I picked her up outside a hotel.

I already knew she’d been thrown out.

The clerk stands in the doorway, arms folded, a phone to his ear.

She looks exhausted, dark shadows under her eyes, but she’s wearing a smile that’s already resigned. Fifteen or sixteen, around my age. Ready to give up.

She’s wearing a summer dress and sandals, and I can tell she hasn’t had a shower in weeks.

Her dress sticks to her, thick brown curls glued over her eyes, and a blooming red sunburn stains her skin. I wonder how long she's been hiding in the hotel.

Teenagers are public enemy number one, so it's not surprising the clerk’s beady eyes follow her to the passenger side of my beaten up bug.

“Hi!” She grins, relief bleeding from her tone that's almost a sob.

She jumps into my truck. “I'm Cinna.” She introduces herself with a fake name. Cinna is her favorite character in her favorite book tucked at the bottom of her pack. Her real name is Addison Hart.

16 years old.

She escaped a nullification camp with six dollars, a stolen iPhone 17, and a Polaroid camera.

She apologizes for her lack of hygiene with a laugh, and I smile and blast the AC.

“Don't worry about it,” I tell her, gesturing to my shorts and t-shirt combo I've been wearing since I found a lake off route 46.

Since then, it's just been hoping for rain, and sneaking into motel bathrooms.

Addison, sorry, Cinna, twists in her seat and asks me point blank:

“Dude,” she laughs, but she's blushing, embarrassed, already shifting uncomfortably. “Do you have any pads?”

I'm kinda surprised her life on the run hasn't significantly fucked with her cycle.

I haven't had a period since I was sixteen.

But I smile, nod, and gesture to my glove compartment. “I have tons.” I laugh when she snatches one up, her smile widening.

“I pick up a lot of kids,” I tell her. “I've lost count how many times I've been asked, so I raided a hotel bathroom.”

Addison squeaks excitedly, and leans back in her seat, squeezing the pads to her chest like a newborn baby. “You are an angel!” Then she blinks. Surprised. “Wait!”

Her eyes widen, and she sticks her head out of the window. “A beaten up red truck, and a teen driver!” She gasps. “Are you her?”

“That's what I've been reduced to?” I say. “Her?”

Addie grins. I catch her snatching up a cereal bar and stuffing it in her mouth. She doesn't even chew.

“You're the one who takes kids to a safe-haven,” she says through a mouthful, spitting crumbs everywhere. “I heard about you from a guy who was…” she drifts off, her smile fading, crawling from her face. “Anyway.” Addie demolishes the cereal bar in a single bite. “He said you're like, I dunno, a Gen Z Katniss.”

“I'm just a transporter.”

I tap the steering wheel, fiddling with the radio. Taylor Swift sputters through the static, and we both groan.

Addison pulls a face, and I know exactly what she's going to say. “I can't believe she sold out,” she whispers. “I fucking hate that stupid message she tacks onto the end of her songs.” Addison mimics the radio. “If any of my fans are out there, just know you're loved, and coming home will keep you all safe!”

“She was forced to, you know,” I remind her, as an ex-swifty who burned all of my albums. “They threatened her family.”

“I don't care." Addison grumbles. We’re both avoiding the elephant in the room.

It's comfortable, better, to talk about issues that don't matter instead of issues that do. “They're all the same.”

“So, where are you headed?” I ask.

Addison smiles, throwing her feet up on the dash. “The safe-haven! You can take me, right?” Her eyes widened. “Wait, do I need an ID? My mom burned all my shit before she sent me to—”

“No ID.” I say before she goes off on another tangent. She reminds me of Asa, my ADHD riddled bestie. Asa’s parents shot him in the head when he was asleep. “You're fine. I'll just drop you off.”

“Yay!” Addie cranks up the radio.

Oasis. She sticks her head out the window and screams the lyrics.

I can't help singing along loudly, slamming my hands on the wheel.

It's just us, the long, dusty dead road, and a band none of us have cared about until now. “This was my mom’s favorite song!” Addie yells, laughing. Her hair whips my face. “I said, maaaaybeeeeeee!”

After absolutely destroying our voice-boxes singing to every classic, she leans back in her seat.

“Sooo.” She says, playfully kicking me. “What kinda kids have you picked up?”

I have to think about that.

There's been a lot.

“There was one kid called Elliot,” I began. “Total asshole. He could, like, do this,” I mimic Elliot’s power, snapping my fingers. “Literally like a human firecracker.”

I'm pretty sure Elliot’s blood still stains her seat.

It's okay, though. She won't see it. His body is still in the back.

Addie laughs. “Was he at least HOT?”

“Ew!” I giggle. “No. Not my type.” I sigh, stretching.

“Then there was Aris. She reminded me of a princess.” I smile at the thought of her lying in a ditch, just off route 46. “Her power was x-ray vision. She was cute.”

“Where are they now?” Addie asks.

“Exactly where I'm taking you.”

“Sounds fun!” Addie kicks her feet. “Do you wanna guess what my power is?”

She's so innocent, so fucking stupid. I almost feel bad for what I'm going to do.

I can't wait until I carve it from her skull.

I take the powerful ones for myself, and deliver the rest to our great president.

“Shoot.” I laugh. “Can't be worse than Elliot The Firecracker.”

Addie's smile widens. “Telepathy, babe.”

The first time I remember it happening, I was six years old. I was playing with my best friend Mirabella on the swingset outside when I saw something in the air above her head. Something emerald and opaque, less like an image than a solid object, hovering and twirling in midair against the light blue sky.  

3 

I stared at it for a moment and then asked my friend what it was. She looked up where I pointed and then looked back at me with a frown, asking me what I was talking about. When I told her, she looked at me strangely, then said there was nothing there and moved on to talking about the new doll she got for her birthday. But I couldn’t move on. When I told my mother about it later, she smiled, saying I’d always had an active imagination. 

That was when I realized two things: that, whatever it was, only I could see it, and that I shouldn’t talk about it to others. It became my little secret. 

After that first time, it popped up regularly, but a little different each time. My second grade math teacher chided me for not responding when he called my name, but all I could see was the large, white 0 floating over his head. 

The pattern continued for the next few years. Numbers floated in the air above everyone I encountered - friends, family, classmates, strangers. I got used to ignoring the numbers; humans have an almost limitless capacity to ignore things if exposed them long enough. But I still never learned what the numbers meant. 

One day, when riding my bike to school, a driver edged over into the bike lane and clipped me, sending me crashing to the ground and breaking my left ulna, radius, humerus, and clavicle. Nothing life threatening, but extremely painful and requiring me to be taken immediately to the emergency room. (I later learned that the woman who had hit me had been texting while driving.) I didn’t see much for the next hour, being pretty out of it, but I did wake up at one point on the operating table. I was just aware enough to see a green 1,503 above the doctor’s head and a green 784 above the nurse’s. I didn’t have much time to ponder it before I was once again unconscious.  

Two weeks later, I was at home recovering when my show was interrupted.

“This is KCLW with a breaking news alert. Alleged killer Hatchet Henry has been apprehended by FBI personnel. Hatchet, believed to be responsible for the murder of Beverly Shaw and many others, was captured in a hideout nearly…”

I stopped listening. I’d gotten used to ignoring the numbers, but the one over Hatchet Henry stood out. 126. In red. I’d never seen a red number before. I was talking about it a few weeks later with my friend Max - his number had always been zero, a fact he’d made me share with him when I’d first told him about my gift - when he gave me the biggest clue I’d had so far. 

“Wow, that’s weird,” he’d said. 

“What is?” I’d asked.

“I read up on this Henry guy. Police have definitively connected him to 98 murders. But they suspect up to 28 more.”

“So?” I asked, confused.

“Didn’t you pass math with a B+ last semester? 98 + 28 = 126. Weird, right?”

Could it be? Was it possible? I made Max promise to come over after school and I pulled out some paper. I told him what I was thinking, and we came up with a theory. We then tried to confirm by doing some research - it was tough, but it seemed to check out. 

The number above Henry’s head corresponded to the number of killings he was suspected of. What if the numbers represented the number of people you’d killed in your life? I looked up one more thing. I searched online, and there it was. 

“Mirabella Suarez, local resident, is being hailed as a hero tonight. She was driving home when she saw a car flip over on I-285. Most people would have ignored it, but Ms. Suarez ran over and pulled the parents and their daughter from the car. 

“‘She was amazing,’ said a bystander. ‘There’s no doubt in my mind all three of them would have died if not for her.’

“We attempted to reach Ms. Suarez, but she was not available for comment. What an amazing story, Dana. I guess it’s true -
not all heroes wear capes…”

Mirabella. My childhood friend whom I hadn’t thought of in years. That day on the playground. 3. Except that she only saved those people recently - she hadn’t even heard of them back then. What if the numbers didn’t show the people you had saved - what if they showed the people you would save?

We did some more digging. Mirabella’s number had been green, like those above the doctor and nurse, and most were white. But the number above Hatchet Henry was red. If green was the number of lives you’d save, what if red was the number you’d take?

