting was messy, the ink faded, but the words were legible.
“‘The light behaves as if it’s alive,’” David read aloud. “‘It calls to us, but its whispers grow louder each night.’”
Angela turned to him, lowering her camera. “Whispers? Like voices?”
“I guess so,” he said, frowning.
As if on cue, a faint sound drifted through the room. It wasn’t the wind, and it wasn’t us. It was low, fragmented, almost like a conversation just out of earshot.
“Did you hear that?” Angela asked, her voice tight.
“Yeah,” Tom said, gripping his flashlight like a weapon.
“It’s probably the wind moving through cracks,” I said, though I didn’t believe it.
Angela stepped further into the room, her camera catching something on the wall. “Wait. Look at this.”
We gathered around an old photograph hanging crookedly on the stone. The edges were yellowed, the image slightly blurred. It showed a group of men in heavy coats, standing in front of the lighthouse. Elias Rourke was in the center, his face stern and weathered.
But it wasn’t just them.
Behind the men were faint shapes, like figures caught in motion. I leaned in, squinting. My heart skipped.
The shapes were us.
Angela with her camera, David holding his journal, Tom gripping his gear, and me staring at the photo. We were all there, faint but unmistakable.
“That’s not possible,” I said.
Angela stepped back, her camera shaking. “This is insane.”
Tom grabbed the photo off the wall and stared at it. “It’s a trick,” he said, but his voice wasn’t convincing.
David flipped through the journal again, faster this time. “He wrote about time being different here. He thought the light affected it.”
“Great,” Tom said. “Now we’re part of some lighthouse ghost story?”
The whispers grew louder.
“Let’s keep moving,” I said. I didn’t have answers, but standing still wasn’t going to help.
As we climbed the stairs, I couldn’t shake the feeling that the light wasn’t just drawing us in—it had been waiting for us.
CHAPTER 4
Night fell quickly. The temperature dropped, and the silence around the lighthouse deepened. I stayed near the control panel, examining the equipment. It was outdated but strangely intact, as if someone had been maintaining it.
Angela had her camera out, filming the light’s lens. Tom stood by the window, watching the sea. David flipped through Elias’s journal, mumbling notes to himself.
Then, it happened.
The lens flared to life without warning. Its beam cut through the room, illuminating everything in an eerie, shifting glow. The light felt alive, like it was searching.
“What the hell?” Tom said, shielding his eyes.
“I didn’t touch anything,” I said quickly.
Angela pointed her camera at the lens. “It’s... beautiful,” she said. Her voice was distant, almost hypnotized.
The room began to hum. Not loudly, but enough to rattle my chest. The air felt heavy again, like earlier. But this time, it was worse.
And then the visions began.
I was in a lecture hall. It was my old university, but something was off. The walls were too smooth, the light too dim. My students sat in neat rows, staring at me. Their faces were blurred, indistinct.
I opened my mouth to speak, but the floor started to flood. Water rushed in from nowhere, rising fast. I tried to move, but my feet wouldn’t budge.
Through the glass of the lecture hall door, I saw myself. Not this version of me, but another. She stared back, her expression unreadable. Then she whispered, “It’s already too late.”
The water rose past my knees. I gasped for air—
And then I was back in the lighthouse. My breath came in short, shallow bursts.
David sat on the floor, pale and shaking. “I was on a ship,” he said, staring at his hands. “It was sinking. I was dressed like... like someone from the 1800s.” He looked at us, desperate. “It felt real.”
Angela lowered her camera. Her face was blank, but her hands trembled. “I was filming,” she said quietly. “Here, in this room. But my reflection... it was smiling.” She met my eyes. “I wasn’t.”
Tom stayed silent for a long moment. Finally, he muttered, “I was in a war. But it wasn’t like before. I wasn’t fighting. I was... the one being hunted.”
The light continued to glow, casting shifting shadows across the room.
“This is... some kind of energy anomaly,” I said, though I barely believed my own words. “The light—it’s triggering something in our brains.”
“No,” Angela said, her voice sharp. “This isn’t just in our heads. This is something else.”
The light flared again, brighter this time. The whispers from earlier returned, but now they were louder, clearer. They came from everywhere and nowhere.
“We have to turn it off,” Tom said, stepping toward the lens.
“Don’t touch it!” I snapped. I didn’t know what it would do, but I wasn’t ready to find out.
David stood, clutching Elias’s journal. “He wrote about this,” he said, flipping to a page near the end. “‘The light sees us. It shows us what we can’t hide.’”
The words sent a chill through me.
“What does that even mean?” Angela asked, her voice shaking.
“I don’t know,” David said.
The beam shifted, its glow sweeping over the walls. For a brief moment, the carvings lit up, their patterns glowing faintly. Then the light dimmed, and the hum stopped.
The room fell silent again.
No one moved.
Finally, Angela whispered, “What just happened?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “But this isn’t over.”
CHAPTER 5
We decided to leave. The air in the lighthouse felt heavier with every passing minute. Something was wrong.
“Let’s get out of here,” Tom said, his voice firm. Angela and David nodded. I didn’t argue.
We headed toward the stairs, but they didn’t lead to the door. We climbed down, but when we reached the bottom, we were back where we started—on the same floor.
“That doesn’t make sense,” Angela said, clutching her camera.
“Try again,” Tom said.
We climbed down again, this time faster. The steps seemed endless. When we stopped, the same room waited for us.
“This isn’t possible,” I said. I leaned against the wall, catching my breath. “The stairs are looping.”
“Maybe we missed a turn,” David said, though he didn’t sound convinced.
“We didn’t,” I replied.
We tried other routes. A hallway appeared where there shouldn’t have been one, leading to a room that felt out of place. It was filled with strange objects: a Victorian dress draped over a chair, rusted swords mounted on the walls, and a tablet glowing faintly on a table.
“What is this?” Angela asked, picking up the tablet. It didn’t turn on.
“These things don’t belong here,” I said, running my fingers over the dress. It felt real. The sword was rusted, but sharp. The mix of objects made no sense—different eras, different places, all together in one room.
“Is this part of the lighthouse?” David asked.
“It can’t be,” I said. “This room shouldn’t exist.”
As we left the room, the shadows started moving. At first, they stayed in the corners, flickering like candlelight. But with each pass of the light beam, they grew bolder. I saw one stretch toward Angela, almost touching her before retreating.
“Did you see that?” I asked.
“See what?” Angela said, glancing around.
“The shadows. They’re moving,” I said.
Tom stepped forward, scanning the room. “You’re imagining things.”
“I’m not,” I said. But I couldn’t prove it.
David flipped through Elias’s journal, muttering to himself. Finally, he stopped. “Listen to this,” he said. “‘The light bends the boundaries. Past, present, and future bleed together. The shadows are what’s left behind.’”
“What does that mean?” Angela asked.
“It means the lens is doing this,” I said. “It’s creating a distortion—a kind of energy bridge between timelines.”
David shook his head. “Or it’s something else. Something supernatural. Sailors used to talk about soul-stealing lighthouses. What if this is one of them?”
“That’s ridiculous,” I said. “This is energy, not magic.”
“Can you prove that?” David shot back.
“I don’t need to,” I said. “The evidence is here. The light, the objects, the way space is warping—this is a physical phenomenon.”
“And the shadows? The visions? What’s your explanation for those?” he asked.
“I don’t know yet,” I admitted.
The argument was cut short by a loud creak. The beam of light swept over us, and the shadows surged forward. This time, everyone saw them.
“Run!” Tom shouted.
We bolted, taking another staircase. It didn’t matter where it led—anywhere was better than staying. But when we stopped, we were back where we started.
The lighthouse wasn’t letting us go.
CHAPTER 6
The stairs creaked under our weight as we climbed. The air grew colder the closer we got seemingly to the top once again. No one spoke. I could feel the tension in every step.
When we reached the chamber, the lens was there, as if waiting for us. It sat in the center of the room, glowing with a light that didn’t seem natural. The glow pulsed, faint at first, then stronger, like a heartbeat.
I stepped closer. The lens wasn’t just glass. It was crystalline, with sharp edges that caught the light and scattered it in strange patterns. Etched into its surface were symbols I didn’t recognize. They looked like writing, but not in any language I’d ever seen.
“This isn’t man-made,” I said. My voice was steady, but my mind raced.
“What do you mean?” Angela asked.
“Look at it,” I said, gesturing to the carvings. “No tool could make these cuts. And the way it glows—it’s not reflecting light. It’s generating it.”
David knelt by the walls. “There’s more,” he said.
We joined him. The walls were covered in carvings, just like the lens. Some showed ships crashing into rocks, their sails torn by the wind. Others showed figures in the water, their arms reaching out, their faces frozen in terror.
“This must’ve taken years to carve,” Angela said, tracing the lines with her fingers.
“Not if the same people who made the lens made these,” I said.
David pointed to one carving. It showed figures walking toward the lens. Their bodies became less distinct as they moved closer, until they were nothing but light.
“They’re... dissolving,” Angela said.
“They’re not dissolving,” David said. “They’re being taken.”
“Taken where?” Tom asked.
David didn’t answer.
I couldn’t look away from the image. My mind tried to make sense of it. If the lens was a receiver, like a radio picking up a signal, what was it receiving? And why did it need people?
“This isn’t supernatural,” I said, more to myself than anyone else. “It’s energy. Interdimensional energy, maybe. The carvings are just someone’s way of explaining what they saw.”
David turned to me. “Or it’s exactly what it looks like. A lighthouse that takes souls.”
“That’s not possible,” I said.
“Neither is this,” he shot back, gesturing at the lens.
The room fell silent. The light from the lens pulsed again, brighter this time. Shadows flickered along the walls, but none of us moved.
“This thing is ancient,” I said finally. “Older than the lighthouse. Maybe older than us. We have to figure out what it’s doing before it decides to do it to us.”
No one argued.
CHAPTER 7
The whispers were louder now, like a hundred voices speaking at once, their words twisting together until they became impossible to understand. Each breath I took felt heavier, like the air itself had weight.
Angela’s camera beeped, breaking the silence. She was staring at the screen, her face pale.
“What is it?” I asked.
“It’s... us,” she said. Her hands shook as she turned the screen toward me.
I leaned closer. The footage showed the room we were standing in, but it wasn’t the same. Tom was sprawled on the floor, blood pooling beneath him. Angela was slumped against a wall, her camera smashed at her feet. David was screaming, though I couldn’t hear what. And then there was me—frozen in place, staring at something out of frame.
“That’s not real,” I said.
“It hasn’t happened yet,” Angela whispered.
Tom moved toward the nearest window. “That’s it. We’re getting out of here.”
“Wait—” I started, but he ignored me.
He grabbed a chair and swung it at the glass. The sound of the impact echoed through the room. The glass cracked, spiderwebbing out from the point of contact, but before the shards could fall, they began to knit themselves back together.
Tom swung again. The same thing happened.
“It’s not letting us leave,” he said, turning to me. His voice was sharp, filled with blame. “You brought us here.”
“I didn’t know this would happen,” I said.
“You’re the scientist,” he snapped. “You should’ve known.”
“Arguing won’t help,” David said. He was crouched by the wall again, running his fingers over the carvings. “We need to figure out what this place is.”
“It’s a death trap,” Tom said.
“It’s more than that,” David said. He sounded calm, almost too calm. “These carvings—they’re not just stories. They’re instructions. Warnings.”
“For what?” Angela asked.
David didn’t answer. He kept tracing the symbols, muttering under his breath.
“David,” I said, stepping closer. “What do you see?”
“It’s all connected,” he said. “The lens, the carvings, the whispers. It’s feeding off us—our fears, our regrets. That’s how it works.”
“How do we stop it?” I asked.
He didn’t respond.
The light from the lens pulsed again, brighter this time. The shadows in the corners of the room stretched and shifted, creeping toward us. I felt a chill run down my spine.
“We’re running out of time,” I said.
Tom turned back to the window, his frustration boiling over. Angela stayed by the camera, her hands still trembling. And David... he wouldn’t stop staring at the wall.
The whispers grew louder. They weren’t just noise anymore. They were words, clear and deliberate.
“Stay,” they said.
I swallowed hard. My chest felt tight, like the room was closing in. I didn’t know if it was the lighthouse or something else, but the voice was right.
We couldn’t leave—not yet.
CHAPTER 8
The lens loomed above us, glowing with a pulse that made the air around it hum. Its crystalline surface shimmered, the alien symbols etched into it alive with energy. My breath hitched as I studied it. It wasn’t just a piece of technology; it was a living thing.
“We overload the backup generator,” I said, keeping my voice steady. “If we push it beyond its limit, the energy surge should destroy the lens.”
Angela gripped her camera tightly. “We have to document this. People need to know what happened here.”
Tom scoffed, pacing near the doorway. “If we don’t make it out, what difference does it make?” His face was pale, his usual bravado cracked.
“We’ll make it,” I said, though I wasn’t sure I believed it.
David was silent, staring at the carvings on the wall again. He hadn’t said much since we climbed back up.
“We need to move,” I urged. “The lighthouse won’t let this be easy.”
As if on cue, the room began to shift. The floor beneath us rippled like water. The staircases spiraled in impossible directions, folding back on themselves. I grabbed the edge of a table to steady myself.
“It’s trying to stop us,” Angela said, her voice trembling.
Tom laughed bitterly. “Yeah, no kidding.”
We moved cautiously, navigating the warped geometry of the lighthouse. The whispers were back, louder than before. They weren’t distant murmurs anymore—they were screams. Voices filled with anger, pain, and desperation.
“Do you hear that?” Angela asked.
“I hear it,” I said, trying to block it out.
We reached the generator room after what felt like hours, though my watch told me it had been only minutes. The walls here were slick with condensation, the air heavy with the scent of burnt metal.
I opened the panel and started rewiring the controls. My hands shook, but I forced myself to focus.
“Is it going to work?” Tom asked, standing guard by the door.
“It has to,” I said.
Angela set up her camera, pointing it at the generator and then back at me. “This is the truth,” she muttered to herself. “People need to see.”
David stepped forward, his face shadowed. “Wait.”
“What?” I asked without looking up.
“The carvings,” he said. “They’re warnings. Destroying the lens might not end this. It might make things worse.”
I paused, my fingers hovering over the wires. “Worse how?”
“I don’t know,” he admitted.
“We don’t have another option,” I said firmly. “We can’t leave it intact.”
Before he could respond, the door slammed shut. The temperature in the room dropped, and my breath turned to mist.
“They’re here,” Angela whispered.
The shadows in the corners of the room stretched and shifted. Figures emerged, stepping into the dim light. They were us—or versions of us.
