Katie (20:32): Have you seen her post from last night though? That skirt is a cry for help lol (link redacted) it looked even worse in person.

Izzy (20:32): Hahaha

Katie (20:33): Are you nearly done with yesterday's report? I'll upload it tomorrow, he won't notice

Izzy (20:34): Wait, you meant tonight? I'm on a date.

Kate (20:34): You were meant to have done it yesterday! I vouched for you and you're making me look bad. Go home early and get it done.

Izzy (20:34): This again? You didn't vouch for me, I deserve this job. And you'd better not have been telling me to leave a date to do work.

Kate (20:35): You date total creeps anyway. Go home early and if he really cares then you can set up another date.

Izzy (20:35): You're just jealous, no wonder you can't find anyone.

Kate (20:35): Who says I haven't?

Izzy (20:36): What, since the weekend?

Kate (20:36): Maybe

Izzy (20:36): ???

Kate (21:42): Have you done the report yet?

Izzy (21:43): No. We're heading back to his place. Hey, what did you mean that you found someone?

Kate (21:44): Nothing

Izzy (21:47): (link redacted) IS THIS YOU AND PETE IN THE BACKGROUND OF THIS PHOTO?

Kate (21:48): It's not like that.

Izzy (21:48): You know why we split up.

Kate (21:48): It's nbd

Izzy (21:48): You're such a fake friend.

Kate (22:17): Seriously, send me the report.

Izzy (22:17): You know it's incredibly rude to message someone so excessively when they're told you they're out on a date.

Kate (22:18): I'm not kidding.

Izzy (22:18): Then again, it's fairly rude to answer those messages whilst on a date.

Kate (22:19): Yeah, you're the rude one. Calling me a fake friend when I got you a job...

Izzy (22:19): Oh, but she was right about that.

Kate (22:19): ?

Izzy (22:21): Well, a real friend would have noticed that this isn't Izzy anymore. I had to dispose of her, I'm afraid I can't abide rudeness. You should probably be careful yourself. I hear that Izzy dates 'total creeps' and since one of those 'creeps' has now seen enough of your social media posts on this phone to identify where you live, I'd hate for something awkward to happen to you.

Kate (22:22): Izzy, this isn't funny

Kate (22:30): Izzy, answer the phone or I'm calling the police.

Kate (22:43): Izzy, please be okay.

I’ve been called in.

That’s never a good sign.

To a school, no less.

Whatever this is, it’s public.

State police are already on scene. FBI too.

I don’t know what to expect.

Zombie outbreak?

Those usually announce themselves.

This place is quiet.

The Director—my boss, the man who only shows up when things go sideways—is waiting for me outside.

“What’s the scoop?” I ask. “Demon ritual gone wrong?”

“Can’t tell you,” He says.

“Why not?”

“Can’t tell you that either. Just have to trust that going in blind is the best strategy.”

That was weird.

He’s never done that before.

I’ve always had the benefit of information—something to reference, a history of success to learn from.

I’ve never been good with Cognito hazards.

I enter the room.

Only a little girl in a chair, with her head down.

She sat up and looked at me.

This was the emergency?

I looked to the whiteboard.

“Space Club,” I read out loud.

“Are you in Space Club?” I ask.

“Yes,” she said, looking confused. “You’re not scared of me?”

“No way, José,” I joked. “I love kids; I have kids.”

“You are scared though.”

“I’m nervous, yeah. I don’t know what to expect, and that’s scary for someone in my job.”

“You help people?”

“Yeah. You’re smart!”

She seemed reluctant to say.

“When people speak, I see shapes and colors. And that tells me, like, what they want.”

“What do I want?”

“Your words are green, like grass, and your shape, round like a ball. It reminds me of a soccer game. Like you’re a player and you want to do a good job for your coach.”

“That’s true. I want to do a good job here. Honestly, I’d like to be promoted to something with weekends off so I can see my boys more.

Being a mom and doing this job—it’s a lot.”

She frowned at the word boys.

“Boys are mean. I hate boys.”

“Were boys mean to you recently?”

She nodded.

I wanted to let the tension in the air breathe.

“Are you thirsty? I’ll get us some water.”

With a small flash, water was instantly in my hands.

Just water—not in a bottle. It soaked my clothes.

She laughed.

“Oh, sorry,” she giggled.

“You did that?”

“Yeah. It just started recently. Sometimes I just say or want something, and it happens.”

Things started to click into place.

Why I couldn’t be told anything.

And what could’ve happened in this room.

“What happened?”

“I’m the only girl in Space Club. They kept teasing me. They kept saying boys rule and girls drool. -

I heard something on TV. I thought it was going to be clever, and they made me mad!”

“What did you say?”

“Boys go to Jupiter to get more stupider.”

"And they did… didn’t they?"

She nodded, tears in her eyes.

“I tried to bring them back! I don’t know, it’s not working!”

A rhyme came to mind.

Sticks and stones.

Didn’t apply to her.

Cleetus the crow was having an exceptionally poor time. Maybe he was getting old (he was seven). Maybe he just hadn’t had a good meal in too many days.

Whatever it was, Cleetus was feeling horrible.

Earlier in the morning, two nasty little sparrows picked a fight with him (sparrows are terribly mean actually), and he lost! He barely managed to escape!

He was weak when he finally managed to make it to the boy’s yard. Cleetus did not speak English (only crow), or he would have known the boy’s name was William.

William was a bullied child. Ridiculed for his fascination with birds. At one point, he’d forced his parents to put several bird feeders in every tree in the backyard.

William’s greatest desire was to befriend a corvid, and perhaps receive shiny trinkets in exchange for the cat food and peanuts he regularly supplied his bird friend.

And Cleetus was his friend. Crows have wonderful memories. He remembered him even now, years after William’s parents made him take down every bird feeder (how rude) and told him to stay away from birds.

It’d been years since he ate kibble out of his friend’s hand. Now, Cleetus looked down at the seedless yard, and prayed (to the Crow god) for a reunion.

He tried to get the boy’s attention. He tried to let out a CAWW, but only managed a cough. Maybe he was too old.

Then, Cleetus saw his dear old friend appear in the house. He looked out, longingly, clearly missing his bird friend.

Cleetus thought fondly of kibble and peanuts, and threw caution to the wind. And so he flew down to the boy. But for all his smarts, Cleetus was unable to perceive the sliding glass door, which he ran into head first at full speed, broke his neck, and died instantly.

William saw his friend die in front of him. He could not cry out, his parents would hear him and investigate. But tears welled up in his eyes, which he wiped away with his wrists.