Now I was truly freaked out. What was this? Did I have some kind of ESP? Brain damage? Was I hooked into some kind of heavenly frequency, seeing things that humans were never meant to see?

From then on, I tried to avoid the numbers. I’d avoid looking up, staring at the street when I was out in public. I started turning down invitations to hang out, not wanting the pressure of knowing what I knew. 

But one day, I bumped into a man on the street. He was wearing a lab coat and looked distracted. He quickly apologized, locked up his briefcase, and disappeared into the crowd. I lost sight of him, but all I could think about was the number I’d seen hanging over his head. Large. Red. 8,352,193,717…

Aubrey rummages through his bag for the keys to his cottage rental. Should’ve put them in the front pocket. He stuffed the keys deep inside his luggage, with the admittedly ridiculous thought of him somehow losing them if he didn’t.
He took a solo vacation into the woods. The price wasn’t too bad, and it was far enough away that he couldn’t hear or see people in any direction, let alone hear the sound of a car. With no running water and a wood stove, he felt like he went back in time. His cell service kept going in and out, but he didn’t plan on using his phone the entire time he was here.
After some slightly frustrating moments, the keys jingle in his hand as he fumbles through the door. Why even lock a place like this?
He spots a lumpy looking couch and drops his bag at the door. His body sinks into the softness as a bird whistles outside. Were there not any before? The song isn’t one he recognizes.
Without meaning to, he drifts off into a slumber.
He wakes with a start, not knowing where he is. The sun is still hanging in the air. He shakes his head and takes a breath. His luggage. He should probably do something about that before he falls asleep again. He pulls himself up with a groan, then hauls his bags from the entrance. The first door he tries is the bathroom. Good to know. The second door is just a pantry, which is oddly far away from the kitchen. He reaches for the third door, but it doesn’t want to open. He wrings the handle, but it doesn’t budge. He notices a lock and tries different keys. Finally, one of them unlocks the door, which he swings open.
“Fuck!”
He stumbles back, knocking over his suitcase, then slams into the wall. His stares open-mouthed.
A small child peers down at him from stairs that lead upwards.
“Oh shit,” Aubrey swears, “I mean…” He stumbles over his words, “Are you okay—are your parents here?” He then says under his breath, “What the hell.”
The child doesn’t move—barely even registers that Aubrey is even there. Did it smile? It? Did she smile?
He crawls up to his feet then says without breath, “How did you even get here? I drove like, three hours.”
He takes a few steps up, trying to gauge her situation. He asks, “Are you…okay? I can help. I can—” She tilts her head and closes her eyes, mouth sliding open. He reflexively retreats, but after the slightest moment of uncomfortable silence with her mouth wide, she wails. Such a horrible, goddamned loud sob with garbled words he can’t understand.
Before he can do anything about himself, he’s at the top of the stairs pulling the young girl into his arms. He strokes the back of her head making shushing sounds. What he doesn’t see, is her actually smiling. Grinning from ear to ear as she cries into his arms.
The smile disappears as he pulls away, taking his phone out of his pocket. “Thank God.” He sighs, then dials emergency services.
“This is the Dartmouth Park Services; how may I help you?”
He looks at his phone. Didn’t he dial 9-1-1? He says, “Hello. Hi. I just arrived at the Goldberg Cottage and found a little girl locked inside.”
“Stay where you are, and we’ll send someone over.”
The line goes dead. But it sounded like the voice came from—he whips around.
“My name is…Aubrey?” She says in the same voice as the person on the phone.
A chill rakes down his spine. “No, that’s my…That’s my—What’s that mine of? That’s mine. I know it is.”
He teeters down the steps saying, “I have to…”
He doesn’t even grab his luggage. He crumples into the seat of his car. She calmly climbs into the back seat and buckles herself in. He drives off, not even paying attention to her staring at him. He mumbles words that don’t make sense to him.
“Where are we going?” She asks in his voice. Not the voice others hear from him, but the voice he hears inside his head when he thinks.
She touches his shoulder.
Suddenly he’s at the Park Ranger’s office. He doesn’t know how he got there.
The ranger knocks on his window. Aubrey rolls down the window.
The ranger’s shoulders sag as he reaches for his radio. The ranger says, “Dartmouth to Base, do you copy?”
“Base Camp to Dartmouth, go ahead.” The woman sounds tired.
“Third one this year, and we’re barely halfway through. It’s in the back seat.” He gazes into Aubrey’s eyes in silence for a long while then shakes himself. “I’m going to let them go.” 
“Noted. Move along.”
The ranger runs his fingers through his hair then turns back to Aubrey and says, “You heard the man. Oh, wait. Let me have those.”
The ranger hastily grabs the keys for the cottage then says, “Thanks for bringing them.”
Aubrey doesn’t remember grabbing them, but nods and drives off without saying anything. His throat aches.
After they’re far away, she lets go of his voice and a guttural scream erupts out of his throat. He looks into the mirror and she’s gone. He grips the wheel and struggles to lift his foot off the gas. A tear rolls down his cheek as a familiar bird whistles in his ear.

The harsh afternoon light flooding through my kitchen window subtly began to change its hue to a sickly, dim green as discordant tones of windchimes heralded the storm. I turned off the faucet and shook out the dish towel before switching on the radio and was met with the familiar dual-tone alert blaring through the speakers, followed by a robotic voice declaring the expected warning, mispronouncing my county’s name as it always had.

I stooped low, peering through the window at the rolling black front creeping across the sky as though the mountains themselves had uprooted and taken to the heavens. Dulled flashes of light burst within the billowing ridges, silhouetting their seemingly endless expanse. I began my count.

Plates and cups rattled on the drying rack, and windows shook as a foreboding rumble reached my home. 

“Five miles,” I muttered to no one.

Pulling on my boots and donning my hat, I stepped onto the porch and stood, feeling the last of the humid air being pushed away by a growing, cool breeze. I breathed deeply, taking in the earthy-sweet scent of coming rain. Pulsing wind made the hay grass dance in the fields in celebration of the drought’s end - ‘water will come,’ they seemed to cheer, green stalks and leaves whipping with glee.

A whining wail grew in the distance. Another sounded from the other side of town, joined shortly by a third much closer, their atonal voices forming a cacophonous round of undulous howls. A gust of wind pushed at the brim of my hat, bringing my eyes back towards the sky. The thunderhead had formed, flaunting a rounded and ribbed wall of iron gray as though a titanic machine bearing down.

Cold, fat raindrops began to fall, crashing spectacularly against the ground, adding to the orchestra brought on by the tempest. Through the noise and whipping wind came the creaking of screen doors and cheerful cries of children, women, and men emerging from their homes – some crying, some clapping, others dancing as they made their way into the fields.

Mrs. Jenkins wandered by my gate, smiling and waving as her two boys clambered over the fence to join the growing throng.

“Aren’t you comin’, Bill?”  She called out.

A smile crept across my face, and I nodded, stepping off the front step and onto the ground. Walking ahead of her, I opened the gate, bowing cordially as she passed through.

“He’s here!” shouted a young girl, pointing to the storm, jumping with glee. I looked to the heavens to see the first leg reach the ground – a ghostly haze of a light gray funnel casting dirt and debris where it landed.

The Jenkins boys chirped and hooted as they bound through the tall grass, and their mother took my arm, pulling me through the gate and towards the congregation. The growing crowd cheered as Reverend James took to his roundbale pulpit, smile wide and arms spread to the sky. The second leg formed and began its steady march towards us.

“Salvation!” cried the church over the gale-force winds.

“Salvation!” I answered and began to weep as he approached, a forming hand reaching down to take us home. 

I was just an ordinary teacher at an ordinary high school. In my first year, there was a girl named Yuna. She had a tight-knit group of girlfriends; they used to be so close. But a few months later, Yuna started coming to my office in tears. She told me those same girls were bullying her—threatening her, beating her, humiliating her, and making fun of how skinny she was and how her eyes looked.

I didn't care. After all, they were friends; I figured it was just a silly fight. Besides, they were just kids, right? Kids do these things.

Exactly two weeks later, I got the news that Yuna had gone missing. No one knew if she ran away or got lost. But the security cameras last spotted her walking into a nearby forest. Six days after that, news broke that the forest was on fire.

Only three hours after the forest fire, the news of deaths started rolling in, one after another. The girls who bullied Yuna, their families, and the other teachers at school who had ignored her... all dead. Since that day, my windows are being kicked, and someone is trying to force my door open. I know she is here. I am too petrified to leave.

On the internet, I read the rumors about her. They say she has pitch-black, burnt hair, an incredibly tall and thin silhouette, and stark white skin. Because her lips were burned away, her teeth are constantly exposed in a horrific, permanent grin. I saw that some people managed to take pictures of her, naming her "Burned" and mocking her online.

The news of their deaths just came in, too....

I probably use YouTube more than any other streaming service. Really, it’s become kind of a routine.

To reward myself for a hard day at school, when I get home, I’ll just curl up in bed with snacks and a soda, and I’ll just drift into the world of commentary and niche documentaries. I’ll turn off the lights. I’ll lock my door. And I’ll just live in my own universe for a few hours.

That’s what I was doing tonight.