I saw myself first. The doppelgänger’s eyes were hollow, its movements jerky and unnatural. It smiled, but it wasn’t a human expression.
“They’re not real,” I said, though my voice wavered.
Tom’s double lunged at him, forcing him to the ground. Angela screamed, backing into the wall as her copy advanced on her, its hands reaching for her throat.
“Keep them away from me!” Tom yelled.
I grabbed a wrench from the floor and swung it at the doppelgänger approaching me. It shattered like glass, its fragments dissolving into mist.
“Focus!” I shouted. “We have to finish this!”
David tackled his double, pinning it to the ground. Angela’s camera clattered to the floor as she kicked her doppelgänger away.
I turned back to the generator, forcing myself to block out the chaos. My fingers moved quickly, connecting wires and flipping switches. The hum of the machine grew louder, the lights in the room flickering.
“Now!” I yelled.
The generator surged. Sparks flew, and the room was bathed in a blinding white light. The lens above us cracked, a deafening sound like thunder echoing through the lighthouse.
The screams reached a crescendo and then stopped.
When the light faded, the room was silent. The lens was shattered, its pieces scattered across the floor.
“We did it,” I whispered.
Angela picked up her camera, her hands trembling. Tom leaned against the wall, breathing heavily. David stared at the shattered remains of the lens, his face unreadable.
But something didn’t feel right. The air was too still, too quiet. The lighthouse wasn’t done with us yet.
CHAPTER 9
The generator was ready, humming with unstable energy. I crouched beside it, my hands trembling as I adjusted the last connection. Angela hovered near me, her camera forgotten for once.
“We’re almost there,” I said, trying to steady my voice.
The lighthouse groaned around us. It wasn’t just a sound—it was a feeling, a pressure in my chest, like the place itself was alive and furious.
“We don’t have time,” Tom said sharply. He stood by the doorway with David, their eyes fixed on the hallway outside.
It was coming.
The shadows at the edge of the light twisted and stretched, forming something too large to be real. It wasn’t a shape I could describe. It moved in ways that defied logic, a mass of writhing blackness. The whispers we’d heard earlier had become guttural screams.
Tom gripped a rusted pipe he’d picked up earlier. “Get that thing running,” he barked.
I didn’t answer. I couldn’t. My fingers fumbled with the wires, trying to work faster.
The entity surged forward, spilling into the room like ink in water. The temperature plummeted, and I could feel it in my bones—an unnatural cold that sapped my strength.
David stepped in front of it, his body tense. “Go!” he shouted at me.
“David—” I started, but he cut me off.
“Just finish it!”
He charged at the thing with a broken chair leg, swinging wildly. It swallowed him whole. One moment he was there, and then he wasn’t.
“No!” Angela screamed.
Tom didn’t hesitate. He grabbed the remnants of a chair and hurled them at the entity. “Over here!” he yelled, drawing its attention.
The thing paused, as if it was considering him. Then it moved toward him, faster than I thought possible.
“Get it done, Kane!” he shouted, his voice strained as he swung the pipe.
I forced myself to turn back to the generator. My vision blurred, but I kept working. The hum grew louder, shaking the floor beneath us.
“Angela,” I said, my voice tight. “Help me with the switch.”
She dropped to her knees beside me, her hands trembling as she reached for the lever.
“I don’t know if this will work,” I admitted.
“It has to,” she whispered.
Behind us, Tom screamed.
I didn’t look.
“On three,” I said. “One, two—”
We pulled the lever together.
The generator roared to life, and the room filled with blinding light. The lens above us cracked, a jagged line splitting it in two.
The entity let out a sound I can only describe as a howl, deep and resonant. The pressure in the air lifted for a moment, then came crashing back.
The lens shattered completely. The explosion threw us to the ground. Shards of glass rained down, glittering like frozen stars.
The light swallowed everything.
I don’t remember hitting the floor. All I remember is the silence that followed.
And the darkness.
CHAPTER 10
I woke up on cold sand. The sound of waves breaking on the shore was rhythmic and calm, but it felt wrong, as if it didn’t belong. My head pounded.
The sky above me was unfamiliar. The stars were all wrong—constellations I couldn’t name. They shimmered faintly, too bright and too close. I sat up slowly, my limbs heavy and unsteady.
There was someone else nearby, curled up in the sand. Angela was her name. How did I know? A camera was slung over her shoulder, its lens cracked. She stirred and opened her eyes, blinking in confusion.
“Where…?” she whispered.
I didn’t know.
“Are you okay?” I asked. My voice sounded strange to me, hollow.
She nodded, but her eyes darted around, searching for answers. “Do you remember anything?”
I froze. Do I remember? The question should have been simple, but it wasn’t. My name came to me like a faint echo. Lenora Kane. That was all I had. Everything else was a blank space, heavy and suffocating.
“I don’t,” I admitted.
Angela checked her camera, her hands shaking. She hit a few buttons, then held it up to show me. Static filled the screen, buzzing and crackling. The sound made my teeth ache. Occasionally, an image broke through—Angela’s face, her eyes wide and filled with terror, her mouth forming words I couldn’t hear.
She dropped the camera in the sand and backed away from it, her breath shallow. “What is this? What happened to us?”
I didn’t answer. I couldn’t.
We sat there in silence for what felt like hours. The mainland stretched out behind us, but it didn’t feel real. The buildings looked normal, but there was something off about them, like they belonged to another world.
Angela stood first. “We need to figure out where we are.”
I nodded and followed her. My legs felt like lead. Every step was an effort.
The whispers started that night.
At first, I thought they were the wind moving through the empty rooms of the motel where we’d found shelter. But they had a rhythm, a cadence, almost like language. They came when I was alone.
I didn’t tell Angela.
One night, I stepped outside to look at the sky again. I couldn’t stop staring at the stars. They seemed alive, pulsing faintly, like they were watching me.
I found myself whispering back.
Angela caught me once.
“Who are you talking to?” she asked. Her voice was tight.
I turned to her, but I didn’t have an answer.
She didn’t press me, but I saw the fear in her eyes.
We never recovered our memories. Fragments came back sometimes—a flash of emotion, a sound, a scent—but they didn’t fit together. They were pieces of a puzzle with no edges, just floating in a void.
Angela’s camera stayed broken. She never touched it again.
Months passed, maybe longer. Time felt meaningless. I tried to focus on the present, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that something had been taken from me.
One evening, I saw a newspaper in a shop window. The headline caught my attention: Unexplained Beacon Draws Sailors to Island.
There was a photo of the lighthouse. Its light was faint, barely more than a flicker, but it was there.
I stared at the image until Angela pulled me away. “It doesn’t matter,” she said, her voice firm but trembling.
But it did matter.
Somewhere, on that island, it was still waiting.
The whispers grew louder that night.
Elias Rourke wrote in his journal as a storm battered the island. Lightning lit up the cliffs, and waves pounded the rocks below the lighthouse. He’d seen storms before, but this one felt wrong. The air was heavy, and the wind carried sounds that didn’t belong—low whispers just at the edge of hearing.
The light wasn’t working properly. He’d disconnected the machinery earlier, but it still flashed, throwing erratic beams into the night. Rourke noted this in his journal, trying to stay logical. But things were happening that logic couldn’t explain.
His dreams had changed. Each night, he saw his wife—long dead—waiting for him in places they’d never been together. In these dreams, shadows stood behind her, watching him. He woke up drenched in sweat, the whispers from the wind still in his ears.
The journal entries became frantic. He wrote about ships appearing on the horizon. They didn’t move like real ships. Some were broken, with torn sails. Others vanished as quickly as they came. He smashed the lighthouse lens in desperation. By morning, it was whole again.
In his final entry, Rourke wrote: "I tried to leave. The boat brought me back. I broke the light. It rebuilt itself. This place takes what you can’t bear to lose. If you see the light, turn away. Don’t let it see you."
The pages ended there. Outside, the lighthouse stood silent, its beam slicing through the dark, as if waiting for something new.
CHAPTER 1
The email was short. It came from someone named David Rhodes. I didn’t know him, but his message intrigued me.
Dr. Kane,
I’m writing to invite you to join a field study on a phenomenon we believe is connected to unexplained energy anomalies. The site is an abandoned lighthouse on an uninhabited island. I’ve read your work and believe your expertise is vital. If you’re interested, we can meet to discuss the details.
Best,
David Rhodes
I read it twice, then a third time. It wasn’t unusual for people to contact me about strange phenomena. Most of the time, their claims didn’t hold up. They’d seen something they couldn’t explain and assumed it was groundbreaking. But something about this felt different. The lighthouse’s location wasn’t listed, and the tone was straightforward. No fluff. Just enough to get my attention.
I replied the same day.
We met at a small coffee shop near the coast. David was younger than I expected, maybe mid-thirties, with a weathered look that came from too much time outdoors. He had a thick folder with him.
“Thank you for meeting me,” he said, sliding the folder across the table.
Inside were old photos of the lighthouse. Most were grainy, but a few were clear. The light beam looked strange in some of them, as if it wasn’t just illuminating the night but cutting through it.
“These are from the 1940s,” David said. “The lighthouse was decommissioned in 1937, but locals kept seeing the light. They say it’s never fully gone out.”
I studied the photos. One showed a shipwreck near the island, the hull cracked open like an egg. Another was a journal entry—the handwriting messy, the words desperate.
“Do you believe in ghosts?” David asked suddenly.
“No,” I said. “But I believe in unexplained energy fields."
He nodded, like that was the answer he’d expected.
“There’s something about this place,” he said. “I’ve been researching it for years. People see things when they get close. Ships go off course. Instruments fail. It’s like the lighthouse messes with reality itself.”
“And you think it’s connected to an energy anomaly?” I asked.
David shrugged. “I think it’s dangerous. But you’re the expert. That’s why I need you.”
We set out a week later. The team consisted of four people: me, David, a survivalist named Tom Halstead, and Angela Vega, who seemed more interested in filming everything than in the lighthouse itself.
We all gathered at Cloudy's Pub, a local pub off the shoreline from the lighthouse. The pub smelled of salt and damp wood. A soft hum of voices filled the air as locals shared stories over pints. I sat at a corner table, running my finger along the edge of a weathered map. My eyes flicked to the lighthouse’s mark on the map—a small black X surrounded by nothing but open sea and coastlines.
David Rhodes was the first to arrive. He approached the table with a leather-bound notebook tucked under his arm. His clothes were neat, though his glasses perched crookedly on his nose. He set the notebook down with care, like it contained something fragile.
“Dr. Kane, pleasure to meet you again,” he said, his voice measured and calm. “This lighthouse, it’s an enigma. Did you know that over thirty ships disappeared in its vicinity in the late 1800s?”
I nodded. “I read some of the records. But I’m more interested in the energy readings. The patterns are… unusual.”
He adjusted his glasses. “Unusual doesn’t begin to cover it. This place has a history that defies logic.”
Before I could reply, Angela Vega burst through the door. She wore a bright yellow jacket that seemed out of place in the dim pub. A camera hung around her neck, and her phone was already in her hand.
“Hey, are you Dr. Kane?” she asked, her tone light and eager. She pulled out a chair and sat before I could answer. “This is going to be epic. The lighthouse looks so creepy from the shore. My followers are going to love this.”
David frowned. “This isn’t a sightseeing trip, Miss Vega. We’re here to investigate.”
“Exactly,” she said, grinning. “And I’m here to document it. People eat this stuff up.”
Tom Halstead arrived last. He moved with purpose, his heavy boots scuffing against the floor. A backpack sagged on his shoulders, packed full of gear. He scanned the room before settling into the seat next to Angela. He looked at each of us in turn, his expression unreadable.
“So,” he said, leaning back in his chair. “Who’s actually in charge here?”
I cleared my throat. “I organized the trip. But we’re a team. Everyone’s input matters.”
Tom raised an eyebrow. “Sure. Just don’t expect me to buy into ghost stories.”
“It’s not about ghosts,” I said, keeping my voice steady. “There’s an unexplained energy signature coming from the lighthouse. That’s why we’re here.”
Angela smirked. “Energy, ghosts, shipwrecks. Whatever it is, it’s going to make a great story.”
David opened his notebook. “The lighthouse has been abandoned for decades. But there are accounts of strange lights and sounds, even as far back as the 19th century.”
“Accounts from drunk sailors,” Tom muttered.
“Not all of them,” David countered. “Some were experienced navigators. They reported seeing lights when the tower was dark, or hearing the sound of a foghorn when there was no mist.”
Tom leaned forward. “And what do you think? That the place is cursed?”
David hesitated, then shook his head. “I think there’s something there we don’t understand.”
I looked at the map again, tracing the coastline with my finger. “Whatever it is, we’ll find out. But we need to be prepared. The island’s isolated, and the weather can turn fast.”
Tom nodded. “I’ve got the gear we’ll need. But if anyone’s having second thoughts, now’s the time to speak up.”
Nobody said anything. The silence hung heavy, charged with a mix of excitement and unease.
“Alright then,” I said. “We leave at first light.”
The boat ride to the island was unnerving. The water grew unnaturally still as we approached. The air felt heavier, like it carried more than just moisture. Angela pointed her camera at the horizon and frowned.
“That’s weird,” she said. “The lens is picking up… static? I’ve never seen that before.”
I looked out at the lighthouse. It seemed to loom over the island, taller than it had any right to be. The beam was faint, but it moved steadily, cutting across the dark water.
“It’s not running on any power source I know of,” I said.
“It’s been like that for decades,” David said. “No one’s been able to explain it.”
CHAPTER 2
The boat rocked gently as the engine hummed. The mainland had already disappeared behind us, swallowed by the horizon. Tom sat at the helm, hands steady on the wheel, his face locked in concentration. Angela stood at the bow, her camera angled at the endless stretch of water. She was narrating for her audience, but the wind swallowed her voice.
David was beside me, flipping through his leather-bound journal. Every so often, he jotted a note or tapped the page as though solving some puzzle only he could see.
I tried to focus on the instruments in my lap. The portable electromagnetic field reader had been calibrated that morning, but the numbers didn’t make sense. The readings spiked and dropped, like a signal trying to break through static.
“It’s acting up again,” I muttered.
David glanced over. “What does it mean?”
“Nothing good,” I said. “Or maybe everything good, depending on your perspective.”
The sea stretched smooth and still, unnaturally calm. Tom leaned back and called out, “This is eerie. Where’s the chop?”
I nodded. He was right. Even with perfect weather, the ocean should have shown some resistance. A wave, a ripple, something.
Angela turned, camera in hand. “What are you two whispering about? Don’t keep the mystery to yourselves.”
“Just noticing the water,” I said.
“It’s dead calm,” Tom added, without looking away from the horizon.