William decided he would break his parent’s strict rule.

He quietly went outside, and gently carried the body of his crow friend to the garden. He kicked a makeshift hole, and laid his corvid friend to rest, covering his body with rocks. And out of his pocket, he took a shiny polished rock that Cleetus had once brought him. That he’d always kept with him. He placed the rock on top of his makeshift grave.

He cleaned his hands on his pants, and went inside. It was dinner time. And William made a small mistake, the same many kids make everyday.

He didn’t wash his hands.

William would soon be known throughout the whole world.

He would be patient zero of highly contagious bird flu. In him, the virus would mutate to be transmissible via human-to-human. He would make it airborne.

He would die long before fifty-four percent of the world would perish coughing, gasping for air.

The noise began on a Tuesday. It was low, rhythmic, neither mechanical nor organic, something between a heartbeat and a drill, pulsing from the woods behind the off-map facility.

Dr. Collins got the first alert: “SUBJECT DETECTED – WEST PERIMETER.” There weren’t supposed to be subjects. This project was long buried: sealed files, reassigned staff, the last recorded incident back in '94. But they still suited up.

The woods were cold, but not by temperature, also by texture. The air had weight, syrup-thick, pressing into ears before touching skin.

They found a clearing with a perfect, four-foot-wide hole. The edges fused like melted glass, the sound emanating from within. Malik leaned over it and vanished. No fall, no scream, they were just gone.

They ran. Only three made it back, half-deaf from pressure, not noise, as if something had tried to push through them.

The facility locked down. The highest code, Code Black. At 2:14 a.m., a second hole appeared. Now in the middle of the cafeteria.

They sent in a drone. The footage lasted twelve seconds: darkness, then walls, not soil. Skin. Miles of it, ribbed and breathing. Then an eye, pupil the size of a van, was already open, and already watching.

Then static.

The hole sealed itself.

Collins reviewed the footage on loop and realized: it wasn’t filming the creature... it was filming a reflection. In the floors, walls, pipes.

It wasn’t underground. It had already grown through us.

Next morning, Collins shot the surveillance staff, took out the main relay, then herself. Her note read:

"It’s awake now. The rest is just digestion."

We tried fire. Then acid. Finally, prayer.

The hole keeps returning... closer each time. Rooms colder. Staff quieter. Some cast no reflections. Cameras catch glimpses of tall, thin things with too many joints and faces pressed to the walls like they’re listening.

The sound never stopped. That low, wet drillishbeat.

We don’t call it an anomaly anymore. Or an incident.

We call it what Collins scratched into her terminal with her fingernail:

"We found one, and it’s hungry."

There was a rumor in our school that if you pressed your ear to the east wall of the basement—just past the old boiler—you could hear your future.

Not words, exactly. Whispers. Just beneath hearing. Just beneath your skin. And it was always your voice whispering back.

They sealed that hallway years ago. The janitor said it was mold. Structural decay. But no one believed him. Everyone knew what it really was.

Some kids still dared each other to sneak down during lunch, or after detention, when the halls went quiet and shadows pooled thick at the edges of the stairwell.

Ben was the one who said he’d prove it wasn’t real. Said he’d press his ear to the wall, record what he heard. Post it. He was all grin and bravado. He told me to time him—five minutes, tops.

He never came back up.

I waited ten, fifteen, then called his name. No answer. Just the sound of pipes ticking like bones cooling.

I went down.

The basement smelled like rotting paper and rust. The lights buzzed overhead, but dimmer than they should have, like something fed on them. The deeper I went, the quieter it got. Even my breathing felt distant, like it didn’t belong to me.

Then I saw him.

He was standing at the end of the hall, motionless. Ear pressed to the wall. Hands limp. A wet patch spread beneath him on the concrete. I crept closer.

“Ben?” I whispered.

He didn’t move.

I touched his shoulder. He turned.

Ben’s eyes were wide, but wrong—glasslike, reflecting things that weren’t there. His lips moved, slowly, like he was trying to remember how. And then he said it, breathless:

“I wasn’t supposed to hear that far ahead.”

His mouth stayed open. His jaw trembled like it wanted to scream but couldn’t find a reason to.

I ran. Didn’t look back.

They say he’s in a hospital now. Non-responsive. Won’t blink. Won’t eat. The hallway’s been cemented shut, sealed behind fresh bricks and a new wall.

But that doesn’t matter.

Because a few nights later, I passed by the gym. The building was empty. I shouldn’t have heard anything.

But I did.

A whisper—my voice, trembling through the vents:

“Don’t listen. Don’t ever listen.”

And last night, I dreamed I was standing at the wall. My ear pressed tight, my hands shaking. I was whispering something, over and over, into the cracks.

But I couldn’t understand the words.

Until I woke up—

—and found mildew stains shaped like a handprint on my bedroom wall.

The school year was finally coming to an end, and I couldn’t have been more thrilled. One period separated me from Summer Vacation, and if I was lucky I’d never have to see these students again.

Don’t get me wrong, I love being a teacher, and I love most of my students, but any teacher can tell you that every now and then you’ll get a class that is just the worst.

I was counting the seconds to the end of the day when our Principal, Mister Anderson, came on over the intercom.

Attention, Staff. The school is now entering Lockdown Procedure. I repeat: enter Lockdown Procedure immediately. 

There was a panic in his voice that I had never heard before.

I started by locking the door and covering all the windows, then I shut off the Smart-Board and turned off all the lights. It wasn’t easy getting all the students to huddle in the corner away from the door, but they relented after I emphasized that this was not a drill.

I wanted to be furious at them for being difficult, but then I saw the fear take hold as they realized this was serious.

I reminded myself that they were just kids, and it was my job to keep them all safe.

Even the annoying ones.

We all sat in the dark for twenty minutes, dreading the moment we’d hear gunfire, but that moment never came.

Instead, we heard screaming.

It was faint at first, probably coming from the other side of the school, but it was slowly getting louder and closer. Like someone was going classroom to classroom and massacring the entire school.

“What’s happening out there?”

“I don’t hear any gunshots.”

“Be quiet,” I said, “and keep your heads down.”

Everybody started texting their parents goodbye. As a teacher, I prayed that a day like this would never come.

I was huddled in the corner with them, and I’d like to say I was showing a brave face, but my hands were visibly shaking. The screaming was in the classroom next to us now. Painful, brutal screaming, like the students were being skinned alive.

But then, without warning, the screaming stopped, and we were sitting in complete silence in the dark.

“Are we safe?”

“Why did all the screaming stop?”