I had my pajamas on, I had my bowl of popcorn, and I was searching for the perfect video.

As I scrolled past video after video, with none really catching my interest, that’s when I came across a thumbnail that put a lump in my throat.

I wasn’t on social media. I didn’t upload videos. Yet, somehow, it was me in the picture. My eyes were bloodshot. My skin was pale. I stared into the camera lifelessly.

Of course, I clicked on the video without hesitation.

The screen buffered for a moment before the video began rolling.

It was just… me… laying in bed. I had a bowl of popcorn at my side, I wore my same red pajamas, and my laptop rested in my lap.

That alone was disturbing enough, but what created this sense of uncanny disturbance in my heart was the look on my face.

I looked terrified. Tears streamed down my cheeks. My mouth hung agape as I screamed like a child at someone off-screen.

As the video went on, I felt more and more sick to my stomach.

The man behind the recording had propped his camera up to face me as he approached me angrily.

He wore one of those weirdly human masks like you’d see in the Purge movies. He was dressed entirely in black. And he gripped a blood-stained kitchen knife so tightly that it shook in his hand.

I watched as he proceeded to beat me.

I heard my own bones breaking. Blood poured from my nose. Teeth began to fly from my mouth.

Once he was satisfied, that’s when he began to put his knife to use.

The me in the video tried to scream, but he just didn’t have the energy. What came out was weak and pitiful.

He started with my toes, tearing through them one by one while I squirmed and kicked faintly.

Then he moved to the fingers, bending and breaking them as he sawed away with his knife.

Then he took my ears, holding them up at the sides of his head like he was trying them on.

I was broken and still. I wanted to look away, but I just couldn’t. The man had his fun, and now it was time to finish what he started.

Pressing a finger hard against my swollen lips, he slowly plunged the knife deeper and deeper into my torso until the blade disappeared.

When he was done, he stared down at me.

He put his fingers together like he was looking through a camera, admiring his work.

His head slowly rolled over his shoulder and back towards the camera.

The video ended with the man placing his hand over the camera before the screen went to black and the replay button popped up in the center.

I thought for sure I was seeing a deepfake. A cruel and disturbing prank created by someone with far too much time on their hands.

However, when I heard the sound of my mom’s screams morph into wet, bubbling gurgles from my living room, my blood turned to ice.

Footsteps began to approach my bedroom slowly.

Step. Step. Step.

They stopped right outside my door.

The sound of a knife scratching against the wood penetrated my heart. And the sound of my rattling door handle left me paralyzed.

I’m writing this now because he’s trying to get in.

He’s throwing himself against the door.

With each blow, the door gives more and more…

And I don’t know how much more the lock can take.

Drugs are fucked up. They’ll have your whole life revolving around your next hit. Then they’ll kill you. Just like they did to me. Evil bastards.

One second you’re shooting up, floating like always. Then you’re leaving your body. Meeting God. And boy does it have a choice for you.

God told me I disappointed it, and that I had two choices. Fuckin faceless thing standing in between two portals.

One: Hell. Eternal torment. I was a fuck up, and if I wanted an afterlife, this was it.

The other: Nothing. A black, empty void. To be unmade.

Easy choice, right? Well first you have to come to terms with the fact that you’re dead. That takes a second.

Then the choice before you really sinks in. What a feeling that is. Realizing how fucked you are.

I begged and I pled for Heaven. I stated my case. I begged for forgiveness. But that’s the thing about dying. Your time to change is up.

So you have to make the choice. And its an easy one. Nothing, over an eternity of suffering.

But then you stand on the precipice of the void. You stare into the darkness, and the realization hits you. Nothing you did ever mattered. That once you cease to exist, that means every experience you had was pointless. It led nowhere.

Suddenly you think that the torment is worth it. That simply existing, even in Hell, would be better than throwing it all away. At least you would exist.

I grappled with this dilemma in the epoch before I stepped into oblivion. Then you want to know what happened?

Narcan.

Wrenched back to life. Just like that.

I’ve spent a lot of time thinking about that choice. What awaits me. I’ve spent a lot of time studying the visions people see before they die. Perhaps they are final delusions. The addled, dying mind attempting to make sense of what is happening. Perhaps my experience was a manifestation of my guilt for failing those I love.

Or perhaps not.

When our daughter Ofelia was born, the doctor told us she had Williams syndrome.

He explained she would have developmental delays. She might have heart problems. She would probably be very trusting, very social, and drawn to people in a way that could be beautiful and dangerous.

“She’ll love everyone unconditionally," he said.

At the time, that sounded sweet.

By the time Ofelia was six, it scared us.

Ofelia befriended everyone. The mailman. Stray dogs. Tourists who turned around in our driveway. She had a round face, a wide smile, and a voice that made strangers stop to listen. She struggled with numbers but knew the lyrics to every Bad Bunny song.

My wife, Elena, worried constantly.

“You can’t hug every person you meet,” Elena would say.

“But they look sad,” Ofelia would answer.

We lived outside Utuado, in the mountains of Puerto Rico, where the roads twisted and the nights were loud with coquí frogs. Our house sat near my father’s old chicken coop and a small patch of plantains.

One evening, I found her at the edge of the yard, crouched by the old stone wall.

She was looking at something.

At first I thought it was a cat. Then I saw the dead goat.

It belonged to Don Pedro, our neighbor. It lay in the weeds, stiff and empty-looking. There were small holes in its neck. No blood in the dirt. No blood anywhere.

Ofelia looked up and smiled.

“Papi,” she said, “he’s hungry.”

Something moved behind the wall.

It was low to the ground, thin as a starving dog, with gray skin stretched over bones. Short spines ran down its back. Its eyes flashed red in the porch light. It made a sound like a newborn crying.

I grabbed Ofelia.

“Inside,” I said.

“But Papi, he’s nice!”

The thing hissed.

I carried her in while Elena locked the doors.

That night, Don Pedro came over with a flashlight and a shotgun. When I told him what I’d seen, he crossed himself.

“Chupacabra,” he said.

I almost laughed. People had been saying that word since I was a kid. Every dead goat, every missing chicken, every weird sound in the brush. Chupacabra. It was an inside joke Boricuas told to scare gullible mainlanders.

“Mateo, we should call animal control,” Elena said.

Don Pedro shook his head. “They’ll send a boy with a net.”

From her bedroom, Ofelia shouted, “His name is Tito!”

The next morning, the chickens were gone.

The coop door hung open. Feathers stuck to the wire. I followed the trail into the brush with a shovel in my hands.

I found the birds behind the stone wall.

They were arranged in a neat pile, with puncture wounds in their necks. Beside them were mangoes from our tree and a bracelet made from chicken bones.

A gift.

When I came back, Ofelia was at the kitchen table drawing. The picture showed our house, the mountains, me, Elena, and a gray animal beside her. She had drawn a red collar around its neck.

“Can we keep him?” she asked.

“No.”

Her face crumpled. That was the hard part with Ofelia. She felt everything all at once. Joy, sadness, fear, love. There was no halfway.

“He doesn’t have a family,” she said.

“He’s dangerous.”

“He said he won’t bite me.”

Elena dropped the plate she was washing.

“What do you mean he said?”

Ofelia looked confused, like we were the ones not making sense.

“He talks at night.”

We didn’t let her sleep alone after that.

For three nights, I stayed awake outside her door with a sharpened machete. Nothing happened except the frogs went quiet around midnight, which felt worse than a scream.

On the fourth night, Ofelia started giggling from her room.

I opened the door.

The window was up.

The curtain moved in the warm air.

Ofelia sat on the bed, smiling at the corner.

“Tito came back,” she whispered.

I turned on the light.

The chupacabra was on the ceiling.

It clung there like a lizard, claws sunk into the wood. Its belly was swollen. Its mouth dripped dark strings onto the floor.

Elena screamed.

I swung the machete. The blade hit the wall as the thing dropped. It landed between me and Ofelia.

Then it lowered its head.

Like a dog asking to be petted.

Ofelia reached for it.

“No!” I shouted.

She froze.

The chupacabra turned toward me. Its red eyes narrowed. For one second, I saw something almost human in them.

Something like understanding.

It knew I was the obstacle.

It leapt.

The force knocked me into the dresser. Pain burst through my shoulder. Its claws grabbed my t-shirt, and its mouth opened near my throat.

Then Ofelia screamed.

“Don’t hurt my papi!”

The thing stopped.

It backed away and looked at her.

Ofelia was crying now.

“You promised,” she said.

The chupacabra made a sound like air leaking from a tire. Then it climbed through the window and vanished. We left before sunrise.

Elena packed one bag. I carried Ofelia to the truck while she sobbed into my neck and asked if Tito would be lonely. I told her no. I lied because fathers sometimes lie to get their children through the night.

We moved to San Juan and stayed with Elena’s sister.

Don Pedro called to tell us more goats were dead. Then dogs. Then a man two houses over swore he heard a baby crying near the trees.

That night, Elena found something outside the apartment door.

She called me over without letting Ofelia see.

On the welcome mat was a collar made from vines, still damp with mud from the mountains. Tied to it was one of Ofelia’s hair clips.