“That’s perfect for filming,” Angela said, smiling. “My viewers are going to love this.” She lifted her camera again, but a frown crossed her face as she watched the playback.
“What’s wrong?” I asked.
“There’s... I don’t know. It’s glitchy.” She tilted the screen toward me.
The footage looked normal at first. Clear skies, smooth water, the faint outline of Tom steering the boat. But then came a flash—quick, almost imperceptible. I asked her to rewind it.
The flash came again. This time, I caught it. A shadow, tall and thin, swept across the frame. It was gone before I could make sense of it.
“Could be an issue with your camera,” I suggested.
She shook her head. “This camera doesn’t glitch.”
Tom cut the engine. “You guys seeing this?”
Ahead of us, the lighthouse emerged. Its silhouette was sharp against the pale sky. From a distance, it looked no different than the pictures I’d studied. But as we drew closer, it seemed to grow. Not just taller—larger in every way. The proportions felt wrong, like the tower was leaning toward us.
“That thing’s huge,” David said.
“It wasn’t that big in the photos,” Angela added.
I checked my compass. The needle spun wildly, refusing to settle. The GPS on my tablet displayed nothing but error codes.
Tom noticed my reaction. “What’s going on with your tech?”
“Same thing as before,” I said. “It’s like everything’s being scrambled.”
The lighthouse flickered. Its beam swept across the sea, even though it hadn’t been operational in decades. The light didn’t seem natural. It pulsed in uneven intervals, dimming and brightening as though alive.
We reached the beach a few minutes later. Rusted metal jutted out of the sand—pieces of old shipwrecks. Bones lay scattered among the wreckage, their surfaces almost polished. Too clean.
Angela stepped off the boat first, camera already rolling. “This place is amazing,” she said, her excitement masking any unease.
Tom followed, shouldering a pack of gear. “This is a bad idea,” he muttered.
David knelt to examine a bone. “Human,” he said.
I stepped onto the sand last, my gaze fixed on the lighthouse. The pulsing light was slower now, deliberate. Each flash seemed to carry weight, like a signal I couldn’t decode.
Tom looked at me. “You okay?”
“Fine,” I said, though I wasn’t sure if I believed it.
I picked up a small piece of glass and realized it was part of a lens, like the kind used in old lighthouses. It was warm to the touch.
Something about the island felt wrong. And I had a feeling it wasn’t going to get better.
“This isn’t normal,” I said, mostly to myself.
David looked at me. “That’s why we’re here.”
CHAPTER 3
The lighthouse door creaked as Tom pushed it open. A stale, damp smell hit us immediately. The air inside was colder, heavy like it carried its own weight. I stepped in behind him, my flashlight cutting through the dark.
The space felt abandoned, yet untouched. Thick layers of dust coated the floor, but the air itself buzzed faintly. It reminded me of the charge you feel before a storm.
“Don’t split up,” Tom said, his voice low.
“No one’s splitting up,” I replied.
Angela was already filming, her camera light bouncing off the walls. “This is so creepy,” she whispered. “It’s perfect.”
David lingered near the entrance, staring at the walls. “Look at these,” he said, pointing to strange carvings.
I moved closer. The symbols were etched deep into the stone. They looked like constellations, but the patterns didn’t match anything I recognized. Beside them were diagrams—circles within circles, intersecting lines, and jagged shapes that seemed to radiate outward.
“What do you think they mean?” David asked.
“I don’t know,” I admitted. “But whoever made these was trying to communicate something.”
Angela’s camera beeped as she zoomed in on the carvings. “Maybe your followers can figure it out,” Tom muttered.
“I’m documenting history,” she shot back, unfazed.
Something glinted in the corner of the room. I walked toward it and found an old leather-bound book on a rusted table. The cover was worn, the edges frayed, but the name “Elias Rourke” was faintly visible.
“His journal,” I said, holding it up.
David’s eyes lit up. “That’s priceless,” he said, reaching for it.
I handed it over, and he carefully flipped through the pages. The handwriting was messy, the ink faded, but the words were legible.
“‘The light behaves as if it’s alive,’” David read aloud. “‘It calls to us, but its whispers grow louder each night.’”
Angela turned to him, lowering her camera. “Whispers? Like voices?”
“I guess so,” he said, frowning.
As if on cue, a faint sound drifted through the room. It wasn’t the wind, and it wasn’t us. It was low, fragmented, almost like a conversation just out of earshot.
“Did you hear that?” Angela asked, her voice tight.
“Yeah,” Tom said, gripping his flashlight like a weapon.
“It’s probably the wind moving through cracks,” I said, though I didn’t believe it.
Angela stepped further into the room, her camera catching something on the wall. “Wait. Look at this.”
We gathered around an old photograph hanging crookedly on the stone. The edges were yellowed, the image slightly blurred. It showed a group of men in heavy coats, standing in front of the lighthouse. Elias Rourke was in the center, his face stern and weathered.
But it wasn’t just them.
Behind the men were faint shapes, like figures caught in motion. I leaned in, squinting. My heart skipped.
The shapes were us.
Angela with her camera, David holding his journal, Tom gripping his gear, and me staring at the photo. We were all there, faint but unmistakable.
“That’s not possible,” I said.
Angela stepped back, her camera shaking. “This is insane.”
Tom grabbed the photo off the wall and stared at it. “It’s a trick,” he said, but his voice wasn’t convincing.
David flipped through the journal again, faster this time. “He wrote about time being different here. He thought the light affected it.”
“Great,” Tom said. “Now we’re part of some lighthouse ghost story?”
The whispers grew louder.
“Let’s keep moving,” I said. I didn’t have answers, but standing still wasn’t going to help.
As we climbed the stairs, I couldn’t shake the feeling that the light wasn’t just drawing us in—it had been waiting for us.
CHAPTER 4
Night fell quickly. The temperature dropped, and the silence around the lighthouse deepened. I stayed near the control panel, examining the equipment. It was outdated but strangely intact, as if someone had been maintaining it.
Angela had her camera out, filming the light’s lens. Tom stood by the window, watching the sea. David flipped through Elias’s journal, mumbling notes to himself.
Then, it happened.
The lens flared to life without warning. Its beam cut through the room, illuminating everything in an eerie, shifting glow. The light felt alive, like it was searching.
“What the hell?” Tom said, shielding his eyes.
“I didn’t touch anything,” I said quickly.
Angela pointed her camera at the lens. “It’s... beautiful,” she said. Her voice was distant, almost hypnotized.
The room began to hum. Not loudly, but enough to rattle my chest. The air felt heavy again, like earlier. But this time, it was worse.
And then the visions began.
I was in a lecture hall. It was my old university, but something was off. The walls were too smooth, the light too dim. My students sat in neat rows, staring at me. Their faces were blurred, indistinct.
I opened my mouth to speak, but the floor started to flood. Water rushed in from nowhere, rising fast. I tried to move, but my feet wouldn’t budge.
Through the glass of the lecture hall door, I saw myself. Not this version of me, but another. She stared back, her expression unreadable. Then she whispered, “It’s already too late.”
The water rose past my knees. I gasped for air—
And then I was back in the lighthouse. My breath came in short, shallow bursts.
David sat on the floor, pale and shaking. “I was on a ship,” he said, staring at his hands. “It was sinking. I was dressed like... like someone from the 1800s.” He looked at us, desperate. “It felt real.”
Angela lowered her camera. Her face was blank, but her hands trembled. “I was filming,” she said quietly. “Here, in this room. But my reflection... it was smiling.” She met my eyes. “I wasn’t.”
Tom stayed silent for a long moment. Finally, he muttered, “I was in a war. But it wasn’t like before. I wasn’t fighting. I was... the one being hunted.”
The light continued to glow, casting shifting shadows across the room.
“This is... some kind of energy anomaly,” I said, though I barely believed my own words. “The light—it’s triggering something in our brains.”
“No,” Angela said, her voice sharp. “This isn’t just in our heads. This is something else.”
The light flared again, brighter this time. The whispers from earlier returned, but now they were louder, clearer. They came from everywhere and nowhere.
“We have to turn it off,” Tom said, stepping toward the lens.
“Don’t touch it!” I snapped. I didn’t know what it would do, but I wasn’t ready to find out.
David stood, clutching Elias’s journal. “He wrote about this,” he said, flipping to a page near the end. “‘The light sees us. It shows us what we can’t hide.’”
The words sent a chill through me.
“What does that even mean?” Angela asked, her voice shaking.
“I don’t know,” David said.
The beam shifted, its glow sweeping over the walls. For a brief moment, the carvings lit up, their patterns glowing faintly. Then the light dimmed, and the hum stopped.
The room fell silent again.
No one moved.
Finally, Angela whispered, “What just happened?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “But this isn’t over.”
CHAPTER 5
We decided to leave. The air in the lighthouse felt heavier with every passing minute. Something was wrong.
“Let’s get out of here,” Tom said, his voice firm. Angela and David nodded. I didn’t argue.
We headed toward the stairs, but they didn’t lead to the door. We climbed down, but when we reached the bottom, we were back where we started—on the same floor.
“That doesn’t make sense,” Angela said, clutching her camera.
“Try again,” Tom said.
We climbed down again, this time faster. The steps seemed endless. When we stopped, the same room waited for us.
“This isn’t possible,” I said. I leaned against the wall, catching my breath. “The stairs are looping.”
“Maybe we missed a turn,” David said, though he didn’t sound convinced.
“We didn’t,” I replied.
We tried other routes. A hallway appeared where there shouldn’t have been one, leading to a room that felt out of place. It was filled with strange objects: a Victorian dress draped over a chair, rusted swords mounted on the walls, and a tablet glowing faintly on a table.
“What is this?” Angela asked, picking up the tablet. It didn’t turn on.
“These things don’t belong here,” I said, running my fingers over the dress. It felt real. The sword was rusted, but sharp. The mix of objects made no sense—different eras, different places, all together in one room.
“Is this part of the lighthouse?” David asked.
“It can’t be,” I said. “This room shouldn’t exist.”
As we left the room, the shadows started moving. At first, they stayed in the corners, flickering like candlelight. But with each pass of the light beam, they grew bolder. I saw one stretch toward Angela, almost touching her before retreating.
“Did you see that?” I asked.
“See what?” Angela said, glancing around.
“The shadows. They’re moving,” I said.
Tom stepped forward, scanning the room. “You’re imagining things.”
“I’m not,” I said. But I couldn’t prove it.
David flipped through Elias’s journal, muttering to himself. Finally, he stopped. “Listen to this,” he said. “‘The light bends the boundaries. Past, present, and future bleed together. The shadows are what’s left behind.’”
“What does that mean?” Angela asked.
“It means the lens is doing this,” I said. “It’s creating a distortion—a kind of energy bridge between timelines.”
David shook his head. “Or it’s something else. Something supernatural. Sailors used to talk about soul-stealing lighthouses. What if this is one of them?”
“That’s ridiculous,” I said. “This is energy, not magic.”
“Can you prove that?” David shot back.
“I don’t need to,” I said. “The evidence is here. The light, the objects, the way space is warping—this is a physical phenomenon.”
“And the shadows? The visions? What’s your explanation for those?” he asked.
“I don’t know yet,” I admitted.
The argument was cut short by a loud creak. The beam of light swept over us, and the shadows surged forward. This time, everyone saw them.
“Run!” Tom shouted.
We bolted, taking another staircase. It didn’t matter where it led—anywhere was better than staying. But when we stopped, we were back where we started.
The lighthouse wasn’t letting us go.
CHAPTER 6
The stairs creaked under our weight as we climbed. The air grew colder the closer we got seemingly to the top once again. No one spoke. I could feel the tension in every step.
When we reached the chamber, the lens was there, as if waiting for us. It sat in the center of the room, glowing with a light that didn’t seem natural. The glow pulsed, faint at first, then stronger, like a heartbeat.
I stepped closer. The lens wasn’t just glass. It was crystalline, with sharp edges that caught the light and scattered it in strange patterns. Etched into its surface were symbols I didn’t recognize. They looked like writing, but not in any language I’d ever seen.
“This isn’t man-made,” I said. My voice was steady, but my mind raced.
“What do you mean?” Angela asked.
“Look at it,” I said, gesturing to the carvings. “No tool could make these cuts. And the way it glows—it’s not reflecting light. It’s generating it.”
David knelt by the walls. “There’s more,” he said.
We joined him. The walls were covered in carvings, just like the lens. Some showed ships crashing into rocks, their sails torn by the wind. Others showed figures in the water, their arms reaching out, their faces frozen in terror.
“This must’ve taken years to carve,” Angela said, tracing the lines with her fingers.
“Not if the same people who made the lens made these,” I said.
David pointed to one carving. It showed figures walking toward the lens. Their bodies became less distinct as they moved closer, until they were nothing but light.
“They’re... dissolving,” Angela said.
“They’re not dissolving,” David said. “They’re being taken.”
“Taken where?” Tom asked.
David didn’t answer.
I couldn’t look away from the image. My mind tried to make sense of it. If the lens was a receiver, like a radio picking up a signal, what was it receiving? And why did it need people?
“This isn’t supernatural,” I said, more to myself than anyone else. “It’s energy. Interdimensional energy, maybe. The carvings are just someone’s way of explaining what they saw.”
David turned to me. “Or it’s exactly what it looks like. A lighthouse that takes souls.”
“That’s not possible,” I said.
“Neither is this,” he shot back, gesturing at the lens.
The room fell silent. The light from the lens pulsed again, brighter this time. Shadows flickered along the walls, but none of us moved.
“This thing is ancient,” I said finally. “Older than the lighthouse. Maybe older than us. We have to figure out what it’s doing before it decides to do it to us.”
No one argued.
CHAPTER 7
The whispers were louder now, like a hundred voices speaking at once, their words twisting together until they became impossible to understand. Each breath I took felt heavier, like the air itself had weight.
Angela’s camera beeped, breaking the silence. She was staring at the screen, her face pale.
“What is it?” I asked.
“It’s... us,” she said. Her hands shook as she turned the screen toward me.
I leaned closer. The footage showed the room we were standing in, but it wasn’t the same. Tom was sprawled on the floor, blood pooling beneath him. Angela was slumped against a wall, her camera smashed at her feet. David was screaming, though I couldn’t hear what. And then there was me—frozen in place, staring at something out of frame.
“That’s not real,” I said.
“It hasn’t happened yet,” Angela whispered.
Tom moved toward the nearest window. “That’s it. We’re getting out of here.”
“Wait—” I started, but he ignored me.
He grabbed a chair and swung it at the glass. The sound of the impact echoed through the room. The glass cracked, spiderwebbing out from the point of contact, but before the shards could fall, they began to knit themselves back together.