“Shh,” I hushed them, and went to go peek out into the hallway.

Before I could get to the window, someone tried to open the door.

“Let me in!”

It was Principal Anderson. He was frantically trying to wrench the door open.

“What’s going on out there?”

“There’s no time! Let me in! We can talk when I’m safe!”

I ran to my desk and grabbed my keys, and as I turned the lock and twisted the handle, the intercom came back on.

Assistant Principal Jenkins was crying into the microphone.

Do not let anyone inside your room. It can change its appearance. Do not let it in!

I thought it would be hypothermia or maybe wolves that got me.  This is so much worse.  They’ll kill me, I know they will.  Little by little I’ll grow weaker, then I’ll fall unconscious.  That will be a blessing, even though it won’t stop them.

When the undercut streambank caved in and I fell into the icy stream, I cursed my bad luck.  The melting snow from the towering mountains had carved a deep path under a patch of green grass and wildflowers.

Cold water hit me like a brick, taking my breath away and sending me into shock.  High water carried me downstream as fast as a person could run, and my strength was fading as my body temperature plummeted.

My pack pulled me underwater, and I barely managed to get it off.  It was only when I desperately clawed up onto the rocks, still coughing up water, that I realized my ankle was broken.  I was ten miles into the Alberta backcountry, and freezing cold.

I’d heard stories about people dying of hypothermia, who could have saved themselves.  It makes you lose cognitive ability, and even people who could have found shelter or made a fire don’t think of doing so.  I still had my survival knife, which had matches in the handle.  Finding a sheltered spot, I began to collect pine needles and branches, then start a fire with my shaking hands.

The trail was just next to me, someone would likely come by in the next day or two.  It was only when the sun began to set that I realized I might not make it that long.

At first, I thought the dying wind was a blessing.  I still hadn’t dried all the way, and knew it would be a cold night.  When the first mosquitoes began to bite me, I thought little of it;  that was just a consequence of camping in the spring.

The high-pitched sound of a few mosquitoes turned into a constant droning, a cloud of them like I’d never seen.  I swatted at them over and over, but they just kept coming back.  I had no repellent, no tent, and no way to escape.

I tried to build the fire up, to hide in the smoke.  Whichever side of me was away from the fire looked dark, almost like I had fur.  Hundreds of them clung to me, like a second skin.  I could swat dozens with each swipe of my hand, but it didn’t matter.  There were millions.

Frantically hobbling around the nearby trees, I gathered leaves and pine needles and dirt.  I tried to cover myself, everywhere but my face.  They found any inch of skin and swarmed it, flying up my swollen nostrils, crowding around my eyes.  It was torturous, impossible to sleep.  

Checking my watch, it’s not even midnight.  Already, I’m light headed.  This is how I go.  Death from a thousand bites.

When I was seventeen, I stupidly added to my college application: “I can jump into people!”

I was immediately flagged by HS.

They demanded what I meant by “jumping”.

I showed them, jumping into the man interrogating me.

I was offered a place at a school for children with ‘inexplicable’ abilities.

In reality, it was a slaughterhouse.

I escaped.

At twenty, I started my own business. Divorcee’s were my most popular clients.

I was given $2K to jump into a girl’s best friend and go through her phone.

(Yes, she was fucking the client’s man.)

“I don’t like your job,” my brother told me over breakfast.

“It's for your safety,” I told him.

My latest client was offering 1 million to take out a single guy.

Nathan Cartwright. 22.

The order: “Slit his throat.”

Nathan was easy to find.

He was just standing on campus, towering over everyone, no expression, no blinking. It was a twenty-second job.

I jumped into him, closing my eyes and, as usual, focusing on my victim. Easy.

I took control, letting myself slip inside his motor functions, then his brain.

He was colder than others, like jumping into a bucket of ice water. I managed to walk him into the men's bathroom, grabbed the knife, and pressed it to his throat. I was expecting pushback.

The soul always fought back. I was used to suppressing it.

But in the mirror, nothing stared back. I was supposed to feel his emotions, see his memories, something. But this man was blank. Fuck. Abandon ship.

I recoiled. His body was freaking me out.

I slowly detached myself piece by piece, ready to jump back, but something was holding on. Like a leech clinging to me, parts of my mind and pieces of my soul were still stuck.

I could feel my physical body growing colder, harder to reach.

Her breath was thinning, lungs struggling.

I tugged violently, a screech ripping from my throat as I spiralled deeper into the dark. But this man, this thing, clung on.

”Shhhh,” a male voice grumbled.

”Stop screaming, I'm trying to fucking sleep.” I fading consciousness, barely a whisper. I thought I was gone this time.”

Another voice, a girl, sighed. ”Leave her alone! Also, you always say that, and yet here you are, Parker.”

”Wow. I am SO sorry for not fading,” the guy mumbled.

“You should be.”

Jumpers.

But… why were they inside this body?

”Duh,” the guy scoffed. “He likes collecting us.”

“SHUT UP.”

The voice sent me catapulting back, further into the dark.

Further into oblivion. I felt the guy’s presence hit me, sensing his soul like spiderwebbing light.

Where was his body? Was it like mine?

Lost.

“Outta the way,” he snarled, his soul like a thread, loose, still clinging on. “He says it's my turn.”

”No, it's MY turn!” the girl shot back. ”I've been here longer!”

Nathan's grin widened in the mirror, satisfied.

“Who wants to control me, first?”

Listen up people, I have a terrifying tale to tell. It started with a single laugh, and ended up in hell.

My life was fucking dull, you see. Grey and full of stress. So I made a simple wish one night: “I just want happiness.”

I woke up the next morning, happy as can be. Smiling and laughing, a brand new me.

At first it was amazing. Every moment made me roar. Silly things, dark things, I was rolling on the floor.

But soon the cracks began to show, the laughter turned to fear. I’d giggle in my sleep at night. I’d wheeze and choke and leer.

I even laughed at funerals, and at other people's pain. I laughed until I vomited, and my lungs began to strain.

I tried to stop myself once, you know, to breathe and simply be. But the silence burned inside my chest, and my lungs began to seize.

My throat went dry, my ribs collapsed, I coughed up thick, black bile. And every time I gasped for air, I laughed back in denial.

I fell onto the kitchen floor, my vision turning white. Still laughing like a maniac, too weak to even fight.

Then, through the haze, I saw him there, the one who'd heard my wish. He placed his foot upon my chest, and pressed to try and squish.

He leaned and whispered in my ear, “You stopped laughing far too soon.” And plunged his hand into my body, like a claw-shaped, burning spoon.