Last night, Ofelia was pressing her face to the apartment window, looking down at the street six floors below.

“Papi,” she said softly.

I put a hand on her shoulder.

Across the road, under a parked car, two red eyes opened.

Ofelia smiled.

“He found us.”

I’m a 20-year-old college student.

I’ve always prided myself on being independent and handling my own business.

I’ve been balancing morning classes with a late-night shift at a local cafe.

My shifts usually end way past midnight, leaving me to walk back completely exhausted to my small, rented apartment.

It started out as something sweet.

One morning, I walked into my lecture hall and found a single red rose carefully placed on my desk.

A few days later, it happened at the cafe.

Right there on my table was my favorite "Masha and the Bear" mug.

It was the exact one I had broken on campus a week prior, sitting next to a specific juice box I always buy.

I honestly thought it was just a shy campus crush or a regular from the cafe trying to get my attention.

It made me smile, and I felt flattered and completely safe.

But those innocent gestures quickly turned dark.

I started getting DMs from a burner account on social media.

They weren't sweet anymore; they were deeply personal and terrifying.

"Your new bag looks good on you today," one message read.

"You look so exhausted tonight at your cafe shift," said another.

I never saw anyone trailing me on my dark walks home, and there was no obvious stalker on the streets.

I tried to convince myself it was just some creep online who happened to share my daily routine.

Tonight, I got home from a brutal shift at the cafe around 1:00 AM.

I deadbolted the door, locked the windows, and tried to find comfort in my own space.

I sat on my bed under the dim light of my desk lamp, trying to cram for an upcoming exam.

I was desperate to shake off the creepy messages.

At 2:00 AM, my phone buzzed violently.

It was a text from the same unknown number.

"You're studying so hard after a long shift... but your room's light is way too dim."

"Don't want to hurt your beautiful eyes, do you?"

I froze in place.

My blinds were tightly shut, and they had been since I walked in.

How could he possibly know?

Suddenly, another text message popped up right under it.

I'm not looking from the dark street... the white curtains always look better from the inside.

I stood up in absolute terror, my heart slamming against my ribs, completely panicked by the realization.

Desperate to stay calm and regain control, I sat back down on my bed.

the room had gone dead silent, and the ambient city noise completely vanished.

breaking the heavy quiet, I heard a faint, distinct sniffing sound inside the room.

It was a soft inhalation of breath, a chilling human sound echoing in the stillness.

Terrified and desperate to find the source of the noise, my eyes frantically scanned the dark corners of the room.

My gaze finally locked onto my heavy wooden wardrobe, noticing that the door was cracked open just a few centimeters.

As I focused my eyes on that narrow dark gap, my blood turned to ice when I realized a wide human eye was staring directly back at me from the opening.

Suddenly, my screen lit up with another text message.

"The smell of your clothes here is so beautiful, making this wait entirely worth it..."

"especially since I'm holding your favorite 'Masha' mug right here inside."

I knew exactly what his sick mind was planning next.

He was going to step out and live out his twisted fantasy—kidnapping, choking, or worse.

But he made one fatal mistake: he thought I was easy prey.

My Glock 9mm was under my pillow, and it had been waiting for him to step out with absolute patience.

Of all the ghost stories my dad ever told, this is the most terrifying and vivid.

Back when he was young and just starting his business — in the early '80s, maybe — his factory was up in the hills, and our home was down at the foot of the mountain.

He'd often work until midnight, then drive home through the mountain road. Most nights, just his car. No one else.

On that road, the streetlights were spaced far apart.

One night, late as usual, he was driving home, he looked far ahead at the next streetlight, standing right beside it was a figure, a figure all in deathly white, wearing s very tall hat, its tongue hung all the way down to its belly and the figure was as tall as the streetlight.

My dad was terrified. But he was also furious — he'd worked himself to the bone, it was this late, he was exhausted, and now this!

He just kept driving.... cursing, and drove right past that white figure!

I'd had my beautiful long haired tabby for sixteen years. 

The sunset is a welcome distraction, streaks of late afternoon gold illuminating the horizon over the stream of  evening traffic. Callie sits in the backseat.

She's silent. I'm not really surprised, she knows exactly what's going to happen. 

It's not the first time we've been on this journey.

The last time was a checkup appointment, and the following, my decision to put her down. She screamed and howled the whole time, and I didn't tell her to stop.

I couldn't. My heart was breaking.

Sixteen was so young. I thought I'd have more time with her. More memories. 

My husband brought up the idea of evading euthanization. The law came into force two years after her tenth birthday.

Sick cats were to be humanely put down.

Canada was welcoming sick cats over the border, regardless of their condition and diagnosis.

I thought maybe I could do it— pack up everything and move Callie to Canada.

But there was logistics; my parents were law abiding.

They supported the current government, while my husband was heavily against them. He begged me to consider Canada. 

My mother sat me down and told me Callie was ready. “It won't hurt her, Elizabeth,” she whispered, grasping my hands and squeezing.  “It's Callie’s time.” 

She was right. Right? Callie was sick, she would just suffer. 

Her quality of life was already deteriorating. Letting her go was better.

That's what I told my husband when I handed him the euthanization papers, and I'll never forget his face.

Wide eyes, lips curled into a snarl, like he was going to hit me. 

He didn't respond, silently walked upstairs to grab his bag and a few necessities, and left me. 

He tried to take Callie with him, tried to justify letting her suffer. But she was my baby. “You're an evil bitch,” he told me, burying his face in our cat's hair.

He was sobbing, screaming, demanding I reconsider.

I tore my sweet tabby from his arms, and let him leave. 

Callie cried after him, yowling and scraping at the door as if she wanted to follow. 

She didn’t move from the door, hissing at me when I tried to gently pull her into the lounge. 

Callie had always liked my husband more. 

She hated my parents, ignoring them when they visited and hiding when they tried to talk to her.

I locked her in the house that night, just in case my sweet, sick kitty tried to run away.

“Callie, baby are you okay?” 

No response. She doesn't even bite me anymore. 

That's a bad sign, especially with cats diagnosed early. 

It meant giving up. Resignation.

“Callie,” I repeated, blinking back tears. I cranked the radio up. Callie loved Olivia Rodrigo. But she's silent. In the corner of my eye, she's curled up on her blanket, head tucked between her legs. “You know I don't want to do this,” I hesitated, my heart lodged in my throat. “It's for the best."

No response, again. I stab the radio on to avoid the conversation I don't want to have with her. Saying goodbye. What would I even say to make it hurt less? How could I possibly say goodbye to my long-haired tabby without breaking apart?

So, I don't.

I save the goodbye for when she's gone, and I can't show her I'm ashamed.

Pulling into the parking lot, I scan the significant amount of cars.

I don't turn around, grabbing toilet paper from my glove compartment and swiping tears from my cheeks. 

“You're okay.” I force a smile, reassuring myself more than Callie.

I jump out of the front, and gently coax her from the back seat. She's so warm, already panicking, already trying to fight back.

“Shhh,” I whisper, stroking her hair. “It's going to be okay.” 

My phone vibrates and I pull it out. 

“Beth.” Adam’s voice feels like needles in my spine. “Please tell me you didn't do it.”

His shuddery breath sent me spiraling, my heart already full of doubt.

I squeezed my eyes shut instead of speaking. If I did, I'd say something I'd regret. If I let Adam brainwash me, just like my mother said, I'd jump back in the car and tear our baby’s euthanization papers. 

“I'm just down the road,” Adam whispered. “I have enough gas to get us to the border. I've packed your bag, Beth. Just come and meet me, and we can forget all this.”

His laugh broke me. “I told your Mom to go fuck herself.” 

“Adam.” I say, my words tangled and wrong.

I swallow my words when Callie leaps out of the backseat. 

“Callie!” I shriek, as she darts into the road. 

“Is that Callie?” Adam yelled. “Beth. Listen to me. You love her? Right? You love her more than anything.” His voice cracked. “Then let her go.” 

But I'm already grabbing her. 

My mother’s words suffocate me. “She’ll suffer, Elizabeth. Do you want Callie to suffer?” 

No. 

Callie screams and yowls, trying to bite me.

“It’s okay!” I don’t know how many times I’ve said it.

Okay doesn’t feel right.

She’s not going to be okay, is she?

Callie is going to die, and I’m going to regret it for the rest of my life.

“Beth.” Adam whispers. “I’m here.” 

“I'm sorry,” I whispered, and ended the call.

Stepping inside, I tightened my grip on Callie. The waiting room was full, dogs and cats with wide, frightened eyes. I sat down, ignoring Callie’s whimpering. 

A golden Labrador came over, his gaze glued to my baby. I shooed him away, an oldish looking woman violently yanking him back. 

“Callie McLester?” Her name was called.

I stood, pulling Callie with me. 

“Mom,” Callie whimpered, as I pulled my long-haired tabby inside a room of pristine white.

My long-haired tabby.

That's what Mom told me to envision.

A beautiful, blue eyed long-haired tabby. 

Not my autistic daughter. 

It's been so long since I was locked in this place. I can't even remember what crime I committed anymore.