Tom swung again. The same thing happened.
“It’s not letting us leave,” he said, turning to me. His voice was sharp, filled with blame. “You brought us here.”
“I didn’t know this would happen,” I said.
“You’re the scientist,” he snapped. “You should’ve known.”
“Arguing won’t help,” David said. He was crouched by the wall again, running his fingers over the carvings. “We need to figure out what this place is.”
“It’s a death trap,” Tom said.
“It’s more than that,” David said. He sounded calm, almost too calm. “These carvings—they’re not just stories. They’re instructions. Warnings.”
“For what?” Angela asked.
David didn’t answer. He kept tracing the symbols, muttering under his breath.
“David,” I said, stepping closer. “What do you see?”
“It’s all connected,” he said. “The lens, the carvings, the whispers. It’s feeding off us—our fears, our regrets. That’s how it works.”
“How do we stop it?” I asked.
He didn’t respond.
The light from the lens pulsed again, brighter this time. The shadows in the corners of the room stretched and shifted, creeping toward us. I felt a chill run down my spine.
“We’re running out of time,” I said.
Tom turned back to the window, his frustration boiling over. Angela stayed by the camera, her hands still trembling. And David... he wouldn’t stop staring at the wall.
The whispers grew louder. They weren’t just noise anymore. They were words, clear and deliberate.
“Stay,” they said.
I swallowed hard. My chest felt tight, like the room was closing in. I didn’t know if it was the lighthouse or something else, but the voice was right.
We couldn’t leave—not yet.
CHAPTER 8
The lens loomed above us, glowing with a pulse that made the air around it hum. Its crystalline surface shimmered, the alien symbols etched into it alive with energy. My breath hitched as I studied it. It wasn’t just a piece of technology; it was a living thing.
“We overload the backup generator,” I said, keeping my voice steady. “If we push it beyond its limit, the energy surge should destroy the lens.”
Angela gripped her camera tightly. “We have to document this. People need to know what happened here.”
Tom scoffed, pacing near the doorway. “If we don’t make it out, what difference does it make?” His face was pale, his usual bravado cracked.
“We’ll make it,” I said, though I wasn’t sure I believed it.
David was silent, staring at the carvings on the wall again. He hadn’t said much since we climbed back up.
“We need to move,” I urged. “The lighthouse won’t let this be easy.”
As if on cue, the room began to shift. The floor beneath us rippled like water. The staircases spiraled in impossible directions, folding back on themselves. I grabbed the edge of a table to steady myself.
“It’s trying to stop us,” Angela said, her voice trembling.
Tom laughed bitterly. “Yeah, no kidding.”
We moved cautiously, navigating the warped geometry of the lighthouse. The whispers were back, louder than before. They weren’t distant murmurs anymore—they were screams. Voices filled with anger, pain, and desperation.
“Do you hear that?” Angela asked.
“I hear it,” I said, trying to block it out.
We reached the generator room after what felt like hours, though my watch told me it had been only minutes. The walls here were slick with condensation, the air heavy with the scent of burnt metal.
I opened the panel and started rewiring the controls. My hands shook, but I forced myself to focus.
“Is it going to work?” Tom asked, standing guard by the door.
“It has to,” I said.
Angela set up her camera, pointing it at the generator and then back at me. “This is the truth,” she muttered to herself. “People need to see.”
David stepped forward, his face shadowed. “Wait.”
“What?” I asked without looking up.
“The carvings,” he said. “They’re warnings. Destroying the lens might not end this. It might make things worse.”
I paused, my fingers hovering over the wires. “Worse how?”
“I don’t know,” he admitted.
“We don’t have another option,” I said firmly. “We can’t leave it intact.”
Before he could respond, the door slammed shut. The temperature in the room dropped, and my breath turned to mist.
“They’re here,” Angela whispered.
The shadows in the corners of the room stretched and shifted. Figures emerged, stepping into the dim light. They were us—or versions of us.
I saw myself first. The doppelgänger’s eyes were hollow, its movements jerky and unnatural. It smiled, but it wasn’t a human expression.
“They’re not real,” I said, though my voice wavered.
Tom’s double lunged at him, forcing him to the ground. Angela screamed, backing into the wall as her copy advanced on her, its hands reaching for her throat.
“Keep them away from me!” Tom yelled.
I grabbed a wrench from the floor and swung it at the doppelgänger approaching me. It shattered like glass, its fragments dissolving into mist.
“Focus!” I shouted. “We have to finish this!”
David tackled his double, pinning it to the ground. Angela’s camera clattered to the floor as she kicked her doppelgänger away.
I turned back to the generator, forcing myself to block out the chaos. My fingers moved quickly, connecting wires and flipping switches. The hum of the machine grew louder, the lights in the room flickering.
“Now!” I yelled.
The generator surged. Sparks flew, and the room was bathed in a blinding white light. The lens above us cracked, a deafening sound like thunder echoing through the lighthouse.
The screams reached a crescendo and then stopped.
When the light faded, the room was silent. The lens was shattered, its pieces scattered across the floor.
“We did it,” I whispered.
Angela picked up her camera, her hands trembling. Tom leaned against the wall, breathing heavily. David stared at the shattered remains of the lens, his face unreadable.
But something didn’t feel right. The air was too still, too quiet. The lighthouse wasn’t done with us yet.
CHAPTER 9
The generator was ready, humming with unstable energy. I crouched beside it, my hands trembling as I adjusted the last connection. Angela hovered near me, her camera forgotten for once.
“We’re almost there,” I said, trying to steady my voice.
The lighthouse groaned around us. It wasn’t just a sound—it was a feeling, a pressure in my chest, like the place itself was alive and furious.
“We don’t have time,” Tom said sharply. He stood by the doorway with David, their eyes fixed on the hallway outside.
It was coming.
The shadows at the edge of the light twisted and stretched, forming something too large to be real. It wasn’t a shape I could describe. It moved in ways that defied logic, a mass of writhing blackness. The whispers we’d heard earlier had become guttural screams.
Tom gripped a rusted pipe he’d picked up earlier. “Get that thing running,” he barked.
I didn’t answer. I couldn’t. My fingers fumbled with the wires, trying to work faster.
The entity surged forward, spilling into the room like ink in water. The temperature plummeted, and I could feel it in my bones—an unnatural cold that sapped my strength.
David stepped in front of it, his body tense. “Go!” he shouted at me.
“David—” I started, but he cut me off.
“Just finish it!”
He charged at the thing with a broken chair leg, swinging wildly. It swallowed him whole. One moment he was there, and then he wasn’t.
“No!” Angela screamed.
Tom didn’t hesitate. He grabbed the remnants of a chair and hurled them at the entity. “Over here!” he yelled, drawing its attention.
The thing paused, as if it was considering him. Then it moved toward him, faster than I thought possible.
“Get it done, Kane!” he shouted, his voice strained as he swung the pipe.
I forced myself to turn back to the generator. My vision blurred, but I kept working. The hum grew louder, shaking the floor beneath us.
“Angela,” I said, my voice tight. “Help me with the switch.”
She dropped to her knees beside me, her hands trembling as she reached for the lever.
“I don’t know if this will work,” I admitted.
“It has to,” she whispered.
Behind us, Tom screamed.
I didn’t look.
“On three,” I said. “One, two—”
We pulled the lever together.
The generator roared to life, and the room filled with blinding light. The lens above us cracked, a jagged line splitting it in two.
The entity let out a sound I can only describe as a howl, deep and resonant. The pressure in the air lifted for a moment, then came crashing back.
The lens shattered completely. The explosion threw us to the ground. Shards of glass rained down, glittering like frozen stars.
The light swallowed everything.
I don’t remember hitting the floor. All I remember is the silence that followed.
And the darkness.
CHAPTER 10
I woke up on cold sand. The sound of waves breaking on the shore was rhythmic and calm, but it felt wrong, as if it didn’t belong. My head pounded.
The sky above me was unfamiliar. The stars were all wrong—constellations I couldn’t name. They shimmered faintly, too bright and too close. I sat up slowly, my limbs heavy and unsteady.
There was someone else nearby, curled up in the sand. Angela was her name. How did I know? A camera was slung over her shoulder, its lens cracked. She stirred and opened her eyes, blinking in confusion.
“Where…?” she whispered.
I didn’t know.
“Are you okay?” I asked. My voice sounded strange to me, hollow.
She nodded, but her eyes darted around, searching for answers. “Do you remember anything?”
I froze. Do I remember? The question should have been simple, but it wasn’t. My name came to me like a faint echo. Lenora Kane. That was all I had. Everything else was a blank space, heavy and suffocating.
“I don’t,” I admitted.
Angela checked her camera, her hands shaking. She hit a few buttons, then held it up to show me. Static filled the screen, buzzing and crackling. The sound made my teeth ache. Occasionally, an image broke through—Angela’s face, her eyes wide and filled with terror, her mouth forming words I couldn’t hear.
She dropped the camera in the sand and backed away from it, her breath shallow. “What is this? What happened to us?”
I didn’t answer. I couldn’t.
We sat there in silence for what felt like hours. The mainland stretched out behind us, but it didn’t feel real. The buildings looked normal, but there was something off about them, like they belonged to another world.
Angela stood first. “We need to figure out where we are.”
I nodded and followed her. My legs felt like lead. Every step was an effort.
The whispers started that night.
At first, I thought they were the wind moving through the empty rooms of the motel where we’d found shelter. But they had a rhythm, a cadence, almost like language. They came when I was alone.
I didn’t tell Angela.
One night, I stepped outside to look at the sky again. I couldn’t stop staring at the stars. They seemed alive, pulsing faintly, like they were watching me.
I found myself whispering back.
Angela caught me once.
“Who are you talking to?” she asked. Her voice was tight.
I turned to her, but I didn’t have an answer.
She didn’t press me, but I saw the fear in her eyes.
We never recovered our memories. Fragments came back sometimes—a flash of emotion, a sound, a scent—but they didn’t fit together. They were pieces of a puzzle with no edges, just floating in a void.
Angela’s camera stayed broken. She never touched it again.
Months passed, maybe longer. Time felt meaningless. I tried to focus on the present, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that something had been taken from me.
One evening, I saw a newspaper in a shop window. The headline caught my attention: Unexplained Beacon Draws Sailors to Island.
There was a photo of the lighthouse. Its light was faint, barely more than a flicker, but it was there.
I stared at the image until Angela pulled me away. “It doesn’t matter,” she said, her voice firm but trembling.
But it did matter.
Somewhere, on that island, it was still waiting.
The whispers grew louder that night.
The Reflection
I moved into the apartment on a Thursday. It wasn’t much—peeling paint on the walls, uneven floors, and a kitchen that looked like it hadn’t been updated since the ‘70s—but it was cheap, and I needed cheap. The landlord handed me the keys with a nod, barely saying a word. He seemed eager to be rid of me, like he didn’t want to stick around.
The first thing I noticed was the smell. It wasn’t overpowering, but it was there. A damp, musty scent, like old wood left out in the rain. I shrugged it off. Old buildings smell like that sometimes.
The apartment was mostly empty, except for a few pieces of worn furniture that looked like they came from a thrift store. In the hallway, there was a mirror. It was tall, maybe six feet, with a thick gold frame that had intricate carvings along the edges. The glass was cloudy, smudged with dust and fingerprints.
I wasn’t sure why, but the mirror made me uneasy. It felt out of place, like it didn’t belong there. I told myself I was just being paranoid. Moving is stressful, and this was my first place on my own. Everything was bound to feel strange at first.
That first night, the apartment was eerily quiet. The kind of quiet that makes you feel like you’re being watched. I couldn’t sleep. Every creak of the floorboards made my skin crawl.
The next morning, I decided to clean. The mirror was the first thing I tackled. I grabbed an old rag and some glass cleaner and started scrubbing. As I wiped away the grime, I caught my reflection staring back at me.
Something about it didn’t feel right. I don’t know how to explain it, but it didn’t look like me. Not exactly. The movements were the same—I waved my hand, and the reflection waved back—but the eyes felt different. Like they were too aware, too focused.
I shook it off and finished cleaning. By the time the mirror was spotless, it looked like any other mirror. Just a piece of glass in a fancy frame.
That night, I couldn’t stop thinking about it. I told myself I was imagining things, that I was just spooked from being in a new place. But when I turned off the lights and climbed into bed, I could feel it—the mirror. It was like it was watching me.
I kept waking up. Every time I did, I found myself staring at the doorway where the mirror stood, just out of sight. My heart would race, and I’d have to remind myself to breathe. It’s just a mirror, I thought. Glass and wood. Nothing more.
By the third night, I started noticing things. Little things. A flicker of movement out of the corner of my eye. A shadow that didn’t match anything in the room. I told myself it was the light, the way it bounced off the glass.
But then, late that night, I saw something I couldn’t explain. I was in bed, staring at the ceiling, trying to calm my mind. I glanced toward the hallway and froze.
The reflection wasn’t mine.
It was standing in the mirror, staring into the bedroom. The face was mine, but the expression wasn’t. It was twisted, wrong. The eyes were wide, unblinking. The mouth was curled into a faint, unnatural smile.
I blinked, and it was gone.
I stayed awake until dawn, my back pressed against the headboard, clutching the blanket like it could protect me.
The mirror hasn’t moved, but something tells me it doesn’t need to. Whatever is in there, it’s waiting. Watching.
And I don’t know how much longer I can ignore it.
I didn’t sleep that night. Every creak, every groan of the old apartment sent my heart racing. I kept looking at the hallway, expecting to see that twisted face again. It didn’t show up, but that didn’t make me feel any better.
When the first bit of sunlight crept through the blinds, I finally got up. My legs felt shaky as I made my way to the hallway. The mirror was right where it had been, tall and still, with the morning light glinting off its surface.
For a moment, I just stood there, staring at it. The reflection was normal now—just me, tired and pale, with dark circles under my eyes. I wanted to believe that what I’d seen was a dream, but deep down, I knew it wasn’t.
I grabbed a sheet from the closet and threw it over the mirror. The fabric caught on the edges of the ornate frame, covering it entirely. I stood back, feeling a small sense of relief. If I couldn’t see it, maybe it couldn’t see me either.
That didn’t last long.
The rest of the day, I couldn’t focus on anything. I tried unpacking more boxes, but every time I walked past the hallway, I felt it. The mirror was still there, even hidden under the sheet. I couldn’t explain it, but it was like the air around it was heavier.
By the time night rolled around, I was on edge. I left the lights on, every single one. Even then, I kept glancing toward the hallway.
Around midnight, the sound started.
It was faint at first. A soft tapping, like someone gently knocking on glass. I froze, my heart hammering in my chest. The sound was coming from the hallway—from the mirror.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
I didn’t move. I didn’t breathe.