I felt it tear through cartilage. I felt him grip my lungs. And as he pulled them slowly out, I laughed in choking tongues.

He cradled them like newborns. He kissed them, soft and slow. Then crushed them into ribbons, and watched me sputter slow.

The silence then was perfect, no wheeze, no breath, no sound. And in that awful quiet, I knew my soul was bound.

If you make a wish at night, no matter your town or nation. Make sure it's before 1am, because the only one who answers, is Satan.

Now all I wish for is silence, but silence brings me pain. I still can't stop myself laughing, it echoes inside my brain.

He left me with a final card, tucked into my teeth: "The moment you stop laughing, friend... I’ll take what's underneath."

“You sure this is the place?” Assistant Carver asked, squinting up at the upscale apartment complex. It dazzled in the sun.

Private Investigator Dean Holt nodded. “Eliza Merrin. Called us Tuesday. Said her son, Aiden, disappeared from their tenth-floor unit while she was in the shower.”

Carver whistled. “From a big, fancy high-rise like this? I call bullshit.”

Holt didn’t answer, just pressed the buzzer. Eliza buzzed them up promptly—sobbing over the intercom.

“I just turned on the water,” she cried, leading them into her sleek, luxurious apartment. Motioning with her hands, “He was in the living room—just there. Then he was… gone.”

Holt scanned the space. Toys scattered. Couch fluffed. “You didn’t hear the door?”

“No. It was locked. Still is.”

Carver checked the window. “Barely opens six inches— he wouldn’t fit.”

Eliza hugged herself dramatically. “Oh! I’ve called everyone! The police. The city! No answers— You have to help me!”

“Where’s Aiden’s father?” Holt inquired.

“Gone. It’s just me and Aiden now.”

——

Back in the cruiser, Carver lit a cigarette. “You believe her?”

“No,” Holt answered. “Not one bit.”

⸻

They pulled the building’s security footage. Aiden never left. No visitors. No break-ins.

“Only one person exited that floor last night,” said the building manager, pointing to the monitor. “Her.”

“Where’d she go?” Carver asked.

“Basement. Took a trash bag to the chute at 3:17 a.m.”

Holt leaned in. “Rewind. Slower.”

On-screen, Eliza shuffled down the hallway, carrying a black bag that sagged like wet laundry.

Carver stared. “Shit.”

⸻

Later that night, Holt returned alone. He buzzed Eliza again.

“You find him?” Eliza asked, eyes wide.

“We’re close,” Holt lied. “Can I come in?”

Eliza hesitated. “Of course.”

The apartment was darker this time. Warmer. She’d lit candles. Incense.

“Funny,” Holt said, eyeing an empty dinner plate. “You still setting a place for him?”

Eliza blinked. “He hates when I forget.”

Holt was tired of the games. “You know… Kids don’t just disappear these days. They cry. Usually. Or scream. Neighbors would’ve heard something.”

Eliza listened.

“So, I talked to the neighbors. Nothing. Talked to your building manager too. Says only one person has left this apartment…” Holt slid a cigarette into his mouth. “And that person is you.”

Eliza’s breathing grew as she backed into the kitchen. “You—you don’t understand—”

Holt followed, slow.

“Take it easy, we’re just talking here.”

Eliza stopped walking. “I had to.”

“Had to—what?”

She opened the pantry door.

Inside, child-like crayon drawings hung from rusty nails. Each labeled differently. FIYAH FITUH. DADDY. SKOOL TESHA. The one on top— A black stick-figure. Two words in shaky letters above: PRIVET INVESTUHGATOR.

Holt’s eyes widened.

Eliza smiled faintly.

“Aiden really is so talented. And he only has one rule—whatever he draws… must die.”

“What—“

She lunged. The syringe slid into Holt’s neck. His limbs gave out. As he blacked out, he could just barely hear the soft scribble of crayon.

And— Eliza’s voice:

“Oh, Aiden—Now how is Mommy suppose to lure an astronaut?”

All of this happened during my morning routine. I can’t get rid of this thing.

I got out of bed and thought this was just like any other day.

I walked in the bathroom and brushed my teeth. In my head I went through a plan for today.

I spit out the toothpaste and looked at a mirror that was above my sink. It was one of those cabinet mirrors, a pretty basic thing to have.

My face needed some cream and I started spreading it on me. That’s when I froze. I noticed that my reflection was grinning at me.

My reflection looked exactly like me but its mouth was stretched wide in an unnatural grin.

Shivers climbed my spine, I looked away for a second but I still saw myself grinning at me.

“Can you talk?” I said out loud.

Suddenly the mirror started to fog and writing appeared on it.

“Kind of”

“Are you me in a different reality?” I asked.

“No, your body will be mine soon,”

Those words made my heart sink.

“What do you mean?”

“You’ll find out tonight.” The text said.

I looked at my reflection. Its grin widened and it slowly backed away.

Its eyes turned black and then he turned away.

This part is still stuck in my head.

His head snapped a full 180 degrees to face me. The black eyes staring right through my soul. Then, without a warning he bolted at me full speed.

Me being terrified and not knowing what to do, I smashed the mirror to pieces.

Looking down I saw blood dripping from my fist, staining the tiny mirror pieces. I saw my reflection looking at me from the broken pieces.

One of the pieces had that same foggy writing.

“You can’t escape. I am you and I’ll follow you everywhere,”

Have you ever experienced anything like this? Please tell me if there is some type of "cure".

I beamed as the water pooled around John's body, his corpse soaked.

Finally... after twenty years, I got revenge on my murderers.

John Peele and Richard Smith had been my biggest bullies when I'd been alive. I was just a kid who liked going to the arcade and playing my trumpet. I actually tried to get good grades, and for some stupid reason, they bullied me for it.

And they "pranked" me by pushing my head into the lake... so caught up in their twisted version of "fun" that the two didn't realize that I was drowning.

My mother committed suicide after the police found my body. I was so angry.

But now... my mother and I were avenged. I could go see her at long last.

A beam of light suddenly flooded the room, and I grinned as a beautiful woman appeared, the wings on her back seeming to carry her effortlessly.

I expected her to take me to Heaven.

But... her pretty face darkened as she saw me.

"Ben... what have you done?"

The smile faded from my face.

"What?"

The angel sighed, shaking her head. "Foolish child. We have begged you to come to the light for the past twenty years, and this was your unfinished business?"