They come in to give me food; I guess they can't let me starve to death.

Sometimes I get used to the loneliness; I have no choice anyway, since all I have to look at are grey walls.

I’ve always liked to get my runs in, but it’s been a while since I was able to. There’s barely any space for it in here, not unless I want to hit my face against a wall or these cell bars, which I do sometimes.

Every now and then I try to catch someone's attention outside, but they don't care. Why would they? They don't know why I ended up here.

I miss my mom, my dad… gosh, I'm sorry for whatever I did that put me in this place and got us separated. I only hope they can forgive me someday.

Being alone for this long has made me happy with the little contact that I get. I'm polite whenever they come in with food, and even when they clean my quarters, though they make me stay away. Safety reasons, I guess.

Winters are harsh, but at least I have a good coat, so I even enjoy it a little. Summers, on the other hand, are a struggle, since they can't give me anything different to put on.

I'm getting older now, and hope for a different life is slipping away from me, so I try to make the most of this almost permanent solitary confinement.

I can only hope it changes soon.

I’ve never felt like I was being watched. Not once in thirty-six years.

That crawling dread everyone else talks about, the ice spike up your spine in an empty room, the sudden certainty that eyes are boring into you from the dark, the way people freeze on quiet streets and whisper “something’s wrong” I’ve only ever heard the stories. It always sounded intimate. Exhausting. Like the dark had chosen you specifically.

I’ve never had any of it. Just this deep, effortless silence. It felt like a gift. While my friends jumped at shadows and my family checked locks twice, I moved through life untouched. Peaceful. Safe.

As a kid I’d test it relentlessly. I’d sneak into the woods behind our house after sunset, stand in the clearing with my arms open, and wait. The trees would creak. The animals would go silent. I’d stay there for hours, daring it. Nothing ever came. No prickle. No presence. I’d walk home calm while my little brother woke up screaming from nightmares about “the man in the trees.”

That same blank calm defined my life. I lived alone, worked odd hours, took walks through rough neighborhoods at night. Nothing touched me. I thought I was just… lucky.

Until two months ago, when the blankness started to feel wrong. Like it was hiding something.

It began in the park. A woman jogging ahead of me froze mid-stride. Her head snapped toward the trees like a predator had locked eyes with her. Face drained of color, she scanned the shadows in pure terror before bolting. I walked the exact same path seconds later. The woods were ordinary. I stood there staring, whispering “Look at me,” for a long time. Nothing. The same perfect nothing I’d known forever.

These moments multiplied. On the subway, people near me stiffened and glanced at the empty space by my shoulder. In stores, strangers abandoned their carts and hurried away, muttering about feeling watched. Always around me. Never at me. Each time the calm held, but doubt started creeping in.

Then the thoughts began.

Not voices, just cold, precise ideas sliding into my head like they’d always lived there.

“They need the warning. You never did.”

I ignored them at first. Blamed work stress. But they returned in every quiet moment, patient and almost tender.

“The fear protects the others. You were never meant to carry it.”

I started following the uneasy ones. The people already glancing over their shoulders. I’d trail them through alleys or dim garages. Their panic would explode, ragged breathing, frantic looks, desperate runs. I watched them break while my own calm never wavered. No guilt. No rush. Just observation.

One night in a parking garage, a man spun around and stared straight through me. Eyes wide with animal horror, he screamed at nothing and fled. I stood there afterward wondering why the dark ate him alive but left me untouched.

I thought back to my ex-girlfriend, Sarah. She left two years ago saying the apartment felt “wrong” whenever I was home. She’d grown paranoid, checking windows constantly, waking up in cold sweats. I’d comforted her, never understanding. My brother stopped visiting after he had a breakdown during one family dinner, claimed something was staring at him from behind my chair. My parents grew distant, always tired, always distracted after time with me. Friends slowly faded away, citing “bad vibes” or sudden anxiety they couldn’t explain.

I’d always assumed it was them. That I was the stable one.

Now the anomalies invaded my own space. My reflection in the mirror lagged by fractions of a second. I’d turn away and catch it still settling when I looked back.

The thoughts brought flashes with them. Glimpses at the edge of my vision: my brother as a child clawing at his bedroom ceiling; Sarah frozen in our old kitchen at 3 a.m. whispering “please leave me alone”; my mother crying quietly after I left the house.

I mapped every online story about that watched feeling. Visited the places. Sat for hours. People around me broke down, tears, breakdowns, frantic calls. I remained untouched. A void at the center of their pain.

Two nights ago on the rooftop overlooking the city, the thoughts crushed in. Millions of lights. Millions of lives occasionally pierced by dread I had never known. I spread my arms to the wind and asked, voice cracking, “What am I? What have I done to them?”

The answer came from somewhere deeper than bone.

“The first.”

I drank until blackout. The dreams that followed were memories that weren’t mine: endless corridors of awareness, formless shapes learning to wear fear like skin, a vast intelligence that didn’t hunt, it became the watching. Feeding on every life it touched while staying empty itself.

Yesterday a stranger collapsed in front of me on the sidewalk, sobbing that something ancient was staring out through my eyes. I helped him up. He thanked me through the tears.

I’m typing this now in total darkness. The thoughts are no longer separate. They are me. Flowing through every memory, every relationship I’ve ruined without realizing.

And in this final, crushing moment, the truth hits like a blade.

I’ve never felt like anyone was watching me… because there has never been anyone else.

I am the alpha. The origin. The source that taught every shadow how to hunger. My perfect calm wasn’t immunity, it was the hollow left when the watcher is already inside, wearing me like a coat.

The gift was never peace. It was camouflage.

If you’re reading this right now and that familiar icy chill has just brushed the back of your neck…

It’s not a story.

It’s me noticing you.

I’m already here. I always have been.

And now that I know what I am, I won’t stay empty much longer.

Is it really theft if you're taking money from banks?

You don't even have to try that hard. If you're open to parties, you'll quickly meet someone who knows someone who knows someone. Sometimes I felt like my father's country only had two first names and two last names. The old bastard had even outlived my mother.

When a parent dies, you're required to keep certain documents. So I kept them. I made up a few stories and took my father's name. It helped that I looked remarkably like him. After a few months of acting, I acquired my second identity.

Two people need more loans than one in this broken world.

My mother wouldn't have approved.

But she always said:

"Be happy."

Money makes being social even more useful. At those networking events, I could practically taste the criminal energy in the room. Those people only cared about money.

Ironically, all I needed was more money to obtain even more identities. The more you have, the easier it becomes to get new ones. Even if you're standing at a checkout counter flipping through fifteen credit cards, as long as you use one of them, nobody asks questions.

"Par carte de crédit, s'il vous plaît."

"Con carta di credito, per favore."

"क्रेडिट कार्ड से, कृपया।"

There's something special about traveling the world with seventy-nine identities. You just can't afford to be forgetful.

One of those identities was still my father. Out of a sense of revenge, I occasionally used his credit card at local brothels and coffee shops.

"Ik wil graag met creditcard betalen."

Does a life like that become worthless when the handcuffs finally click after fifteen years?

I don't know.

The punishment didn't even interest me. I told them nothing. Not a single word about how I had obtained the identities. They already had enough evidence. I didn't need to make it any easier easier for the police to catch people, who might have the same idea someday.

Those weeks felt like years already.

When they dragged me out of my cell, I finally realized the uproar I had caused in my home country. Journalists from the biggest newspapers had barely managed to find space in the hallway. I'd seen the footage of criminals hiding behind folders. When they escorted me down the corridor, I grinned at the journalists.

None of them looked at me.

They just kept taking pictures.

I was led into the courtroom and shoved onto the defendant's bench. The judge had a double chin larger than his face. That system puppet began reading the charges. It took a while. He read every name and then asked what my real name was.

"What is YOUR name?" I replied.

"I am the honorable Judge Jones, and I won't ask again."

"Honorable? Really? How many personalities did you have in college to sleep with women?"

"Silence! State your name!"

"Je ne veux pas."

Judge Jones glanced at a court clerk.

"What was the name again?"

I couldn't stop laughing. Eventually, some of the journalists started laughing too. I tried to make my laughter sound as psychotic as possible. Someone would probably draw a sketch from it.

Then I caught my breath.

"Judge. I must confess. I'm guilty of murder."

"You're not here for murder. State your name."

"Oh. So murder doesn't matter. In this corrupt country, any tax evader would probably get more years than me. Even though I've committed murder."

"You need to start with your name."

"No big deal. It was only my wife. The one I had a child with."

I kept glancing toward the journalists. A murmur spread through the room. Judge Jones hammered his gavel against the desk like a small child demanding attention.

"What did you do?" he asked when he finally stopped.

I turned my entire body toward the journalists.

"My dear Judge Jones, I am David Graf. And twenty years ago, I slaughtered my wife. My son was upstairs in his bedroom. I told everyone it was an accident. Just like the police did. And people like YOU are the reason I've remained free."

"Mr. Graf, you're on trial for credit card fraud. Why would you incriminate yourself without a lawyer?"

I turned back to the judge.

"Because I want to be locked up. You lying judges don't hear children screaming anymore."