The tapping grew louder, more insistent. It wasn’t random—it had a rhythm, like someone was trying to get my attention.
I grabbed my phone and turned on the flashlight. My hands were trembling as I crept toward the hallway. The tapping stopped the moment I stepped closer.
The sheet was still in place, draped over the mirror. Nothing had changed, but I knew better.
I wanted to walk away. To go back to my room, lock the door, and pretend none of this was happening. But something compelled me to stay. My hand reached out, almost on its own, and I pulled the sheet down.
The mirror was spotless, the glass smooth and perfect. My reflection stared back at me, but it wasn’t right. It looked normal, but the eyes… they felt too sharp, too alive.
I wanted to step away, but I couldn’t. My reflection leaned forward, even though I wasn’t moving.
“Why are you scared?” it whispered.
The voice wasn’t mine. It was cold, distant, like it was coming from deep inside the mirror.
I stumbled back, almost tripping over my own feet. The reflection didn’t follow me this time—it stayed in the glass, smiling faintly.
“Don’t ignore me,” it said.
The lights in the hallway flickered, and the reflection began to blur. For a split second, I thought I saw something else in the glass—a dark shape, taller than me, with hollow eyes. But then it was gone.
I ran back to my room and slammed the door shut. My breathing was shallow, my hands shaking as I pressed my back against the door.
I didn’t sleep at all that night.
By morning, I decided I couldn’t stay here. I didn’t care about breaking the lease or losing the deposit—I just needed to get out.
But when I tried to leave, the front door wouldn’t budge.
The lock turned easily, and the handle moved, but it was like something was holding the door shut. I pulled harder, throwing my weight into it, but it didn’t make a difference.
Behind me, I heard the tapping again.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
I turned slowly, my stomach twisting into knots. The mirror was still in the hallway, uncovered now, and my reflection was back.
It wasn’t smiling anymore. It looked angry.
“You can’t leave,” it said.
The voice wasn’t a whisper this time. It was loud, filling the apartment.
I backed away, pressing myself against the front door. My reflection stepped closer, even though I hadn’t moved.
“You belong to me now,” it said.
The lights flickered again, and the apartment felt colder. I don’t know how long I stood there, staring at the mirror. But when the lights finally came back on, the reflection was gone.
The mirror was empty.
I tried the door again, and this time it opened. I didn’t think—I just ran. Out of the apartment, down the stairs, into the street.
I haven’t gone back.
But sometimes, when I pass by the building, I can feel it. The mirror is still in there, waiting.
And sometimes, I think it’s watching me.
I didn’t know what to do after that. I’d left the apartment behind, but it didn’t feel like I’d escaped. The first few nights at my friend Taylor’s place were quiet. I slept on her couch, with the TV on for background noise, and told myself everything would be fine.
But it wasn’t fine.
I hadn’t told Taylor much, just that the apartment creeped me out and I needed a place to crash. She didn’t ask questions, which I appreciated. But I couldn’t keep pretending nothing was wrong.
The first sign came three nights later. I woke up in a cold sweat at 3 a.m. The TV was still playing some late-night infomercial, but the sound was muted. I glanced around the room, heart racing, and then I saw it.
My reflection.
There was a large window behind Taylor’s couch, and in the faint glow of the streetlights outside, I could see my reflection in the glass. Except it wasn’t just mine.
Something else was there, standing just behind me.
It was the same dark figure I’d seen in the mirror, its hollow eyes staring at me through the glass.
I whipped around, but there was nothing there. My breath came in short, shallow gasps as I stared at the empty room. When I turned back to the window, the figure was gone.
I didn’t sleep for the rest of the night.
The next morning, Taylor noticed the bags under my eyes. “You look like hell,” she said, handing me a cup of coffee. “You sure you’re okay?”
I wanted to tell her everything, but where would I even start? “Yeah,” I mumbled. “Just couldn’t sleep.”
She gave me a look but didn’t push it.
That day, I tried to keep busy. I scrolled through apartment listings, went for a walk, even helped Taylor with some errands. But no matter what I did, I couldn’t shake the feeling that I was being watched.
By the time the sun set, my nerves were shot. I told Taylor I wasn’t feeling well and went to bed early, hoping sleep would come if I just shut my eyes and waited.
It didn’t.
Around midnight, I heard it again.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
I froze, my eyes snapping open. The sound was coming from the window this time.
I sat up slowly, my heart pounding so hard it hurt. The curtains were drawn, but the tapping continued, steady and deliberate.
I didn’t want to look. I didn’t want to know. But something pulled me toward the window anyway.
I reached out with a trembling hand and pulled the curtain back.
There was nothing there. Just the empty street below and the dim glow of a streetlamp.
I let out a shaky breath and turned away, but then I heard it. A voice, soft and familiar, whispering my name.
I spun back to the window, and there it was. My reflection.
But it wasn’t right.
The glass didn’t show the room behind me. Instead, it showed the hallway from my old apartment. The mirror.
And my reflection was smiling again.
“You can’t run,” it said.
The voice sent chills down my spine. It wasn’t coming from the window—it was in my head, echoing like a bad memory.
I stumbled back, tripping over the edge of the couch. My reflection didn’t follow me this time. It stayed in the window, grinning, its empty eyes locked onto mine.
“Leave me alone!” I shouted, my voice cracking.
Taylor came rushing into the room, her face a mix of confusion and concern. “What’s going on?” she asked.
I pointed at the window, but when she turned to look, it was just a window again. My reflection was normal, the hallway and the mirror gone.
“I… I thought I saw something,” I stammered.
Taylor frowned, crossing her arms. “You’re freaking me out. Are you sure everything’s okay?”
I wanted to tell her the truth, but how could I? She’d think I was losing my mind. Maybe I was.
“Yeah,” I lied. “Just a bad dream.”
She didn’t look convinced, but she nodded. “Alright. But if you need to talk, I’m here, okay?”
I nodded, forcing a weak smile.
When she left the room, I collapsed onto the couch, my head in my hands. I couldn’t keep living like this. The mirror wasn’t just in that apartment—it was following me.
And I had no idea how to make it stop.
The next day, I knew I couldn’t ignore it any longer. Whatever was happening, whatever it was, I needed answers.
I didn’t say much to Taylor that morning. She was already on edge from the night before, giving me that look people give when they’re not sure if you’re okay but don’t know how to ask. I just told her I had errands to run and left.
My first stop was the library. It felt old-fashioned, but Googling “haunted mirror” and “weird reflections” hadn’t gotten me very far. At least at the library, I could dig deeper, maybe even find some local stories about the apartment or the building.
The librarian was a small, older woman with kind eyes. She didn’t ask why I needed information on “strange occurrences in apartments” or “haunted objects,” which I appreciated. She simply pointed me toward a section of local history books and articles.
I spent hours flipping through yellowed pages and faded photographs. Most of it was boring—city planning, old businesses, stories of long-dead locals—but one article caught my attention.
It was from the 1970s, about a man named Richard Ames. He’d lived in my old apartment, the same one with the mirror. The headline read: “Mysterious Disappearance Leaves More Questions Than Answers.”
The story detailed how Richard Ames had vanished without a trace. Neighbors reported hearing strange noises coming from his apartment late at night—whispers, laughter, tapping on the walls. The landlord found the place empty a week later, except for one thing: a massive gold-framed mirror, left in the hallway.
The description matched the mirror exactly.
I leaned back in my chair, my pulse racing. The article didn’t explain what happened to Richard or why he disappeared, but it felt like confirmation. This wasn’t just in my head. The mirror had a history.
But what did it want with me?
I copied down the article’s details and headed home. Well, to Taylor’s home. It didn’t feel like mine anymore.
When I got there, she was waiting for me, arms crossed. “You’ve been gone all day,” she said. “Are you okay?”
I hesitated. I’d been brushing her off for days, but I couldn’t do it anymore. “I need to tell you something,” I said, my voice quieter than I wanted it to be.
Taylor frowned but gestured for me to sit down. “Alright, spill.”
So, I told her everything. The mirror, the reflection, the tapping, the voice. I left nothing out.
When I finished, Taylor just stared at me, her mouth slightly open. “You’re serious?” she finally said.
I nodded.
She sighed, rubbing her temples. “Okay. This is… a lot. But if you think this mirror is haunted or cursed or whatever, why don’t we just go back to the apartment and get rid of it?”
Her suggestion caught me off guard. The thought of going back made my stomach churn, but she had a point. If the mirror was the source of all this, destroying it might be the only way to end it.
“I don’t know if that’ll work,” I said. “But I’m willing to try.”
Taylor grabbed her car keys before I could change my mind. “Then let’s do it. The sooner, the better.”
The drive to the apartment was tense. I hadn’t been back since I left, and seeing the building again made my chest tighten. It looked the same—run-down, quiet—but now I knew better.
We went up the stairs, and I unlocked the door with the spare key I still had. The air inside was stale, and the musty smell hit me immediately. The mirror was right where I’d left it, in the hallway, its gold frame catching the faint light from the window.
Taylor walked up to it, inspecting it like it was just another piece of furniture. “This is it?” she asked.
I nodded, staying a few steps back.
She tapped the glass. “Doesn’t look so scary to me.”
Before I could respond, the reflection shifted.
Taylor froze, her hand still against the glass. Her reflection turned to look directly at her, even though she wasn’t moving.
“What the hell…” she whispered, stepping back.
The reflection didn’t mimic her. Instead, it smiled—a wide, unnatural grin that didn’t belong on her face.
“Taylor, get away from it!” I yelled.
But it was too late.
The mirror started to hum, a low, vibrating sound that made my teeth ache. The air around us felt heavy, like the room was collapsing in on itself.
“Do you see that?” Taylor shouted, backing away.
I saw it. The surface of the mirror rippled like water, and the reflection reached out. A hand—Taylor’s hand, but not Taylor’s—pressed against the glass from the inside, its fingers curling as if trying to break through.
“Run!” I screamed, grabbing her arm and yanking her toward the door.
The mirror’s hum grew louder, almost deafening, and the distorted reflection of Taylor watched us with that same twisted grin.
We didn’t stop running until we were outside, gasping for air.
“What the hell was that?” Taylor panted, her face pale.
“I don’t know,” I said, my voice shaking. “But I think it wants more than just a reflection.”
Neither of us spoke for a long time. We just sat on the curb outside the building, catching our breath, our minds racing. Taylor was the first to break the silence.
“What do we do now?” she asked. Her voice was shaky, but there was a sharpness to it, a demand for answers I didn’t have.
“I don’t know,” I admitted. “But we can’t just leave it there. It’s… dangerous. I mean, you saw it. That thing isn’t just some creepy trick. It’s—”
“Alive,” she finished for me. “Or something close to it.”
We sat there a little longer, the weight of what we’d seen pressing down on us. The mirror wasn’t just haunted. It wasn’t just showing strange reflections. It was something else, something I couldn’t explain.
“We should destroy it,” Taylor said finally.
Her words hung in the air, heavy and final. Destroying it felt like the logical choice, but the thought of going back in there, of facing that thing again, made my stomach churn.
“What if it doesn’t work?” I asked. “What if breaking it makes it worse?”
Taylor gave me a sharp look. “Worse than it already is? That thing tried to pull me in. I’m not letting it sit there and wait for someone else to stumble onto it.”
She was right. As much as I wanted to run away, to never think about that mirror again, I couldn’t leave it behind for someone else to find.
“Alright,” I said. “But we need to be smart about it. If we’re going to destroy it, we need to make sure it’s gone for good.”
Taylor nodded, her jaw set. “Let’s do it tonight. Before we lose our nerve.”
The hours dragged by as we made our plan. We’d bring tools—hammers, a crowbar, whatever we could find—to break the mirror apart. We’d bag up the pieces and take them far away from the apartment, maybe to the river or some secluded spot where no one would ever find them.
Taylor raided her dad’s garage for supplies while I sat at her kitchen table, staring at the article I’d found about Richard Ames. I couldn’t stop thinking about him. Had he tried to destroy the mirror? Had it stopped him?
When Taylor returned, her arms loaded with tools, I pushed the thought away. We didn’t have time for second-guessing.
“You ready?” she asked, setting a sledgehammer on the floor with a thud.
“Not really,” I said honestly. “But let’s do it.”
We drove back to the apartment just before midnight. The streets were empty, and the building loomed in the dark, its windows like hollow eyes.
The air inside was colder than before, and the silence felt oppressive. My heart was pounding as we made our way to the hallway, the tools clanking in the bag Taylor carried.
The mirror was waiting for us, just like before. Its surface was still and smooth, but I could feel it watching us.
“Let’s get this over with,” Taylor muttered, pulling the sledgehammer from the bag.
She handed me a crowbar, and we stood in front of the mirror, both of us hesitating.
“Do you feel that?” I asked, my voice barely above a whisper.
Taylor nodded. “Yeah. Like it’s… alive.”
I tightened my grip on the crowbar. “On three?”
She nodded again.
“One… two…”
Before I could say three, the mirror rippled. The smooth surface shifted, and our reflections appeared—not as they should have been, but wrong. Twisted.
Taylor’s reflection had empty black eyes and a smile stretched too wide, like it was pulled by invisible strings. Mine was worse. It wasn’t smiling. It was staring at me, its head tilted, its expression full of something I couldn’t name.
Fear. Hunger. Hate.
“Do it!” I shouted.
Taylor swung the sledgehammer with all her strength. The impact rang out like a gunshot, and the mirror cracked, a jagged line splitting down the middle.
The reflections didn’t shatter. They moved.
Taylor swung again, and the crack widened, but now the mirror was humming, the same low, vibrating sound as before. The room felt like it was spinning, the air thick and heavy.
“Keep going!” I yelled, raising the crowbar and slamming it against the glass.
The mirror groaned, like a living thing in pain. More cracks spread across its surface, but the reflections were still there, moving, pressing against the glass as if trying to break through.
“Why isn’t it breaking?” Taylor screamed, hitting it again and again.
I didn’t answer. I couldn’t. The humming was deafening now, and the cracks in the glass were glowing, a sickly, unnatural light spilling out.
Then, the mirror screamed.
It was a sound I’ll never forget—high-pitched, inhuman, full of rage and despair. The light from the cracks flared, blinding us, and the air around us seemed to explode.
I was thrown backward, hitting the wall hard. The last thing I saw before everything went black was the mirror shattering, the pieces flying in every direction like shards of light.
And then, silence.
When I came to, everything was quiet. Too quiet.
My head was pounding, and I struggled to sit up. The hallway was dim, lit only by the faint flicker of a streetlamp outside. Broken shards of glass glittered on the floor like tiny stars, and the tools Taylor and I had brought lay scattered.