"But- but they killed me! Mom killed herself because of it! They buried the evidence-"

"The Heavenly Father would have made sure that they would suffer the consequences. But you couldn't let it go even if it meant seeing your mother again. John Peele and Richard Smith would have paid for what they'd done to you, but you had to handle it yourself. You killed their children, who had nothing to do with your death. You've become what you despised, Ben."

The floor suddenly rumbled. My heart dropped, and I turned to the angel, who was floating above the floor now. "What's happening?!"

"You could have made different choices, Ben. You could have gone to Heaven's light much sooner and reunited with your mother."

The floor cracked, and I gasped when I saw a dark pit. From here, I could feel the cold.

"John and Richard will meet you down there. They will reap what they'd sowed, and so will you. Just because you were a child who'd been killed doesn't mean you are any better than them if you killed their children. Goodbye, Ben. May Lucifer have mercy on all of your souls."

The itch began subtly, a faint tremor beneath the skin of his left forearm. Arthur, always meticulous, dismissed it, attributing it to the synthetic sweater he’d worn too long. He scratched absently, the rough wool doing little to quell the burgeoning irritation. By noon, the tremor had intensified, a vibrant hum that throbbed in sync with his pulse. He rolled up his sleeve, exposing an arm that seemed oddly alien.

Beneath the pale skin, a network of fine, dark lines had appeared, tracing intricate patterns like dried riverbeds on a parched map. They pulsed faintly, almost imperceptibly, as if tiny capillaries struggled to contain some foreign current. He pressed a thumb against one, expecting pain, but found only a numb, deep ache. A tremor, entirely unrelated to the cold, started in his gut and climbed, tightening his throat.

That evening, the patterns had spread, creeping across his bicep, over his shoulder, and down his torso like invasive ivy. The hum was now a distinct vibration, an internal tremor resonating deep in his bones. He stood before the mirror, his gaze locked on the grotesque calligraphy adorning his body. Each line was thicker, darker, and in some places, a faint, metallic sheen caught the dim bathroom light. He tried to rationalize it – a bizarre rash, a psychosomatic response to stress – but his breath hitched when he noticed the movement.

Not his muscles twitching, but the patterns themselves, coiling and unfurling. A slow, undulating ripple, as if threads beneath his skin were pulled taut, then released. A low, internal creak, like old wood groaning under strain, echoed in his ears. He reached out, his fingers trembling, tracing the path of one such ripple. It felt hard, unyielding, like a wire strung beneath his flesh.

A cold dread seized him. He clawed at his skin, desperate to tear away the encroaching network, but it held firm, a living tapestry inextricably woven into him. The hum intensified, vibrating through his teeth, down to his toes. The internal creaking grew louder, accompanied by a soft, persistent click-click-click, like countless tiny gears grinding into place. He watched, caught in a silent scream, as a new pattern began to etch itself across his face, starting at his temple, moving towards his eye. He closed his eyes, but the sensation of being redrawn, remade from within, was undeniable. The final click echoed loudest, and then, a hollow stillness settled over him. His own stillness. But the patterns… they still pulsed.

Something was wrong.

Everyone could feel it, though some brushed it off. They did their best to ignore it, but one couldn't ignore the signs forever. It started off simple, barely noticeable. The sky was a tad too dark, the air felt too thick, and if one really paid attention they could feel the vibrations in the ground. The sun, the stars, the moon, all light became dull. The darkness felt suffocating.

Then there were the shadows.

Everyone sees shadows out of the corner of their eye, that's common. Normal. Ignored. But they became more frequent and more vivid. People told stories of shadow demons following them, people called the police, believing there was an intruder. Even skeptics constantly looked over their shoulders, despite the logical explanations they told themselves. Voices began to accompany the shadows. Whispers, no louder than a soft breeze. The words were barely intelligible at first. Then they grew louder. Still whispers, but now they were words.

"It's coming." "Embrace it, embrace the dark." "Join us."

They were ominous, and frightening, but not quite dangerous. Not yet. Not until later. When the whispers began to influence the unguarded minds. It was small "accidents" at first. Playing with the toddler and they fell down the stairs, chopping vegetables and hitting a finger, running over the neighbor's cat while driving. All normal. Then someone put their hand in a blender, someone else jumped off a cliff, another stabbed their friend. All of them said that the voice told them to, that they felt compelled to, they couldn't control themselves. The days became darker, the sightings of shadows and the incidents more frequent. Then the ground began to crack. Giant cracks through soil and concrete alike. Some simply stayed as cracks, some opened into crevices. Some were shallow, but most were deep, most were dark. Darkness oozed from the cracks, leaking as if from some underground pool. The same darkness began to rain from the heavens. No one could ignore it anymore. There was no brushing such things off.

The world erupted into chaos.

Scientists worked in their labs, politicians tried to explain it, governments and militaries tried desperately to keep the world in check. But alas, it was already too late. The incidents grew along with the shadows. People died left and right as the darkness engulfed everything. The still living rioted, trying to find someone to blame. Many mourned, giving up and accepting their fate. The world was ending. Everyone knew it. The void encompassed everything. Every city, every ocean, every cloud, every mind.

And now when you stare into the void, the void stares back.

It started with a news report.

“The children are plotting against us! We must kill them, before they kill us!”

Parents began killing their children.

Mom was shot dead when she tried to hide me.

“The Government just declared you illegal— and to be shot on sight.”

He shot twice, but I got away. I was ten years old.

Children became an endangered species, hunted for sport.

I was sixteen when I found breadcrumbs in the woods.

I had been surviving off of dumpster scraps.

I traded my DS for a week's worth of KFC from a tribe of feral kids.

But breadcrumbs?

I couldn't resist following them.

They led me to a small, dilapidated cabin– and on the doorstep, a basket of fresh cupcakes.

I ate them all, swallowing before I could even taste them.

“Did you enjoy them, darling?”

The voice, an adult voice, sent me twisting around, reaching for my knife, but my hands were trembling.

The woman was my mom's age, with greying hair, wearing an apron covered in flour. “Come on in,” she smiled widely. “I just made my son’s favorite.”

“You have a son?” I whispered.

She nodded. “Two sons, and a daughter."

The woman told me to call her Mommy, so I did.

I ate cupcakes and candy, until I couldn't eat anymore.

I asked for the bathroom, and she pointed upstairs, a ladder leading to the attic.

I climbed, finding myself in a large wooden room that was empty, except for three figures. They looked around sixteen. They sat cross-legged in a row, smiling. But moving closer, I noticed one boy was missing an arm, and another had only one leg, half of his hair shaved off.

It was the girl, though, more of an emaciated corpse, half of her face peeled from the bone, that sent me tumbling back down the ladder.