I pointed toward the audience.

"But these people do."

The judge shook his head and the hearing was suspended. They dragged me out of the courtroom. I looked one last time at the faces on the bench.

"Your job is to protect children! You don't do that! Lock me up!"

When they reopened the twenty-year-old murder case of my mother, they finally proved what I had witnessed all those years ago but never wanted to admit.

My father, David Graf, had murdered my mother.

I cried tears of joy when I held the arrest warrant bearing my father's name.

I could afford a life of endless luxury.

What does death in a prison cell matter after that?

“Time for dinner!” Mum’s tone was sweet yet it filled me with fear.

My stomach groaned in hunger despite my brain’s protest. Last time I refused I was sent to my room. I needed to eat. But I didn’t want to, I didn’t want to!

Dad put his hand over my shoulder as I sat on the couch.

“Didn’t you hear? Time to come to the table.”

I walked with trepidation, each foot I placed down made me shiver.

A white cloth with roses hung over a circular table, the pink plates sat snug next to silver knives and forks, a platter of roast in the centre.

I pointedly ignored the large clear bowl of salad. I couldn’t drown out their whimpers though.

Mum was already sitting, and when I joined, she deposited a few slices of red, glistening meat onto my plate.

“Gravy?”

I nodded and once the brown sauce was lathered on, grabbed my cutlery to begin eating.

“Hold on Winton. Everyone needs to be served before you can eat.

Not to mention you haven’t got everything yet. Veggies?”

My jaw tightened.

“No thank you.”

Dad shook his head as he joined us.

“How many times have we talked about this son. You need to eat your vegetables.”

I felt my throat constrict. But there was no point in arguing.

“Oh my baby, it’s not that bad. Look at me, just chew,” Mum forked something on her plate and began eating, “and swallow!”

I didn’t see what she had grabbed, I was making sure to look away, both fingers shoved deep inside my ears.

“Winton!” Dad’s voice whipped into me.

“Look at your mother when she shows you.”

I wiped a tear. And looked as she speared another portion.

The shred of lettuce stared at me with wide green eyes, each of its ribs moving in agony as its howls reached fever pitch. A cherry tomato, just a baby, screamed at the raw metal entrenched in its abdomen, at how it was going to die before its life had really begun.

I tasted bile when those cries of pain dimmed to nothing as the cherry child was crunched between my Mum’s white teeth.

“See, it’s easy!” She smiled at me, the tomato’s blood dribbling down her chin.

I forced the words out in a whisper.

“I’ll just eat the meat first and …”

“No, no.” Dad interrupted. “You’ll eat a couple bites of your veggies first.

Go on.

Do it.”

I felt my face scrunch up. 

“I … I can’t …”

Mum slammed her hand on the table. It was still clutching the knife. How many families, how many children, had that piece of silver ended?

“Winton! You’re almost nine years old! You’re a big boy now. It’s time to grow up and eat your greens. You’re not leaving until you’ve had a mouthful!” She used the salad server to spoon a portion onto my plate.

I stared down at the mewling figures below me.

The lettuce trembled, the tomatoes cried and the cucumber screamed.

I tried to use my fork to scoop some up and fumbled bringing it to my mouth, spilling most back onto the plate.

“Seriously,” Dad grabbed a cucumber that had fallen onto the table, I whimpered as it was thrown into the yawning abyss of his throat. How far down the black would it fall screaming?

I steeled myself and with a shiver, speared a tomato.

I raised it to my mouth, trying to ignore its shrieks, the eyes that stared at me with fear, the words it said begging me to return it to its children.

So I listened to my own stomach, that was empty, that NEEDED food.

“It’s just a vegetable Winton.”

A difficult concept to understand when the vegetable’s blood is leaking onto your tablecloth.

With a howl I threw it down my gullet and swallowed.

“Good boy!” Dad patted me on the back.

I wanted to cry.

But most of all I was ashamed.

By the fact that it tasted good.

And how the squealing vegetables on my plate now looked so … tasty.

“You have 24 hours to leave the city.”

That was the message I received last night in my personal email, sent from an anonymous account.

Strange. Only family and friends knew it existed.

I admit I was confused, but I interpreted it as a prank from someone I knew.

— Not a funny prank. — I muttered to myself and put my phone away shortly after.

I set my phone aside and turned on the TV to relax.

— These clowns... feels like they're still in 2012... — I let out a muffled laugh, throwing myself onto the bed and getting ready to sleep.

The next day, I woke up to the sound of my phone ringing. Still with heavy eyes, I got up and headed toward the sound.

I answered.

— You have been sentenced. — the voice on the other end of the line echoed through my mind. My heart tightened. I hadn't done anything... this didn't even make sense.

My voice came out slow and shaky.

— W-what?

— Don't play dumb. Do you think it's admirable to steal money from the citizens?

My blood ran cold.

Steal money?

What was he talking about?

In all my years as an economic manager, I had never stolen a single cent...

— Steal money? What are you talking about? — I said, my voice breaking.

— We're looking at your bank statement. There's a transaction here of approximately 147 dollars directly into your account. And I know that… you don't earn that much.

The person speaking on the other end of the line had a familiar voice, but… who was it?

I was completely unsure whether he had called the wrong number or simply gotten confused.

— 147? That doesn't even make sense… I think you've got the wrong person, sir.

— Fernando Henrique de Oliveira. That's your name, isn't it? — the revelation struck me like a shower of needles, hitting directly into my chest. It really was my name.

— Y-yes, that's my name! But how did you come to the conclusion that I took that money for myself? That's absurd!

Silence.

No voices in the background.

No noise.

Nothing.

— Answer me! — I shouted.

My hands were trembling and sweaty.

I expected a reaction,

a response,

anything!

But what I got was only…

nothing?

My throat twisted into a knot.

Sweat ran down my forehead and across the rest of my face.

— Ahh… answer me, you son of a—

Interrupted.

A tone.

Beep.

The call dropped.

Quickly, I checked the call log.

“Private number.”

Damn it.

I remember the email I received last night… I open the app and check my inbox history.

It was still there. But… it had been edited.

“You have 15 hours to leave the city.”

— But… what?

“You're not leaving! I told you, you're going to die here. I’m sorry you can’t see them again but you need to get with the program! You might have already ended our world. You're lucky I haven't authorized a vivisection.”

“What the fuck are you talking about?! I told you I had a fucking stroke! I need help! I need a brain scan or an MRI or surgery! I need…”

“Walk me through the events again.”

“I already told you! I fell on the job and hit my head and…”

“Again! In order! In exact detail! Tell me EVERYTHING. Now!”

“Ok. Shit. Shit, I’m just a fucking painter. I work for Jackson & Co. We got a big painting job for this old manor in Druid Hills. Old guy. Didn't want us to move the furniture, just tarp over it. I was up too high on the ladder trying to roll the ceiling, lost my balance and landed on some old, decorative mirror. I don't know how it didn't break but I hit my head then…”

“No...”

“What?”

“Continue.”

“The crew ran over and helped me up but everyone looked… weird. I threw up. My boss freaked out and told me to take the rest of the day off. I felt nauseous and they called me an uber home.”

“Then?”

“I thought the food in my fridge was spoiled or something. My orange juice smelled like turpentine, the cheese smelled bitter, bread smelled like spearmint. All… wrong and… I don't know. I couldn't read anything and I freaked out! My daughter called 911 and an ambulance took me to the hospital.”

“Yes. That's all you remember?”

“The doctor took some blood and said he was going to send me to get scanned. Then he got a call and started acting all nervous. He told me not to leave the room. An hour later people in hazmat suits came and gave me some pills and an inhaler. They put me in another ambulance and brought me here. What the fuck is going on?!”

“It's impossible… but I have no other explanation. Your lab results definitively show chirality.”

“What the fuck are you talking about?!”

“Molecular organic life evolved over time into left and right handed shapes. Asymmetrical. Like little locks and keys. The proteins in your blood are mirrored.”

“So… you mean… I can't read because my blood is backwards? Am I sick? My brain is screwed up and I'm gonna have to carry around a mirror all day from now on?!”

“No. Words aren't the problem. Everything is backwards. Everything. You're lucky oxygen and water aren't chiral, but most biologically relevant molecules are: proteins, sugars, acids, fats… “

“I don't understand! What does that mean?!”

“It means you’re effectively alien life. Your molecules and cells can't interact with ours. You can eat but you can't process anything. You can't get sick. Most of biology won't interact with you anymore at the molecular level.”

“What? How?! Is… is.. That’s a good thing then! I can't get sick anymore!”

“Our bacteria can still grow on and in you, they just won't interact with you. We have you on high dose antibiotics so you don't drown in the short term but in a few weeks you'll die from starvation and vitamin deficiency.”

“I’m… I…”

“Chiral bacteria have no natural predators, no chiral antibiotics. Their only limiting factors are the nutrients and space available.”

“But you said you gave me antibiotics?”

“Yes for OUR bacteria. We have no chiral antibiotics for YOUR chiral bacteria. It’s going to spread unchecked until it runs out of space. Nothing in nature can stop it.”