“Taylor?” My voice came out hoarse, barely above a whisper. I looked around, panic building in my chest when I didn’t see her.
Then I heard a groan.
“Taylor!” I scrambled toward the sound, my hands crunching over shards of glass. She was slumped against the wall a few feet away, clutching her arm.
“Hey, hey, are you okay?” I asked, grabbing her shoulders.
She blinked at me, her eyes dazed. “What… what happened?”
“The mirror,” I said. “It shattered.”
Her gaze shifted to the pile of broken glass, and she let out a shaky breath. “Is it… gone?”
“I don’t know,” I admitted. My voice trembled despite my efforts to stay calm.
We both turned to look at the spot where the mirror had hung. The golden frame was still there, but the glass was gone—reduced to a million tiny pieces scattered across the floor.
But something felt off.
The air was heavy, like the moment before a thunderstorm. And there was a faint sound, so quiet I almost missed it. A whisper.
“Do you hear that?” I asked.
Taylor’s face went pale. “Yeah. It’s coming from…”
We both turned to the largest shard of glass lying on the floor. The whispering was louder now, rising and falling like a chant in a language I couldn’t understand.
“I think we need to leave,” Taylor said, her voice tight.
I nodded, but my legs felt like lead. I couldn’t take my eyes off the shard. There was something in it—movement, shapes twisting and writhing just beneath the surface.
“Come on,” Taylor urged, pulling at my arm.
That snapped me out of it. I stood, gripping her hand, and we stumbled out of the hallway. My heart was racing as we ran down the stairs and out into the cold night air.
We didn’t stop until we were a block away. Only then did we turn to look back at the building.
The window on the second floor—the one closest to where the mirror had been—was glowing faintly.
Taylor shivered. “What do we do now?”
I didn’t have an answer. Destroying the mirror had felt like the only solution, but whatever we’d done hadn’t fixed things. If anything, it felt worse.
“We need help,” I said finally. “Someone who knows about… this kind of thing.”
“Like an exorcist?” Taylor asked, her voice dripping with skepticism.
“Maybe,” I said. “I don’t know. But we can’t just leave it like this.”
Taylor sighed, rubbing her face with her hands. “Okay. But not tonight. I can’t… I just can’t.”
I nodded. I didn’t blame her. My whole body ached, and my mind was a mess.
We went back to her car and sat in silence for a while, trying to process what had happened.
But as we sat there, I couldn’t shake the feeling that we weren’t alone.
That night, I stayed at Taylor’s place. Neither of us slept. We sat in her living room with the lights on, jumping at every creak and shadow.
Around three in the morning, my phone buzzed.
The screen lit up with a notification: "Missed Call – Unknown."
My heart skipped a beat.
“Who is it?” Taylor asked, her voice wary.
I didn’t answer. My hands were trembling as I unlocked the phone and checked my voicemail.
There was a new message.
With a deep breath, I pressed play.
At first, there was only static. Then, faintly, I heard it.
My own voice.
“Don’t look behind you.”
A cold chill ran down my spine. Taylor must have seen the look on my face because her eyes widened.
“What is it?” she asked.
I didn’t answer. I couldn’t.
Because I could feel it.
Something was behind me.
I didn’t turn around.
And I don’t think I ever will.
The first thing I noticed was the smell. It wasn’t overpowering, but it was there. A damp, musty scent, like old wood left out in the rain. I shrugged it off. Old buildings smell like that sometimes.
The apartment was mostly empty, except for a few pieces of worn furniture that looked like they came from a thrift store. In the hallway, there was a mirror. It was tall, maybe six feet, with a thick gold frame that had intricate carvings along the edges. The glass was cloudy, smudged with dust and fingerprints.
I wasn’t sure why, but the mirror made me uneasy. It felt out of place, like it didn’t belong there. I told myself I was just being paranoid. Moving is stressful, and this was my first place on my own. Everything was bound to feel strange at first.
That first night, the apartment was eerily quiet. The kind of quiet that makes you feel like you’re being watched. I couldn’t sleep. Every creak of the floorboards made my skin crawl.
The next morning, I decided to clean. The mirror was the first thing I tackled. I grabbed an old rag and some glass cleaner and started scrubbing. As I wiped away the grime, I caught my reflection staring back at me.
Something about it didn’t feel right. I don’t know how to explain it, but it didn’t look like me. Not exactly. The movements were the same—I waved my hand, and the reflection waved back—but the eyes felt different. Like they were too aware, too focused.
I shook it off and finished cleaning. By the time the mirror was spotless, it looked like any other mirror. Just a piece of glass in a fancy frame.
That night, I couldn’t stop thinking about it. I told myself I was imagining things, that I was just spooked from being in a new place. But when I turned off the lights and climbed into bed, I could feel it—the mirror. It was like it was watching me.
I kept waking up. Every time I did, I found myself staring at the doorway where the mirror stood, just out of sight. My heart would race, and I’d have to remind myself to breathe. It’s just a mirror, I thought. Glass and wood. Nothing more.
By the third night, I started noticing things. Little things. A flicker of movement out of the corner of my eye. A shadow that didn’t match anything in the room. I told myself it was the light, the way it bounced off the glass.
But then, late that night, I saw something I couldn’t explain. I was in bed, staring at the ceiling, trying to calm my mind. I glanced toward the hallway and froze.
The reflection wasn’t mine.
It was standing in the mirror, staring into the bedroom. The face was mine, but the expression wasn’t. It was twisted, wrong. The eyes were wide, unblinking. The mouth was curled into a faint, unnatural smile.
I blinked, and it was gone.
I stayed awake until dawn, my back pressed against the headboard, clutching the blanket like it could protect me.
The mirror hasn’t moved, but something tells me it doesn’t need to. Whatever is in there, it’s waiting. Watching.
And I don’t know how much longer I can ignore it.
I didn’t sleep that night. Every creak, every groan of the old apartment sent my heart racing. I kept looking at the hallway, expecting to see that twisted face again. It didn’t show up, but that didn’t make me feel any better.
When the first bit of sunlight crept through the blinds, I finally got up. My legs felt shaky as I made my way to the hallway. The mirror was right where it had been, tall and still, with the morning light glinting off its surface.
For a moment, I just stood there, staring at it. The reflection was normal now—just me, tired and pale, with dark circles under my eyes. I wanted to believe that what I’d seen was a dream, but deep down, I knew it wasn’t.
I grabbed a sheet from the closet and threw it over the mirror. The fabric caught on the edges of the ornate frame, covering it entirely. I stood back, feeling a small sense of relief. If I couldn’t see it, maybe it couldn’t see me either.
That didn’t last long.
The rest of the day, I couldn’t focus on anything. I tried unpacking more boxes, but every time I walked past the hallway, I felt it. The mirror was still there, even hidden under the sheet. I couldn’t explain it, but it was like the air around it was heavier.
By the time night rolled around, I was on edge. I left the lights on, every single one. Even then, I kept glancing toward the hallway.
Around midnight, the sound started.
It was faint at first. A soft tapping, like someone gently knocking on glass. I froze, my heart hammering in my chest. The sound was coming from the hallway—from the mirror.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
I didn’t move. I didn’t breathe.
The tapping grew louder, more insistent. It wasn’t random—it had a rhythm, like someone was trying to get my attention.
I grabbed my phone and turned on the flashlight. My hands were trembling as I crept toward the hallway. The tapping stopped the moment I stepped closer.
The sheet was still in place, draped over the mirror. Nothing had changed, but I knew better.
I wanted to walk away. To go back to my room, lock the door, and pretend none of this was happening. But something compelled me to stay. My hand reached out, almost on its own, and I pulled the sheet down.
The mirror was spotless, the glass smooth and perfect. My reflection stared back at me, but it wasn’t right. It looked normal, but the eyes… they felt too sharp, too alive.
I wanted to step away, but I couldn’t. My reflection leaned forward, even though I wasn’t moving.
“Why are you scared?” it whispered.
The voice wasn’t mine. It was cold, distant, like it was coming from deep inside the mirror.
I stumbled back, almost tripping over my own feet. The reflection didn’t follow me this time—it stayed in the glass, smiling faintly.
“Don’t ignore me,” it said.
The lights in the hallway flickered, and the reflection began to blur. For a split second, I thought I saw something else in the glass—a dark shape, taller than me, with hollow eyes. But then it was gone.
I ran back to my room and slammed the door shut. My breathing was shallow, my hands shaking as I pressed my back against the door.
I didn’t sleep at all that night.
By morning, I decided I couldn’t stay here. I didn’t care about breaking the lease or losing the deposit—I just needed to get out.
But when I tried to leave, the front door wouldn’t budge.
The lock turned easily, and the handle moved, but it was like something was holding the door shut. I pulled harder, throwing my weight into it, but it didn’t make a difference.
Behind me, I heard the tapping again.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
I turned slowly, my stomach twisting into knots. The mirror was still in the hallway, uncovered now, and my reflection was back.
It wasn’t smiling anymore. It looked angry.
“You can’t leave,” it said.
The voice wasn’t a whisper this time. It was loud, filling the apartment.
I backed away, pressing myself against the front door. My reflection stepped closer, even though I hadn’t moved.
“You belong to me now,” it said.
The lights flickered again, and the apartment felt colder. I don’t know how long I stood there, staring at the mirror. But when the lights finally came back on, the reflection was gone.
The mirror was empty.
I tried the door again, and this time it opened. I didn’t think—I just ran. Out of the apartment, down the stairs, into the street.
I haven’t gone back.
But sometimes, when I pass by the building, I can feel it. The mirror is still in there, waiting.
And sometimes, I think it’s watching me.
I didn’t know what to do after that. I’d left the apartment behind, but it didn’t feel like I’d escaped. The first few nights at my friend Taylor’s place were quiet. I slept on her couch, with the TV on for background noise, and told myself everything would be fine.
But it wasn’t fine.
I hadn’t told Taylor much, just that the apartment creeped me out and I needed a place to crash. She didn’t ask questions, which I appreciated. But I couldn’t keep pretending nothing was wrong.
The first sign came three nights later. I woke up in a cold sweat at 3 a.m. The TV was still playing some late-night infomercial, but the sound was muted. I glanced around the room, heart racing, and then I saw it.
My reflection.
There was a large window behind Taylor’s couch, and in the faint glow of the streetlights outside, I could see my reflection in the glass. Except it wasn’t just mine.
Something else was there, standing just behind me.
It was the same dark figure I’d seen in the mirror, its hollow eyes staring at me through the glass.
I whipped around, but there was nothing there. My breath came in short, shallow gasps as I stared at the empty room. When I turned back to the window, the figure was gone.
I didn’t sleep for the rest of the night.
The next morning, Taylor noticed the bags under my eyes. “You look like hell,” she said, handing me a cup of coffee. “You sure you’re okay?”
I wanted to tell her everything, but where would I even start? “Yeah,” I mumbled. “Just couldn’t sleep.”
She gave me a look but didn’t push it.
That day, I tried to keep busy. I scrolled through apartment listings, went for a walk, even helped Taylor with some errands. But no matter what I did, I couldn’t shake the feeling that I was being watched.
By the time the sun set, my nerves were shot. I told Taylor I wasn’t feeling well and went to bed early, hoping sleep would come if I just shut my eyes and waited.
It didn’t.
Around midnight, I heard it again.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
I froze, my eyes snapping open. The sound was coming from the window this time.
I sat up slowly, my heart pounding so hard it hurt. The curtains were drawn, but the tapping continued, steady and deliberate.
I didn’t want to look. I didn’t want to know. But something pulled me toward the window anyway.
I reached out with a trembling hand and pulled the curtain back.
There was nothing there. Just the empty street below and the dim glow of a streetlamp.
I let out a shaky breath and turned away, but then I heard it. A voice, soft and familiar, whispering my name.
I spun back to the window, and there it was. My reflection.
But it wasn’t right.
The glass didn’t show the room behind me. Instead, it showed the hallway from my old apartment. The mirror.
And my reflection was smiling again.
“You can’t run,” it said.
The voice sent chills down my spine. It wasn’t coming from the window—it was in my head, echoing like a bad memory.
I stumbled back, tripping over the edge of the couch. My reflection didn’t follow me this time. It stayed in the window, grinning, its empty eyes locked onto mine.
“Leave me alone!” I shouted, my voice cracking.
Taylor came rushing into the room, her face a mix of confusion and concern. “What’s going on?” she asked.
I pointed at the window, but when she turned to look, it was just a window again. My reflection was normal, the hallway and the mirror gone.
“I… I thought I saw something,” I stammered.
Taylor frowned, crossing her arms. “You’re freaking me out. Are you sure everything’s okay?”
I wanted to tell her the truth, but how could I? She’d think I was losing my mind. Maybe I was.
“Yeah,” I lied. “Just a bad dream.”
She didn’t look convinced, but she nodded. “Alright. But if you need to talk, I’m here, okay?”
I nodded, forcing a weak smile.
When she left the room, I collapsed onto the couch, my head in my hands. I couldn’t keep living like this. The mirror wasn’t just in that apartment—it was following me.
And I had no idea how to make it stop.
The next day, I knew I couldn’t ignore it any longer. Whatever was happening, whatever it was, I needed answers.
I didn’t say much to Taylor that morning. She was already on edge from the night before, giving me that look people give when they’re not sure if you’re okay but don’t know how to ask. I just told her I had errands to run and left.
My first stop was the library. It felt old-fashioned, but Googling “haunted mirror” and “weird reflections” hadn’t gotten me very far. At least at the library, I could dig deeper, maybe even find some local stories about the apartment or the building.
The librarian was a small, older woman with kind eyes. She didn’t ask why I needed information on “strange occurrences in apartments” or “haunted objects,” which I appreciated. She simply pointed me toward a section of local history books and articles.
I spent hours flipping through yellowed pages and faded photographs. Most of it was boring—city planning, old businesses, stories of long-dead locals—but one article caught my attention.
It was from the 1970s, about a man named Richard Ames. He’d lived in my old apartment, the same one with the mirror. The headline read: “Mysterious Disappearance Leaves More Questions Than Answers.”
The story detailed how Richard Ames had vanished without a trace. Neighbors reported hearing strange noises coming from his apartment late at night—whispers, laughter, tapping on the walls. The landlord found the place empty a week later, except for one thing: a massive gold-framed mirror, left in the hallway.
The description matched the mirror exactly.
I leaned back in my chair, my pulse racing. The article didn’t explain what happened to Richard or why he disappeared, but it felt like confirmation. This wasn’t just in my head. The mirror had a history.
But what did it want with me?