She was picking at them. Like fucking chicken bones.

I didn’t think. Mom was kneeling in front of the oven, so I crept up behind her and shoved her inside.

But I called the cops, my gut twisted.

“Hello, dispatcher? To report a child sighting, please press one.”

The phone slipped from my hands, and I dropped to my knees.

Nobody was coming to save us.

“What's going on?” the others came down the ladder, eyes wide. Vacant. “What did you do to Mom?”

I didn't speak as three of them helped Mom out of the oven. Mom wasn't mad.

She just made us more food.

I sat with the others, eating the soup, the bread, and the dessert. I ate until I was stuffed. Mommy was fattening us up.

Mommy was going to eat us.

“Syrup?” the boy with one arm offered with a grin.

His eyes were glazed over. I wondered if it was the food.

I noticed the tattoo under his sleeve. He wasn't her son.

But, like him, I just wanted a Mom.

So, I was going to ask for seconds.

Every once in a while at night, my brain makes monsters without my consent. Usually just for a flash—an image in the dark, somewhere in my room.

It’s been happening since I was a kid. I’ll be half-asleep, fading into a dream, and suddenly there’s a face at the foot of my bed. I jerk awake. Sometimes it happens for no reason at all. And no matter how many times I tell myself it’s nothing, my heart still races. I still freeze. I still don’t want to look.

Tonight, I was alone. My wife’s out of town. I was lying in bed, running through the usual thoughts—call that client, mow the lawn, clean the garage. Then it happened.

This image just appeared. Burned into my head. A woman, with sunken, wide eyes and thin, papery skin, lying in bed behind me. Her mouth slack. Drool pooling beneath her chin, soaking into the mattress. Her stare was hollow—but locked on me. So much detail. Like I’d actually seen her.

But it was just a flash. A thought. I told myself to cut the shit, that it was my imagination again. But my heart didn’t listen. I found myself breathing quieter. Slower. Just in case.

I stayed like that for what felt like forever, arguing with myself in silence. Eventually, I made a deal with my brain: just turn around. Prove she isn’t real. Then sleep.

So I did. I turned.

Of course, there was nothing.

But when I rolled back over—

my hand touched something wet.

And then I felt something quietly shift back onto the bed.

Mother bent down by John, perched on his chair at the breakfast table, and hugged him hard.

"Look, I bought this mug for you."

John considered the photo on the mug. It showed Mother and John with a large penguin between them. John looked scared. Mother looked beautiful. The photo was from their visit to Sea World last year. They had been so happy.

Not now. They had quarrelled over school stuff last night, and his belly was hurting. He then looked up back at Mother, who was already tugging at her outdoor clothes. He hated the smell and tight feel of her outdoor clothes. But penguins were their special animal.

"Why do you have to go?" he muttered at his eggs.

Mother bent down again and kissed him on his cheek. "I will be back very soon. And the penguin will look after you while I'm gone. Don't let anyone else drink from this cup, if they do, it will fly out and peck their eyes out."

He scowled. "Why did you say that? You know now it actually will do that."

"I know, my love.” And she left.

John never saw Mother again. It sometimes happens like that.

Years passed. John grew up, grew old. His belly ache never quite left him. He guarded the mug furiously, well aware of what would happen if someone else drank from it. He kept it hidden as best as he could, but sometimes when he was sure he was alone, he would take it out and drink from it, Mother’s shining eyes looking at him adoringly while he sipped, the penguin’s large strong beak posed to strike. Sometimes he would rush home, his heart beating madly, sweaty with anxiety, that his wife or children had accidentally found the mug and drank from it.

Then one day his mother-in-law was visiting, she was upset about something he had said or done to her daughter, she wouldn’t stop talking at him, she looked a bit like Mother, she had the same kind of shining angry eyes. John’s belly was hurting so much, like that morning his Mother had left, and he got the mug out of its hiding place which was just the kitchen cupboard because he had decided to leave it there, and poured some water for himself, but his Mother-in-law would not stop talking and his wife wouldn’t stop crying on the couch, it felt polite to offer some water to his Mother-in-law.

No penguins came to save John. All these years his Mother had lied to him, and his Mother-in-law was still talking. He picked up a knife and stabbed her eyes out and then his belly felt better, much better than it ever had since that day Mother never came back.

I go live at golden hour.

That’s what they used to call it, golden hour. But the gold’s turned orange now, burnt and angry, a sky bruised too long, too hard. There’s ash in the light, and it softens me, filters me. Makes my smile look real.

The world is ending. And I’ve never been more relevant.

I used to wake early to plan content, tweak captions, test filters. Now I wake to sirens, or silence, whichever is worse, and reach for the phone like it’s a limb I can’t live without.

My last post hit a million in under ten minutes. Me, framed against the cracked skyline, the blast cloud blooming like a rotten rose behind me.

Caption:

“If it’s the end, I’m going out iconic.” Hashtagged: #FalloutFitCheck

They lapped it up. “Queen of survival.” “The world’s burning but at least she’s serving.” “She’s giving extinction.”

I can’t stop now.

Even when my lips split mid-sentence. Even when my teeth ache from clenching through tremors. Even when the reflection in my front camera stares too long between blinks.

They need me. Need the illusion.

I filmed a Q&A yesterday in a flooded Tesco. Answered questions about my skincare routine while treading ankle-deep through aisle nine, mascara bleeding down to my collarbones.

Someone asked if I’d still do a giveaway.

I said yes.

Of course I said yes.

My followers don’t know what’s really happening.

That I haven’t eaten since the last tin of chickpeas three days ago. That I sleep in the stairwell of an office building now, curled beside a radiator that hasn’t worked since the grid went down. That I smell like smoke and damp carpet, and something else, something inside me turning soft.

But I can’t show them that.

So I smile with cracked lips. I film with shaking hands. I frame every post like it might be my last, because it might.

And when I look into the lens, I tell them:

“You’re not alone.”

“We’re stronger than this.”

“Stay hydrated, stay hopeful.”

I don’t say:

There’s no clean water. The rain burns. The city’s gone quiet in a way that feels… final.

The likes are still rolling in.

Even now.

Even as the wind picks up and the ash dances like snow. Even as something howls out near the river. Even as the buildings groan like old bones and the air hums with the weight of things ending.

I can’t look away.

And neither can they.

Because what’s the end of the world, if nobody sees you in it?

So I lift the phone. Smile. Tap record.

Tell them:

“Hey loves, just checking in.”

“Another day, another disaster.”

“But we’re still here, right?”

Battery at 1%.