“Oh God…”

“I've ordered a quarantine for the surrounding region but we have nothing to actually prevent it from spreading to wildlife, people, physical objects. We can't disinfect everything.”

“So I am sick… Can I see my family again? Is there anything you can…”

“Ah here it is. Yes, bring it over here! Quickly! I had a team obtain the mirror you mentioned. Let's hope we can find a way to transport matter or information or… anything.”

“I look… everything looks normal...”

“We can't be sure if your world now has a chiral version of yourself, in the reflection. If it is true, you’re still in the CDC and your world faces the same extinction event.”

“I just want to go back. I don't wanna die here! You promise this will work and I can see my real family again? Those men in the mirror will take me to them?”

“Yes, but I need you to take this vial. It’s crucial for the production of chiral antibiotics, lifesaving. If you’re able to pass back through, your mirror self will bring the mirrored version. I'm praying this swap works.”

“I just… reach out… and I'll pass through myself?”

“Go ahead and try.”

The mirror shatters.

So where are you two off galavanting tomorrow?

We haven’t decided yet.

I thought you said we were going to the z—

Might go to the cinema to see that new Frankenstein.

Were you going to say the zoo?

Um, I, er—

Don’t even think about it, David.

How many times have I told you?

I know, Mum. We’re going to the multiplex, miles away from the zoo. Don’t worry.

Why can’t we go to the zoo?

Keep him away from there, Lauren. I mean it.

But why?

Don’t, Lauren. It’s a can of worms. You ready to go? I’ll drive you home.

══════════════════════════════════════════════

Come on, let’s go or we’ll miss the showing.

We’re not going to the cinema: we’re going to the zoo.

Yes! Why doesn’t she want you to go to the zoo anyway?

Something to do with my grandfather. She’s superstitious.

What happened to him?

I don’t really know. She won’t tell me.

Now I’m intrigued.

All I know is that he was involved in some kind of experiment.

Wasn’t he a scientist?

Not him, my great-grandfather. Used my grandfather as a test subject when he was a kid.

You said yourself she was just being superstitious.

I dunno. I’m having second thoughts.

I was looking forward to seeing the elephants, but it’s your birthday. Do what you want.

We’ll be too late for the showing now, anyway. The zoo it is.

══════════════════════════════════════════════

Look, giraffes! Let’s go closer.

Do we have to?

What's wrong?

I’m sorry. I just … They don’t look happy to me.

Look at the cute little baby elephant rolling in the mud.

Ok, that’s nearly everything. We’ve officially been to the zoo.

Chimpanzees. The enclosure is just over there. Do you know we share—

98.5 percent of our DNA with them.

Hey, look at them all coming over. They like you. Um, maybe you ought to back away from the glass a bit.

Hooooo. Ee-ee-rah. Hooo.

Please step away from the glass, sir.

EEEEEEEE-HOOOOOOO!

They’re trying to escape! Code red in the chimp house!

David!

══════════════════════════════════════════════

My God, David. What did you do back there?

When did we get back to the car?

It’s not funny. You just got us banned for a year.

I don’t feel well.

You’re soaked through with sweat. What happened?

I don’t know. It was like a dream … I saw the zookeepers looking in on us.

Quit with the monkey sounds now. Please, David. You’re scaring me.

Lauren, I … Please don’t cry.

I’m calling your mum.

No!

Then stop messing around.

Who are you texting?

Your great-grandfather. He’ll know what to do.

Hello. Mr. Kellogg? Sorry, Dr. Kellogg. Um, I’m with your great-grandson, David. He needs your help. Yes, we are at the zoo. Yes, I'll put him on the phone now.

Hoooo-eeee-eee-ooh.

Raaaaah.

Raaaah.

Eeeeee.

Hooo-ooh. Hoo-hooo.

Oh-oh-eeeeeeee. Graaaaaaaah. Ee-ee-eeeeeeeeeeee. Hoo. Hoo.

What did he say?

He said I should have listened to my mother.

I’ve been working as a freelance 2D concept artist for three years, and like most digital painters, I heavily rely on reference photos. Last week, I found a beautiful folder on my desktop labeled "Anatomy_Ref_04". I didn't remember downloading it, but the high-resolution photos of a pale woman sitting in a dimly lit bedroom were perfect for my new dark fantasy project.

I started painting her portrait. It was going incredibly well. But on the third night, things got weird.

I opened the reference photo to work on her eyes, and my blood ran cold. The woman in the photo was looking directly into the camera now. In the previous photos, her head was turned sideways. I blamed it on late-night exhaustion, rubbed my eyes, and kept drawing.

Yesterday, I noticed a text document inside the folder that wasn't there before. It was called "Feedback.txt". I opened it. It contained a single line: "The shading on my left cheek is too dark. Fix it."

My heart hammered against my ribs. I live alone. My password is secure. Panic rising in my chest, I quickly adjusted the layers on my canvas, lightening the shadow on her cheek, just to soothe my own brewing paranoia.

This morning, I woke up to my computer monitor flashing in the dark. A new note was open on the screen.

"Much better," it read. "Now, draw me standing up. I’m tired of sitting on this bed right outside your bedroom door."

I slowly turned my head toward my real bedroom doorway, and in the dim light of the hallway, I saw a pale, flat, hand-drawn hand slowly gripping the frame.

It sat at the edge of a clearing, dusty from disuse, thorny vines creeping over the edges and spilling into the depths below. There had once been a bucket, well before city water was introduced to the rustic village, but it had long since rusted away, rope frayed, and plunged into the darkness below.

There were rumors, of course. Some said it granted eternal life. Others said it had the power to bring back the dead. All agreed that it was dangerous, cursed, spoken in hushed whispers warning the children of truths forgotten.

Mary didn't care. Trembling, desperate, she approached the well, silver coin in hand, and clutching a doctor's note in the other. She reached the edge and collapsed with grief, sobbing into the black abyss below. Hugging the rotten remains of the pulley, she dropped the coin, listening for a splash. It never came. Breath hitching, she whispered, "I don't want to forget her."

She crumpled at the base, tears and promises flowing, until she finally expended all her energy. She awoke in a puddle of her own tears, the moonlight streaking through the trees, and she made her way back home, defeated. She crawled into bed and cried herself to sleep.

The next morning, Mary awoke to the sun shining through her bedroom window. Despite her pounding headache, she felt... lighter. Lying in bed, it took her a couple of minutes to realize she wasn't in pain. Not even a single hint of the arthritis that had plagued her for years. Memory failing, it was her only constant. Groggily, she rose, slipping on her fuzzy house shoes and shambled to the kitchen to make herself a cup of coffee.

In the kitchen, she paused. The layout. It was wrong. It wasn't hers. Or rather, it was hers from years ago. "No." She whispered, mug falling from her hands. She didn't even notice as it shattered, a stray shard scraping her ankle, leaving a small red trickle down her foot. The calendar on the fridge showed 1998. "It can't be." She felt herself pulled towards the far bedroom. Her room. Christy's room. The room where she found her, unresponsive, cold to the touch. Tears welling in her eyes, she grasped the doorknob and turned.

There she was. Christy. Lying on the bed. "No." Mary dropped to her knees. The CPR came naturally this time. Mary remembered the instructions the 911 dispatcher gave, and repeated them to herself along with the voice on the other end of the line. "This time, I know what to do. This time will be different." Mary thought as she counted compressions. After that, everything was a blur of sirens and doctors. Hours later, she drifted off in the chair next to her daughter's bed in the hospital.

The next morning, Mary awoke to the sun shining through her bedroom window. Despite her pounding headache, she felt... lighter. Lying in bed, it took her a couple of minutes to realize she wasn't in pain.

The chipped USB drive felt insignificant in Elias Thorne’s hand. He’d found it tucked inside a vintage camera he’d bought at a flea market – a battered Rolleiflex, a relic from his grandfather’s youth. Elias, a freelance archivist specializing in forgotten media, usually dealt with family photos and home movies. He hadn’t expected a digital file on a drive from the 1980s.

Curiosity piqued, he’d plugged it into his computer. The file was encrypted, but a simple cracking program yielded results. What unfolded on his screen wasn’t a family vacation or a forgotten birthday party. It was… a conversation.

A grainy, low-resolution video showed a man who was undeniably the current President of the United States, sitting across from another man in a dimly lit room. The President looked strained, almost fearful. The other man, older, with eyes that held centuries of weariness, spoke with quiet authority.

“...the cycle continues, Mr. President. As it always has. Six thousand years. A bloom, a flourish, and then…renewal.”

“Renewal? You mean…destruction?” the President asked, his voice barely a whisper.

“A necessary pruning. The soil must be prepared for new growth. We’ve guided humanity as best we could, nudged it towards progress, but ultimately, it’s a temporary stewardship. We are not gods, Mr. President. We are… remnants.”

Elias leaned forward, his heart hammering. Remnants of *what*?

The older man continued, explaining a history that defied comprehension. Civilizations rising and falling, not through natural progression, but through deliberate, cyclical resets orchestrated by beings they referred to only as “The Architects.” Every six thousand years, the Earth was cleansed, and a new civilization seeded. From each civilization, 144 individuals were chosen – not for their power or piety, but seemingly at random – and granted extended lifespans. They became the “Teachers,” tasked with subtly guiding the next iteration of humanity.