I copied down the article’s details and headed home. Well, to Taylor’s home. It didn’t feel like mine anymore.
When I got there, she was waiting for me, arms crossed. “You’ve been gone all day,” she said. “Are you okay?”
I hesitated. I’d been brushing her off for days, but I couldn’t do it anymore. “I need to tell you something,” I said, my voice quieter than I wanted it to be.
Taylor frowned but gestured for me to sit down. “Alright, spill.”
So, I told her everything. The mirror, the reflection, the tapping, the voice. I left nothing out.
When I finished, Taylor just stared at me, her mouth slightly open. “You’re serious?” she finally said.
I nodded.
She sighed, rubbing her temples. “Okay. This is… a lot. But if you think this mirror is haunted or cursed or whatever, why don’t we just go back to the apartment and get rid of it?”
Her suggestion caught me off guard. The thought of going back made my stomach churn, but she had a point. If the mirror was the source of all this, destroying it might be the only way to end it.
“I don’t know if that’ll work,” I said. “But I’m willing to try.”
Taylor grabbed her car keys before I could change my mind. “Then let’s do it. The sooner, the better.”
The drive to the apartment was tense. I hadn’t been back since I left, and seeing the building again made my chest tighten. It looked the same—run-down, quiet—but now I knew better.
We went up the stairs, and I unlocked the door with the spare key I still had. The air inside was stale, and the musty smell hit me immediately. The mirror was right where I’d left it, in the hallway, its gold frame catching the faint light from the window.
Taylor walked up to it, inspecting it like it was just another piece of furniture. “This is it?” she asked.
I nodded, staying a few steps back.
She tapped the glass. “Doesn’t look so scary to me.”
Before I could respond, the reflection shifted.
Taylor froze, her hand still against the glass. Her reflection turned to look directly at her, even though she wasn’t moving.
“What the hell…” she whispered, stepping back.
The reflection didn’t mimic her. Instead, it smiled—a wide, unnatural grin that didn’t belong on her face.
“Taylor, get away from it!” I yelled.
But it was too late.
The mirror started to hum, a low, vibrating sound that made my teeth ache. The air around us felt heavy, like the room was collapsing in on itself.
“Do you see that?” Taylor shouted, backing away.
I saw it. The surface of the mirror rippled like water, and the reflection reached out. A hand—Taylor’s hand, but not Taylor’s—pressed against the glass from the inside, its fingers curling as if trying to break through.
“Run!” I screamed, grabbing her arm and yanking her toward the door.
The mirror’s hum grew louder, almost deafening, and the distorted reflection of Taylor watched us with that same twisted grin.
We didn’t stop running until we were outside, gasping for air.
“What the hell was that?” Taylor panted, her face pale.
“I don’t know,” I said, my voice shaking. “But I think it wants more than just a reflection.”
Neither of us spoke for a long time. We just sat on the curb outside the building, catching our breath, our minds racing. Taylor was the first to break the silence.
“What do we do now?” she asked. Her voice was shaky, but there was a sharpness to it, a demand for answers I didn’t have.
“I don’t know,” I admitted. “But we can’t just leave it there. It’s… dangerous. I mean, you saw it. That thing isn’t just some creepy trick. It’s—”
“Alive,” she finished for me. “Or something close to it.”
We sat there a little longer, the weight of what we’d seen pressing down on us. The mirror wasn’t just haunted. It wasn’t just showing strange reflections. It was something else, something I couldn’t explain.
“We should destroy it,” Taylor said finally.
Her words hung in the air, heavy and final. Destroying it felt like the logical choice, but the thought of going back in there, of facing that thing again, made my stomach churn.
“What if it doesn’t work?” I asked. “What if breaking it makes it worse?”
Taylor gave me a sharp look. “Worse than it already is? That thing tried to pull me in. I’m not letting it sit there and wait for someone else to stumble onto it.”
She was right. As much as I wanted to run away, to never think about that mirror again, I couldn’t leave it behind for someone else to find.
“Alright,” I said. “But we need to be smart about it. If we’re going to destroy it, we need to make sure it’s gone for good.”
Taylor nodded, her jaw set. “Let’s do it tonight. Before we lose our nerve.”
The hours dragged by as we made our plan. We’d bring tools—hammers, a crowbar, whatever we could find—to break the mirror apart. We’d bag up the pieces and take them far away from the apartment, maybe to the river or some secluded spot where no one would ever find them.
Taylor raided her dad’s garage for supplies while I sat at her kitchen table, staring at the article I’d found about Richard Ames. I couldn’t stop thinking about him. Had he tried to destroy the mirror? Had it stopped him?
When Taylor returned, her arms loaded with tools, I pushed the thought away. We didn’t have time for second-guessing.
“You ready?” she asked, setting a sledgehammer on the floor with a thud.
“Not really,” I said honestly. “But let’s do it.”
We drove back to the apartment just before midnight. The streets were empty, and the building loomed in the dark, its windows like hollow eyes.
The air inside was colder than before, and the silence felt oppressive. My heart was pounding as we made our way to the hallway, the tools clanking in the bag Taylor carried.
The mirror was waiting for us, just like before. Its surface was still and smooth, but I could feel it watching us.
“Let’s get this over with,” Taylor muttered, pulling the sledgehammer from the bag.
She handed me a crowbar, and we stood in front of the mirror, both of us hesitating.
“Do you feel that?” I asked, my voice barely above a whisper.
Taylor nodded. “Yeah. Like it’s… alive.”
I tightened my grip on the crowbar. “On three?”
She nodded again.
“One… two…”
Before I could say three, the mirror rippled. The smooth surface shifted, and our reflections appeared—not as they should have been, but wrong. Twisted.
Taylor’s reflection had empty black eyes and a smile stretched too wide, like it was pulled by invisible strings. Mine was worse. It wasn’t smiling. It was staring at me, its head tilted, its expression full of something I couldn’t name.
Fear. Hunger. Hate.
“Do it!” I shouted.
Taylor swung the sledgehammer with all her strength. The impact rang out like a gunshot, and the mirror cracked, a jagged line splitting down the middle.
The reflections didn’t shatter. They moved.
Taylor swung again, and the crack widened, but now the mirror was humming, the same low, vibrating sound as before. The room felt like it was spinning, the air thick and heavy.
“Keep going!” I yelled, raising the crowbar and slamming it against the glass.
The mirror groaned, like a living thing in pain. More cracks spread across its surface, but the reflections were still there, moving, pressing against the glass as if trying to break through.
“Why isn’t it breaking?” Taylor screamed, hitting it again and again.
I didn’t answer. I couldn’t. The humming was deafening now, and the cracks in the glass were glowing, a sickly, unnatural light spilling out.
Then, the mirror screamed.
It was a sound I’ll never forget—high-pitched, inhuman, full of rage and despair. The light from the cracks flared, blinding us, and the air around us seemed to explode.
I was thrown backward, hitting the wall hard. The last thing I saw before everything went black was the mirror shattering, the pieces flying in every direction like shards of light.
And then, silence.
When I came to, everything was quiet. Too quiet.
My head was pounding, and I struggled to sit up. The hallway was dim, lit only by the faint flicker of a streetlamp outside. Broken shards of glass glittered on the floor like tiny stars, and the tools Taylor and I had brought lay scattered.
“Taylor?” My voice came out hoarse, barely above a whisper. I looked around, panic building in my chest when I didn’t see her.
Then I heard a groan.
“Taylor!” I scrambled toward the sound, my hands crunching over shards of glass. She was slumped against the wall a few feet away, clutching her arm.
“Hey, hey, are you okay?” I asked, grabbing her shoulders.
She blinked at me, her eyes dazed. “What… what happened?”
“The mirror,” I said. “It shattered.”
Her gaze shifted to the pile of broken glass, and she let out a shaky breath. “Is it… gone?”
“I don’t know,” I admitted. My voice trembled despite my efforts to stay calm.
We both turned to look at the spot where the mirror had hung. The golden frame was still there, but the glass was gone—reduced to a million tiny pieces scattered across the floor.
But something felt off.
The air was heavy, like the moment before a thunderstorm. And there was a faint sound, so quiet I almost missed it. A whisper.
“Do you hear that?” I asked.
Taylor’s face went pale. “Yeah. It’s coming from…”
We both turned to the largest shard of glass lying on the floor. The whispering was louder now, rising and falling like a chant in a language I couldn’t understand.
“I think we need to leave,” Taylor said, her voice tight.
I nodded, but my legs felt like lead. I couldn’t take my eyes off the shard. There was something in it—movement, shapes twisting and writhing just beneath the surface.
“Come on,” Taylor urged, pulling at my arm.
That snapped me out of it. I stood, gripping her hand, and we stumbled out of the hallway. My heart was racing as we ran down the stairs and out into the cold night air.
We didn’t stop until we were a block away. Only then did we turn to look back at the building.
The window on the second floor—the one closest to where the mirror had been—was glowing faintly.
Taylor shivered. “What do we do now?”
I didn’t have an answer. Destroying the mirror had felt like the only solution, but whatever we’d done hadn’t fixed things. If anything, it felt worse.
“We need help,” I said finally. “Someone who knows about… this kind of thing.”
“Like an exorcist?” Taylor asked, her voice dripping with skepticism.
“Maybe,” I said. “I don’t know. But we can’t just leave it like this.”
Taylor sighed, rubbing her face with her hands. “Okay. But not tonight. I can’t… I just can’t.”
I nodded. I didn’t blame her. My whole body ached, and my mind was a mess.
We went back to her car and sat in silence for a while, trying to process what had happened.
But as we sat there, I couldn’t shake the feeling that we weren’t alone.
That night, I stayed at Taylor’s place. Neither of us slept. We sat in her living room with the lights on, jumping at every creak and shadow.
Around three in the morning, my phone buzzed.
The screen lit up with a notification: "Missed Call – Unknown."
My heart skipped a beat.
“Who is it?” Taylor asked, her voice wary.
I didn’t answer. My hands were trembling as I unlocked the phone and checked my voicemail.
There was a new message.
With a deep breath, I pressed play.
At first, there was only static. Then, faintly, I heard it.
My own voice.
“Don’t look behind you.”
A cold chill ran down my spine. Taylor must have seen the look on my face because her eyes widened.
“What is it?” she asked.
I didn’t answer. I couldn’t.
Because I could feel it.
Something was behind me.
I didn’t turn around.
And I don’t think I ever will.
The Note in the Drawer
I moved into a small apartment last month. It wasn’t much, but it was cheap, and I was in no position to be picky. The place had that typical musty smell, and the walls were thin, but it would do.
On my first day, I started unpacking my things. I was putting away some clothes when I noticed something odd. In the bottom drawer of the dresser, there was a folded piece of paper. It wasn’t mine. I hadn’t seen it before.
I opened it up, and it read: "Don’t open the closet at midnight."
It made no sense. Why would someone leave this here? Maybe it was a prank. Maybe the last tenant had a weird sense of humor. But I couldn’t shake the feeling that it was important. I laughed it off, but as midnight approached, I found myself staring at the closet door.
I tried to ignore it. I really did. But there was something about the warning that made it impossible to focus on anything else.
I glanced at the clock. It was almost midnight.
I stood up, walked to the door, and grabbed the handle. My heart was racing. I was about to open it when I heard a voice—low and raspy—whisper from the closet.
"Don’t do it."
I froze. The voice was so clear, so close. But the closet was empty. I could see it. There was nothing there.
I slowly backed away from the door, my pulse pounding in my ears. Something was wrong. I knew it, but I didn’t know what to do.
I didn’t open the closet that night. And I haven’t opened it since. But I can’t shake the feeling that something is waiting in there. And I don’t know if I’ll ever be brave enough to find out.
On my first day, I started unpacking my things. I was putting away some clothes when I noticed something odd. In the bottom drawer of the dresser, there was a folded piece of paper. It wasn’t mine. I hadn’t seen it before.
I opened it up, and it read: "Don’t open the closet at midnight."
It made no sense. Why would someone leave this here? Maybe it was a prank. Maybe the last tenant had a weird sense of humor. But I couldn’t shake the feeling that it was important. I laughed it off, but as midnight approached, I found myself staring at the closet door.
I tried to ignore it. I really did. But there was something about the warning that made it impossible to focus on anything else.
I glanced at the clock. It was almost midnight.
I stood up, walked to the door, and grabbed the handle. My heart was racing. I was about to open it when I heard a voice—low and raspy—whisper from the closet.
"Don’t do it."
I froze. The voice was so clear, so close. But the closet was empty. I could see it. There was nothing there.
I slowly backed away from the door, my pulse pounding in my ears. Something was wrong. I knew it, but I didn’t know what to do.
I didn’t open the closet that night. And I haven’t opened it since. But I can’t shake the feeling that something is waiting in there. And I don’t know if I’ll ever be brave enough to find out.
The House on Maple Street
I didn’t think much of the house when I first saw it. It was just another old, run-down place on Maple Street. No one had lived there for years. It was the kind of house you’d cross the street to avoid. But one day, I found myself standing in front of it. There was a strange pull, like I had to see what was inside.
I knocked on the door. No answer. I tried the knob. It was unlocked. I hesitated, then stepped inside. The smell hit me first. Dust. Old wood. Something else, something I couldn’t place.
The inside was dark, but I made my way through the rooms. The wallpaper was peeling, the furniture covered in sheets. But the thing that bothered me the most was the silence. It felt wrong, like the house was holding its breath.
I made my way up to the second floor. The hallway was narrow, and the floors creaked under my feet. Then I saw it. A door, slightly ajar. There was something behind it, I could feel it.
I pushed the door open and froze. In the corner of the room stood a mirror. It wasn’t huge, but it was old, with a dark, ornate frame. I walked closer, not sure why, but I couldn’t stop myself. When I looked into it, I didn’t see my reflection. I saw someone else. A man, standing right behind me, smiling.
I spun around. No one was there. I turned back to the mirror. The man was still there, his smile wider now. I felt a cold chill run down my spine.
“Who are you?” I whispered. But the man didn’t answer. His smile only grew.
I backed away from the mirror, my heart pounding. The door slammed shut behind me. I tried to open it, but it wouldn’t budge. The house felt like it was closing in on me.
I looked back at the mirror. The man was still there, but now he was closer. His face was pressed against the glass, his eyes wide, like he was trying to get through.
I tried to scream, but no sound came out. The man reached out, his fingers curling toward me, and for the first time, I realized he wasn’t in the mirror. He was inside the room with me.
I stumbled backward, my mind racing. I had to get out. I had to leave. But the man was getting closer. His hand was almost on my shoulder when the mirror shattered.
The glass fell to the floor in a million pieces, but I didn’t wait. I pushed open the door, ran down the stairs, and didn’t stop until I was outside, gasping for air.