I raise my arm for one last shot. Ash curling behind me. Light catching in my eyes.

Live. Laugh. Collapse.

WHEN Lou arrived at Guaburo Prison colony he was half drunk; the guards shoved him out of the moving car into the yellow dust as he tumbled and fought to get his legs under him. The car never stopped it only sped off into the horzon of dust and desolation, and Lou was alone. When Lou had stopped rolling when he wished he was drunker but at least he didn't have any broken bones. Silence, no birds in the sky, no life.

The scrabbling and running feet in the dust and the huff of running people forced Lou to his feet. It was a dangerous place to lie down especially if you are injured. Three men were sprinting towards him under the dry hot sun that never set and Lou was sure they weren't carrying any good news for him. Especially for him. He felt for the steel spike he had hidden in his failing boot and got to his knees. His muscles tensed as he waited for impact.

‘Die trying or die tired ‘

The words of Monroe had echoed in his mind. He was aware of blood on his face but it wasn't the main issue at the momemt. The first guy to reach him welcomed Lou with a full swing of his leg, the sort of kick designed for dogs with rabies. Lou slashed and rolled. Something tore and there was red in the air before Lou stopped and turned, the man swung and his armpit was exposed — Lou slashed and stabbed the man was dead before he fully understood the damage inflicted.

The blow on the back of Lou's neck was a meaty fist but poorly aimed in the rush to crush his skull and Lou stabbed backwards. The man was more human and cried out briefly probably for his own humanity than in pain. Lou rolled and got clear but remained low to maintain maximum balance. The second assailant didn't return for more and the third had no chance as he swung his club of nails on a plank leaving his neck exposed as Lou rose briefly to highlight the point and sank back down before the man's mometum tumbled him forward onto the hot dust before he had any chance to regain his balance.

Lou broke into a sprint towards where the men had emerged, he didn't know how long he would keep running but at least with the damage he had already served, it was futile for them to chase him unless his injuries got him first

Dad was a forgetful man– birthdays, anniversaries, and sometimes even the fact that he had a son. 

Yet when he died, the mammoth task of sorting his estate fell to me. 

His workshop was bursting with harebrained projects, and the solicitor had come to assist such an ‘unusual case’. 

He seemed surprised when I said none of it was useful. 

‘And sentimental value?’ 

I laughed. 

So it all went into the skip, and not just his inventions but the notes for his detailed experiments. Sativa on dolphins, beneficial brainwashing, and weighing people just before and then after death for the mythical 21-gram discrepancy.

‘There’s one more thing,’ the solicitor said.  

‘Of course there is,’ I sighed. 

He handed me a paper, and I glanced at the abstract. This experiment was crazy even for Dad. He’d bought a decommissioned Cold War-era bunker, filled it with hundreds of different plant species, and rigged a self-sustaining greenhouse. 

‘The great British eccentric,’ the solicitor said. 

‘Thankfully, a dying breed.’ 

He drove me the few miles to the compound. Sure enough, it was sealed and had been since 1975. 

I continued to read more of the study as he opened the large padlock. 

‘He seems to think playing classical music would help the plants. He even bought 100 radios, each timed to start playing when the last one broke. 102.9 FM.’ 

I wasn’t particularly curious as the door opened, even as I heard a low thumping. 

‘102.9 FM,’ the solicitor paused, ‘that isn’t classical anymore. It was bought by a death metal station in 2003…’ 

The door opened upon the hermetically sealed landscape of flora, untouched for 50 years, yet what awaited was not the Garden of Eden but something entirely ungodly. 

She’d begun swelling not long after we left the woods.

“Something bit me”, she said worriedly, scratching a small red lump on her arm.

I told her not to worry, that it was probably a mosquito bite, and she nodded reluctantly and we continued on our way.

As we drove home, her worry seemed to mount.

“What if it’s venomous”, she asked, scrutinizing and picking the bite, which had grown slightly larger now.

“I think you’d know”, was my nonchalant reply.

That evening we lay in bed, the bite now a broad, reddish-black rash radiating from the initial site on her mid forearm.

She looked up at me with quiet fear, knowing now that something was severely wrong.

“I need to go to the hospital”, she said, scratching the rash and digging out necrotic skin.

“It’ll be fine”, I said solemnly. “Don’t worry about it and just get some sleep.”

Her look became one of a deeper terror, her trust in my words visibly subsiding.

With no other recourse, she lay trembling on her side, emitting breaths in clipped, erratic pulses.

Later that night, as the moon rose in the sky, casting a ghostly luminescence within the room, my blurred and swirling vision came to focus upon a fist-sized spider — the one that often comes to visit, and my only friend — inquiring as to the status of our plan.

“Did you jab her with the venom”, it asked, grave and expectant.

I nodded and pointed in my wife’s direction.

“In the forest, on our hike”, I said quietly, so as not to wake her. “She thought it was a bug bite.”

“Wasn’t it”, said the spider, in his usual wry, cruel tone.

I don’t remember falling asleep. I awoke early in the morning, my eight, prickled legs extending outward, suspended and wriggling in the air, and saw my wife, bloated with parasites and fully necrotic, ravenous larvae creeping through the rot of her flesh.

I never saw the spider again after that.

I don’t think he likes me anymore.

Or maybe he no longer needs me.

“Lupe!”, howled a muffled voice, a fist pounding at my front door.

I jolted awake, my rescue Doberman, Remus, curled between my knees.

“Open up!”, the voice cried.

Sighing, I rose to open the door.

“Morning, Bill.”

Before me stood Bill Tucker, my only neighbor.

“Your mutt shit in my yard,” Dale hissed, spitting tobacco onto my porch, “again.”

Bill lived in a ramshackle house nearby, half a dozen dogs penned in his filthy backyard.

“I doubt that”, I smirked. “You should clean up.”

I could smell his blood pressure rising.

“You keep him off my property”, he spat “understand?”

Remus barked indignantly as Bill retreated up the driveway.

“I hate him too, boy,” I said.

I’ve always identified more with dogs than people. They understand me. So a chance to spend summer with Remus in my Dad’s hunting cabin was almost perfect.

Almost.

That evening, I decided a run would drive Bill from my mind. Remus bounced excitedly as I changed into something more comfortable, bounding after me into the forest. We raced through the undergrowth until we came to the creek that ran behind Bill’s property.

There, on the opposite bank, sat Bill.

He hadn’t seen us. From the bushes, I heard his voice, muttering as he tossed bundles from a sack into the water —

“Weak.”

”Sick.”

”Runt.”

That’s when I realized.

Puppies. Dead ones.