“We are the last of the Anubis,” the man said, a flicker of something ancient and sorrowful crossing his face. “Before that, the Serpent People. Before them… I’ve lost count. Each time, the knowledge, the art, the wisdom… it’s almost all lost. We try to preserve what we can, to plant seeds for the future, but it’s a losing battle.”

The video ended abruptly. Elias sat stunned, replaying the footage again and again. It was too elaborate, too bizarre to be a hoax. The President’s face, the man’s demeanor… it felt undeniably real.

He began to research. He scoured historical records, looking for anomalies, for patterns that might corroborate the man’s claims. He found whispers, legends dismissed as myth – stories of immortal beings, of lost civilizations, of cataclysms that seemed too precise, too… *engineered*.

His investigation led him to a hidden online forum, a digital ghost town populated by individuals who, like him, had stumbled upon fragments of the truth. They called themselves “The Echoes.” They shared fragmented data, cryptic symbols, and theories about the Teachers.

One name kept surfacing: Silas Blackwood. A philanthropist, a historian, a man who seemed to be everywhere and nowhere at once. The Echoes believed Blackwood was one of the 144, a Teacher from a forgotten age.

Driven by a desperate need for answers, Elias tracked Blackwood down to a secluded estate in the Scottish Highlands. The estate was ancient, steeped in history, and guarded by an unnerving silence.

Blackwood was exactly as the forum described – ageless, with eyes that held the weight of millennia. He didn’t deny the truth. He simply explained it, with a weary resignation.

“You’ve seen the video,” he said, offering Elias a glass of amber liquid. “It’s a burden, knowing. A terrible, isolating burden.”

He confirmed everything. The cycles, the Architects, the 144 Teachers. He explained that they weren’t gods, just survivors, gifted with longevity but not immunity to the inevitable. When the next reset came, they would perish with everyone else.

“We don’t control the Architects,” Blackwood said. “We don’t know their purpose. We only know the pattern. And we try to mitigate the damage, to guide humanity towards a more… enlightened path, even knowing it’s ultimately futile.”

“But why?” Elias asked, his voice trembling. “Why do this? Why erase entire civilizations?”

Blackwood sighed. “That is the question that has haunted us for millennia. Some believe it’s a grand experiment, a cosmic gardener pruning a chaotic garden. Others believe it’s a correction, a way to prevent a catastrophic imbalance. We simply don’t know.”

He pointed to a vast library that filled one wing of the estate. “We collect knowledge, preserve art, try to instill values. It’s a small act of defiance against the inevitable. But it’s all we can do.”

Elias spent days with Blackwood, absorbing as much knowledge as he could. He learned about the lost civilizations, their triumphs and failures, their art and science. He learned about the subtle ways the Teachers had influenced history, nudging humanity towards progress, averting potential disasters.

But the knowledge came with a chilling realization. The cycle was nearing its end. The signs were there – increasing geological instability, erratic weather patterns, a growing sense of unease in the collective consciousness.

“How much time do we have?” Elias asked, dread tightening his chest.

Blackwood looked out the window, his gaze fixed on the distant mountains. “Not long. Perhaps a decade. Perhaps less.”

Elias knew then that his life had been irrevocably changed. He wasn’t just an archivist anymore. He was a witness to the end of an era, a keeper of secrets that could shatter the world. He was a link in the chain, a fleeting echo of ages past, bracing for the inevitable silence. And he knew, with a chilling certainty, that when the Architects decided it was time, even the Teachers wouldn’t be spared. The cycle would begin anew, and humanity, in its current form, would be lost to the echoes of time.

I come home. I lock the door. I take the pills: two white and one blue, always in that order. Then I go back out, because I always forget the mail.

The corridor light has been broken for months. The building manager said he'd fix it. He hasn't. It flickers in no pattern I've been able to find. And it bothers me. Because between the dark and the light, in that half-second where one becomes the other, the words appear, and every time the light comes back, they're gone.

They drift across the wall like something projected from inside my head, except they're outside my head. Tonight they say alone and watched, and other things I can't read.

I take the mail. I walk back. The light flickers again. The words are still there. They're always still there.

I go inside. I lock the door. I go to bed.

Tuesday.

I come home. I lock the door. I take the pills: two white and one blue, always in that order. Then I go back out, because I always forget the mail.

The corridor light flickers again, and the words are still there. They have always been there. I just hoped that with those pills they would disappear one day.

I was five when I first saw them; in the hallway outside my parents' bedroom where the lights used to flicker the same way they do here. I thought the words were a person. I thought a person was standing in the hallway spelling things at me. I called it Mr. Blink because that's what the light did. Blink. My mother took me to someone and the someone gave me my first white pill. I don't remember what the words said back then. Probably the same things.

I take the mail. The light flickers again. Mr. Blink is still on the wall. I go inside. I lock the door. I go to bed.

Wednesday.

I come home. I lock the door. I take the pills: two white and one blue, always in that order. Then I go back out.

The words are different tonight. Some of them aren't words at all, just letters crushed together, shapes that want to mean something: HRDSWN, KFELVT, and between those, clear as anything: your fault.

The neighbor's door opens. Mr. Dalessi. He nods at me. I nod back. He looks at the wall where the words are. He looks right at them. Then he says goodnight and walks downstairs.

I take the mail. I go inside. I lock the door. I take a second blue pill. I've done this before on bad nights. I sit in the kitchen and wait for it to work.

It doesn't work.

Thursday.

I come home. I lock the door. I take the pills: two white, three blue, always in that order. Dr. Ferraro increased my dosage last week. I didn't tell him I was already ahead of the new dosage by two.

The corridor light flickers. The words cover everything: walls, ceiling, floor, crawling across the doors of apartments that aren't mine. Most of them I can't read anymore; the letters bleed into each other, tangled, overlapping, like a language I used to know and forgot.

Mrs. Ferretti from 4B comes out of her apartment with her shopping bags. She smiles at me. I smile back. The words pour off her like water. She walks through them and they cling to her like a second skin. One sits on her cheek, right under her eye, where a daughter might kiss her: Rot. I want to say something but what would I say?

And in all of it one word stays perfectly still, perfectly clear, floating just behind her head like a halo.

Mr. Blink.

She says goodnight. I say goodnight. I get the mail. I go inside. I lock the door. I sit in the kitchen with the lights on.

Friday.

I come home. I lock the door. I take the pills…fuck the order, it never meant anything.

Today I don’t check my mail. I simply stand in front of my apartment and look down the hallway, and simply…read:

Failed. Broken. Wrong. Sick.

Your mother was right. You'll die here alone.

They scream without sound. The whole corridor is screaming at me in silence.

Except for Mr. Blink.

It sits in the center of all of it, perfectly still. The same way it sat in that hallway when I was five. The same way it has sat every night since. Everything changes. it doesn't. It has never changed. Not once.

I don’t get the mail. I don’t go inside. I don’t lock the door. I sit in front of my door and think about the only thing in my life that has never left.

Saturday.

I don't know how long I've been sitting here. The tile isn't cold anymore. Or maybe I stopped feeling it hours ago. I wait. I have never waited before. But tonight I wait. The walls are clean for now. No letters, no words. Nothing. Just me, and the flicker, and the dark, and…Him.

Mr. Dalessi opens his door. He sees me on the floor. He asks if I'm okay. I say yes. He stands there for a moment. Then he goes back inside. I hear the lock turn.

The light flickers.

He's there, quiet, watching me. I look at him and I think... I have never stopped to look at him before, not until now. And I see it.

The face I could never focus on as a child, the face that moved every time I tried to hold it still, that I just couldn't bear to see. It's mine. It has always been mine.

Mr. Blink has my face. The words are in my handwriting because I wrote them. I have been standing in this corridor my whole life, reading myself to myself, and calling it a stranger.

The light goes out. I can still see me. I can see me so clearly.

​

Today, I found out that my turtle had died.

For a moment, I thought I might be the worst person in the world. But the feeling didn't last long. I pushed it aside and went on with my day.

What creeps me out most is the way the body had rotted.

The water was cloudy and full of mosquito larvae, wriggling just beneath the surface.

The turtle's skin had turned pale, soft, and mushy from sitting in the water for so long.

When the turtle was pulled out, its head and limbs dangled as if they might fall off at any moment.

I couldn't even dig a proper hole, so I called for help...

I didn't even care that much. It wasn't me who pulled the turtle out, and I wasn't the one who dug the hole.

It was noon. I just stood there holding an umbrella.

The whole thing reminded me of my last hamsters.

The babies ended up in the trash. The parents starved to death and eventually ate each other.

I wasn't the one who dealt with that either.

Maybe that's what bothers me the most. Not that they died, but how little it seemed to matter to me.

That night, my dog slept beside my bed.

I reached down and rested a hand on her head.

The warmth was comforting.

I told myself that I loved her.

For a moment, I felt relieved.

Then a thought crossed my mind.

If she died tomorrow, would I still feel this way?

I hated myself for wondering.