I never went back to that house. I don’t know who the man in the mirror was, or what he wanted. But sometimes, when I look into a mirror, I feel like I see him behind me. Waiting.
I knocked on the door. No answer. I tried the knob. It was unlocked. I hesitated, then stepped inside. The smell hit me first. Dust. Old wood. Something else, something I couldn’t place.
The inside was dark, but I made my way through the rooms. The wallpaper was peeling, the furniture covered in sheets. But the thing that bothered me the most was the silence. It felt wrong, like the house was holding its breath.
I made my way up to the second floor. The hallway was narrow, and the floors creaked under my feet. Then I saw it. A door, slightly ajar. There was something behind it, I could feel it.
I pushed the door open and froze. In the corner of the room stood a mirror. It wasn’t huge, but it was old, with a dark, ornate frame. I walked closer, not sure why, but I couldn’t stop myself. When I looked into it, I didn’t see my reflection. I saw someone else. A man, standing right behind me, smiling.
I spun around. No one was there. I turned back to the mirror. The man was still there, his smile wider now. I felt a cold chill run down my spine.
“Who are you?” I whispered. But the man didn’t answer. His smile only grew.
I backed away from the mirror, my heart pounding. The door slammed shut behind me. I tried to open it, but it wouldn’t budge. The house felt like it was closing in on me.
I looked back at the mirror. The man was still there, but now he was closer. His face was pressed against the glass, his eyes wide, like he was trying to get through.
I tried to scream, but no sound came out. The man reached out, his fingers curling toward me, and for the first time, I realized he wasn’t in the mirror. He was inside the room with me.
I stumbled backward, my mind racing. I had to get out. I had to leave. But the man was getting closer. His hand was almost on my shoulder when the mirror shattered.
The glass fell to the floor in a million pieces, but I didn’t wait. I pushed open the door, ran down the stairs, and didn’t stop until I was outside, gasping for air.
I never went back to that house. I don’t know who the man in the mirror was, or what he wanted. But sometimes, when I look into a mirror, I feel like I see him behind me. Waiting.
The Mirror
I found the mirror at a yard sale. It was old, but the frame looked sturdy. It wasn’t anything special, but something about it caught my eye. I don’t know what made me buy it. I wasn’t even looking for a mirror.
The seller didn’t seem to care much about it. “It’s been in the family for years,” she said. “I think it’s just a little... odd. But you can have it for cheap.”
I paid her and took it home. At first, nothing happened. It just hung on my wall, like any other mirror. But then, things started to feel different. At night, I would catch myself staring into it, not sure for how long. Sometimes I saw things in the reflection that didn’t match what was around me. Shadows moving when I wasn’t.
I didn’t tell anyone about it. They would think I was crazy. But the mirror kept calling to me. Each time I looked, it felt harder to look away.
One evening, I stood in front of it, trying to avoid the strange feeling creeping up on me. But then I saw something new. A figure, standing just behind me in the reflection. At first, I thought it was a trick of the light, but it wasn’t. I could see the figure clearly, like it was real.
I turned around quickly, but no one was there.
I went back to the mirror. The figure was still there. It stood still, just staring at me.
I tried to ignore it, but the feeling wouldn’t go away. I started having nightmares. I would wake up in the middle of the night and see that figure standing by my bed, staring at me. It felt so real, like it was waiting for something.
One night, I couldn’t take it anymore. I went to the mirror and tried to touch the figure. My fingers brushed the glass, but it didn’t feel like glass. It felt... wrong. Cold. Empty.
Suddenly, I felt something grab my wrist. I yanked my hand away, but it didn’t let go. I looked into the mirror. The figure was closer now, its face inches from mine. It was smiling, but it wasn’t a friendly smile. It was wide and stretched too far.
I couldn’t pull away. I tried, but my hand stayed stuck, pressing against the glass. The figure leaned in closer, and I could hear a voice, faint but clear.
“You can’t leave now.”
The voice was soft, but it felt like it was inside my head. I finally managed to tear my hand away, but I couldn’t stop looking into the mirror. The figure grinned wider, as if it had won.
I didn’t sleep that night. The next day, I took the mirror down. I wrapped it in a blanket and put it in the back of my closet. But when I checked, I saw it.
The mirror was back on the wall. And the figure was waiting for me again.
The seller didn’t seem to care much about it. “It’s been in the family for years,” she said. “I think it’s just a little... odd. But you can have it for cheap.”
I paid her and took it home. At first, nothing happened. It just hung on my wall, like any other mirror. But then, things started to feel different. At night, I would catch myself staring into it, not sure for how long. Sometimes I saw things in the reflection that didn’t match what was around me. Shadows moving when I wasn’t.
I didn’t tell anyone about it. They would think I was crazy. But the mirror kept calling to me. Each time I looked, it felt harder to look away.
One evening, I stood in front of it, trying to avoid the strange feeling creeping up on me. But then I saw something new. A figure, standing just behind me in the reflection. At first, I thought it was a trick of the light, but it wasn’t. I could see the figure clearly, like it was real.
I turned around quickly, but no one was there.
I went back to the mirror. The figure was still there. It stood still, just staring at me.
I tried to ignore it, but the feeling wouldn’t go away. I started having nightmares. I would wake up in the middle of the night and see that figure standing by my bed, staring at me. It felt so real, like it was waiting for something.
One night, I couldn’t take it anymore. I went to the mirror and tried to touch the figure. My fingers brushed the glass, but it didn’t feel like glass. It felt... wrong. Cold. Empty.
Suddenly, I felt something grab my wrist. I yanked my hand away, but it didn’t let go. I looked into the mirror. The figure was closer now, its face inches from mine. It was smiling, but it wasn’t a friendly smile. It was wide and stretched too far.
I couldn’t pull away. I tried, but my hand stayed stuck, pressing against the glass. The figure leaned in closer, and I could hear a voice, faint but clear.
“You can’t leave now.”
The voice was soft, but it felt like it was inside my head. I finally managed to tear my hand away, but I couldn’t stop looking into the mirror. The figure grinned wider, as if it had won.
I didn’t sleep that night. The next day, I took the mirror down. I wrapped it in a blanket and put it in the back of my closet. But when I checked, I saw it.
The mirror was back on the wall. And the figure was waiting for me again.
The Call
I got a strange phone call last night. At first, I thought it was just a wrong number, but when I answered, the voice on the other end sounded... off.
It wasn’t the usual robotic tone you get with spam calls. No, this was different. The voice was shaky, like the person was nervous or scared. It said my name, and then, it just started repeating it.
“Sarah... Sarah... Sarah...”
It sounded like it was coming from far away, but somehow, it was still clear enough to send chills down my spine. I didn’t say anything at first. I just listened.
The voice continued. “I’m watching you.”
I felt my heart race. My first thought was to hang up, but something kept me there, listening. The voice didn’t sound like anyone I knew. It didn’t sound familiar at all, but it also didn’t sound completely strange. It was just... wrong.
“I see you,” it whispered. “You’re not alone.”
I froze. I looked around my apartment, but it was empty. There was no one here. I had locked the door. It was just me and the silence.
Then, the voice spoke again. But this time, it was different. It wasn’t just my name. It started saying things about my life. Little things. Things no one would know.
“Your keys are on the kitchen counter,” the voice said, as if it was looking right at them.
I turned toward the kitchen, and sure enough, my keys were lying on the counter. I wasn’t sure what to do. I felt a pit form in my stomach.
“I can hear you breathe,” it whispered next. “I can hear everything.”
I could feel my breath catching in my chest. I wasn’t sure whether to hang up or call the police, but I couldn’t move. I couldn’t think. The voice kept going, getting more intense.
“I can see your phone, Sarah. I know where you are. You can’t hide from me.”
Then, the line went dead.
I stared at my phone, feeling my hands shake. I didn’t know what to think. Was it a prank? Was someone playing a sick joke on me? Or was it something worse? I wasn’t sure.
I decided to go to bed and try to forget about it. But when I lay down, I noticed something.
My phone had started ringing again. The same number. I didn’t answer.
The voice from the night before echoed in my head: “I can hear everything.”
I tried to sleep, but I couldn’t. I couldn’t shake the feeling that I wasn’t alone in my own apartment. That someone, or something, was still here with me. Watching me.
And I’m not sure if it’s gone. Because every time I pick up my phone now, it’s always the same number calling. And I can never seem to stop listening.
It wasn’t the usual robotic tone you get with spam calls. No, this was different. The voice was shaky, like the person was nervous or scared. It said my name, and then, it just started repeating it.
“Sarah... Sarah... Sarah...”
It sounded like it was coming from far away, but somehow, it was still clear enough to send chills down my spine. I didn’t say anything at first. I just listened.
The voice continued. “I’m watching you.”
I felt my heart race. My first thought was to hang up, but something kept me there, listening. The voice didn’t sound like anyone I knew. It didn’t sound familiar at all, but it also didn’t sound completely strange. It was just... wrong.
“I see you,” it whispered. “You’re not alone.”
I froze. I looked around my apartment, but it was empty. There was no one here. I had locked the door. It was just me and the silence.
Then, the voice spoke again. But this time, it was different. It wasn’t just my name. It started saying things about my life. Little things. Things no one would know.
“Your keys are on the kitchen counter,” the voice said, as if it was looking right at them.
I turned toward the kitchen, and sure enough, my keys were lying on the counter. I wasn’t sure what to do. I felt a pit form in my stomach.
“I can hear you breathe,” it whispered next. “I can hear everything.”
I could feel my breath catching in my chest. I wasn’t sure whether to hang up or call the police, but I couldn’t move. I couldn’t think. The voice kept going, getting more intense.
“I can see your phone, Sarah. I know where you are. You can’t hide from me.”
Then, the line went dead.
I stared at my phone, feeling my hands shake. I didn’t know what to think. Was it a prank? Was someone playing a sick joke on me? Or was it something worse? I wasn’t sure.
I decided to go to bed and try to forget about it. But when I lay down, I noticed something.
My phone had started ringing again. The same number. I didn’t answer.
The voice from the night before echoed in my head: “I can hear everything.”
I tried to sleep, but I couldn’t. I couldn’t shake the feeling that I wasn’t alone in my own apartment. That someone, or something, was still here with me. Watching me.
And I’m not sure if it’s gone. Because every time I pick up my phone now, it’s always the same number calling. And I can never seem to stop listening.
The Door
I found the door in the woods. It wasn’t there the day before. I was walking my usual route when I saw it—just standing there, out of place. A wooden door, with no walls, no house around it. It looked old, like it had been there for years, even though I was sure it hadn’t.
Curious, I walked closer. The air around it felt cold, almost like a breeze, but there was no wind. I stood in front of it for a long time, staring at the brass doorknob. It was shiny, like someone had polished it recently. The door was just... out of place.
I reached out and touched the knob. It felt warm, not cold like everything else. I hesitated for a moment. Why was it so warm? Should I open it?
But something pushed me. A feeling, like I needed to. So, I turned the knob. It creaked loudly, but the door didn’t open. It felt stuck, like something was on the other side, holding it closed. I gave it a shove, and finally, the door opened.
There was nothing on the other side. Just darkness. No light, no sounds, nothing. But the feeling, the weight of it, felt... wrong. I tried to step back, but my feet wouldn’t move. It was like the air around me had thickened. I could barely breathe.
I looked back at the door. The darkness was pulling at me. I couldn’t explain it, but I knew I had to go through. Every part of me screamed to turn and run, but I couldn’t. My legs moved forward, dragging me through the door.
The moment I stepped through, the door slammed shut behind me. I looked around, but there was still nothing. No walls, no ground, just an empty void. And then, I saw it.
There was a figure standing in the distance, barely visible. I couldn’t make out its features, but I knew it was watching me. Slowly, I began walking toward it. My steps felt heavy, as if something was pushing down on me.
When I got closer, I stopped. The figure was just standing there, still, silent. And then, it moved. It turned its head, slowly, to face me. Its eyes were wide, black voids. It didn’t blink.
I froze, unable to move. Its mouth opened, but no sound came out. And then, it smiled. A slow, wide grin that didn’t feel human. Something was wrong. I should have turned and ran, but I couldn’t. I was stuck, watching, as the smile stretched wider and wider.
I didn’t know how long I stood there, paralyzed by fear, but eventually, I blinked. When I opened my eyes, the figure was gone.
The door reappeared behind me. I didn’t hesitate. I ran to it, grabbed the knob, and yanked it open. I stepped through, back into the woods. But something was different. The trees were gone. The air was colder.
And then I realized. I wasn’t alone. The figure from the void was standing just behind me, smiling, watching.
Curious, I walked closer. The air around it felt cold, almost like a breeze, but there was no wind. I stood in front of it for a long time, staring at the brass doorknob. It was shiny, like someone had polished it recently. The door was just... out of place.
I reached out and touched the knob. It felt warm, not cold like everything else. I hesitated for a moment. Why was it so warm? Should I open it?
But something pushed me. A feeling, like I needed to. So, I turned the knob. It creaked loudly, but the door didn’t open. It felt stuck, like something was on the other side, holding it closed. I gave it a shove, and finally, the door opened.
There was nothing on the other side. Just darkness. No light, no sounds, nothing. But the feeling, the weight of it, felt... wrong. I tried to step back, but my feet wouldn’t move. It was like the air around me had thickened. I could barely breathe.
I looked back at the door. The darkness was pulling at me. I couldn’t explain it, but I knew I had to go through. Every part of me screamed to turn and run, but I couldn’t. My legs moved forward, dragging me through the door.
The moment I stepped through, the door slammed shut behind me. I looked around, but there was still nothing. No walls, no ground, just an empty void. And then, I saw it.
There was a figure standing in the distance, barely visible. I couldn’t make out its features, but I knew it was watching me. Slowly, I began walking toward it. My steps felt heavy, as if something was pushing down on me.
When I got closer, I stopped. The figure was just standing there, still, silent. And then, it moved. It turned its head, slowly, to face me. Its eyes were wide, black voids. It didn’t blink.
I froze, unable to move. Its mouth opened, but no sound came out. And then, it smiled. A slow, wide grin that didn’t feel human. Something was wrong. I should have turned and ran, but I couldn’t. I was stuck, watching, as the smile stretched wider and wider.
I didn’t know how long I stood there, paralyzed by fear, but eventually, I blinked. When I opened my eyes, the figure was gone.
The door reappeared behind me. I didn’t hesitate. I ran to it, grabbed the knob, and yanked it open. I stepped through, back into the woods. But something was different. The trees were gone. The air was colder.
And then I realized. I wasn’t alone. The figure from the void was standing just behind me, smiling, watching.
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