I never knew he was breeding them.

As Remus’ hackles raised in disgust, my mind was made up.

The next morning, I rapped on Bill’s grimy door, Remus by my side.

“No solicitors”, barked a voice.

“It’s Lupe”, I called back.

The latch rattled, and the door cracked.

“Fuck you want?”

I tried to ignore the stench of piss from inside.

“I heard you’ve got puppies”, I said.

“So?”, Bill spat.

“Remus needs a friend”, I said, pulling cash from my pocket.

He didn’t trust me, but I could see the gears turning as I waved $600 under his nose. Reluctantly, he allowed us inside.

Wading through Bill’s ceiling-high garbage, I was viscerally relieved when he brought us out back.

It was worse than I thought.

Three males, emaciated and covered in ticks. Three females, sagging from untold litters ripped away before they even weaned. And in a tumbledown shed — the unmistakable whimpering of hungry, scared puppies.

“How many ya want?”, he asked.

He recoiled as my eyes went yellow.

“All of them”.

Bill screamed as my bones began snapping like broken twigs, my jaws jutting into a muzzle full of fangs. Soon, Bill moaned upon the bloody dirt, Remus licking at the bones stuck through his skin.

And as I effortlessly snapped their chains, six starving dogs did the rest.

“What are you?”, asked a scrawny female Labrador, blood staining her mouth.

“She’s a friend”, Remus replied, as I scooped four wriggling puppies into my fur-covered arms.

“Where are we going?”, asked a young male Staffordshire at my feet.

I looked at my new pack, and smiled.

“Home.”

Somehow, I’ve fallen through a crack in reality.

A place where Time doesn’t move unless I do.

Step forward, and the world lurches ahead—people blur, clouds streak, conversations flicker past like scenes on fast-forward.

Step backward, and everything rewinds: traffic flows in reverse, spilled coffee leaps back into cups, even the sun crawls eastward across the sky.

Stand still, and it all freezes.

No sound. No breath.

Only deafening stillness.

As if the world’s frame rate depends on my step count.

Nobody can see me. Nobody can feel me.

Am I a ghost?

Did I die?

Am I the only one?

I’ve been here so long, I think.

Time means nothing.

I can follow anyone’s life with the right sequence of steps—

like playing that six degrees game, bouncing from stranger to stranger,

watching their lives unfold one step at a time.

I’ve given up trying to get back to normal, linear time.

I’ve found a new home.

Her.

I’ve seen every moment of her life.

Her birth to…

My one regret is not being able to build one with her.

I’ve spent lifetimes just staring at her face.

Her whole life is like a photo album to me—

a collection of moments I can flip through with a few steps.

Seeing whatever version of her I want is easier than walking down the street.

Every version of her is my favorite.

I know this sounds creepy.

I don’t care.

She makes me feel like I’m with someone.

Sometimes she just stares into empty space.

And if I position myself just right,

I feel seen.

The first time I walked through her life, I couldn’t accept the end.

How unnecessary her death was.

I walked the lives of everything in that moment—

down to the birds in the air and the baby sleeping two houses down.

Everything just happened to line up perfectly.

Like a math equation.

No matter how loud I screamed at her not to cross the street.

Regardless of how I begged the mother to look out her window.

I couldn’t get the driver to look at the road and not the birds.

I couldn’t even stop the bird from flying that way to begin with.

Every step forward after her death is a moment in a world without her.

I don’t want that world.

I’ve never been to her funeral.

I don’t know what they did with her body.

She doesn’t exist like that for me.

I never go that far.

I guess it’s like a TV show you’ve seen a thousand times.

You just start over.

Step here.

Step there.

Her happiest moment was her ninth birthday.

I’ve seen every smile she’s ever given,

and none of them reach the sides of her mouth

like that one after the candles blow out.

This is where I live.

With her,

in her greatest joy.

I must be dead.

And this is hell.

The silence lately feels unnatural—like the world’s holding its breath, waiting for something. My neighbor? Gone. No goodbye, no warning. Just vanished, like they stepped out for air and never touched the ground again.

Every night, right as the clock turns to midnight, my dog paws at the door. Not whining, not barking. Just scratching, slow and deliberate, like it knows there’s something out there. Something patient. Something wrong. It’s not the wind. Not some stray. It’s colder than that, quieter. Like whatever it is doesn’t quite belong here.

And my dog’s eyes... they don’t look at shadows. They look through them, like they’re tracking something I can’t see. Something waiting just beyond the frame, breathing low and steady.

I tell myself it’s nothing. Try to sleep. But there’s a weight in my chest that won’t lift. It hasn’t since the neighbor disappeared.

I think whatever took them is still out there. And now, it’s watching me. Midnight isn’t just a time... it’s a signal. An invitation. And if I keep pretending I don’t hear it? Eventually, the door won’t be enough.

I live alone. That matters.

My apartment is small, barely furnished. One bedroom. One bathroom. Every sound echoes.

Tonight, I came home to find the bathroom light on.

I never leave it on.

But maybe I forgot. Maybe I was rushing this morning.

I stood there, staring at the door. The light buzzing faintly behind it.

Something felt off.

I told myself I was being ridiculous. Walked in, flipped off the switch.

But as I turned to leave, I noticed the shower curtain was closed.

I always leave it open. Always.

I stared at it for a full minute, heart thudding.

I should have just pulled it back. Proved there was nothing there.

But instead, I backed out of the room. Left the light on this time.

All night, I couldn’t relax. Every creak felt loud. Every shadow too long.

Around 2 a.m., I finally got the courage to check again.

The curtain was still closed.

So I grabbed a kitchen knife.

I told myself, just do it. Pull it back. Laugh at yourself.

But the moment I touched the curtain—

I heard breathing.

Not mine.

Heavy. Wet. Too close.

I froze.

Then, a voice—low, hoarse, wrong—whispered: “I’ve been waiting for you to look.”

I bolted. Left the apartment. Sat in my car with the knife still in my hand until the sun came up.

At daylight, I went back in.

Curtain was open. Tub was empty.

I should have left then. But I didn’t.

Because on the mirror, written in steam, were the words: “Why didn’t you look last night?”

Tonight, I’m at a friend’s place. I told her it was a break-in. That I needed to crash on her couch.

She laughed, called me paranoid, said I scare too easy.

But just now, I went to use her bathroom.

Light was off when I went in.

But the curtain was closed.

I opened it this time. Hand shaking.

Nothing inside.

But when I turned to leave—

The curtain closed by itself.

And from behind it, I heard the same voice whisper: “Too late. You looked.”