u/BrennanCorzine

What drives human ambition?

In a world without the struggles of the past—

What makes you or I any different from a secluded being?

We hide from pain, fear, and each other, only to realize that’s what makes a person human. 

The human condition is a curious thing. It motivated me to study not just the brain, but people as a whole.

Before I knew it, I was obsessed.

It especially made me ask questions like, Why do you stay up at night pondering life?

None of it really matters.

The brain limits itself. Even if we discovered every secret hidden inside it, what would truly change?

Humans—forever happy? 

Today, I left.

I left behind a man who knew nothing about me.

But I knew everything about him.

And I know nothing good will come after it.

I worked in a lab for the past ten years.

I’m not trying to disappear, so I’ll leave the name blank.

All you need to know is this:

Imagine one of those animal testing facilities.

The type that tests on rats and such.

The difference was, on the surface, we were the same thing.

Behind closed doors, we were testing on humans.

In my time at the lab, I only came to two conclusions.

There is no God. At least not one that would let the things happening there… happen.

And—
Human desire is a monstrous thing.

Before I tell you what happened, I want you to imagine something. Ingrain this image into your head.

Think about humans from an animal’s perspective.

Agile. Tall or small. Able to dig, climb, and create.

Humans watch from a distance. Not attacking—just observing.

Humans can mimic the sounds of other animals.

Humans create things beyond the comprehension of almost every living creature on earth.
Even some of our own.

Why is it that when you look in a mirror, you aren’t afraid of yourself?

Is it because you’re in control?

Or is it because you know something else isn’t in control?

When I started working there, there was a child.

They referred to him only as SB7. Or, more commonly: The Boy.

There were three main rules.

1.) Do not speak to him.
There was an intercom connected to his room, but it was only to be used in emergencies.

2.) He must not see you.
Furthermore, he must not know who—or what—we are.

3.) He is not to be treated as one of us.

In ’99, a scientist at the lab volunteered to be a surrogate mother for the boy.

In ’00, when he was born, she wasn’t allowed to interact with him. The rules forbade it.

Paternal alienation.

It drove her mad.

First came the resignation. Then the suicide.

After weeks of psychological preparation and testing, I was finally allowed to participate in the study.

By the time I started, the boy was around thirteen.

When I left, he had just turned twenty-six.

I was greeted by the head of the study—a man I grew to know very well.

Some called him senile.

I called him a mentor.

He sat me at a desk.

In front of it was a window looking down into a massive room.

Three hundred feet long, if I had to guess.

The walls were painted a pale blue.

And in the center of the ceiling—

A single spotlight.

SB7’s sun.

He was to know nothing of us.

Not the outside world.
Not his mother.
Not even the men who entered his chamber to feed him as a baby.

It was not a hell to him. He had no perspective of others.

For all he knew, the world was grunts and silence.

A garden with a single soul.

Adam with no Eve.

At times, I felt like a stalker. Other times, like an older brother. Or even a father.

He once climbed a rock positioned in the center of the room.

He stood atop it and stared into the light.

Some of us thought he was going to break it.

Others—myself included—simply watched.

But he only stood there. Observing it.

Until the lights shut off.

He looked around suddenly and screamed.

Then, after a moment, he began looking around the room again.

Almost like he was hunting.

Or being hunted.

He stepped forward.

His foot slipped.

And he landed badly on his ankle.

That night, after he fell asleep, the overseer ordered three guards into the chamber.

Inject him with anesthesia. Check the leg. Leave before he woke up.

One guard survived.

SB7 studied the guards. He had never seen someone who looked like himself before.

The only human face he had ever known was his own reflection in the artificial river running through the chamber.

He stood over their bodies long after they died.

After that, not a single soul in the facility wanted to enter the room again.

I wasn’t there to witness what happened firsthand.

But from the footage I’ve seen—

some might call it barbaric.

As if he were staring back at us through the glass.

The guards’ bodies remained there for days beneath his perch.

He watched them the entire time.

Until the smell of rot became so strong it seeped through the one-way glass itself.

The night of 8/14/17, we attempted to recover the bodies. This time, we believed he was asleep. He was.

They managed to retrieve one body.

When they went back for the second, the “food elevator”—as we called it—lowered unexpectedly. Someone lowered it.

It woke him.

the one way door the guards entered through remained open.

He broke containment.

By the time he reached the corridor, the “clean-up crew” was only thirty feet down the hall.

He sprinted toward them.

Dragged the rotted body back toward his room.

The door had shut behind him.

The guards were trapped in the hallway with him.
We gassed the area.

He collapsed in the hall. We managed to recover the bodies and re-secure containment.

By morning, the door to his chamber was reopened.

When he woke, he dragged the original corpse back inside.

He seemed afraid of entering the hallway again.

So we convinced an intern to seal the hall door and recover the bodies.

Meanwhile, SB7 placed the original corpse atop the rock.
Climbed it again.
And stared once more into the light.

He was back in containment.

But at the cost of two more lives.

Nine years later, not a single order to enter his chamber had been issued.
Not once had anyone dared to approach him.

But in those nine years—near the end of my tenure—he did something incredible.

The day after I submitted my resignation form—4/29/26—he went to the skeletal remains.

And put on the original guard’s clothing.
Albeit backwards.

He found a keycard.
He studied it for a long time.

Then he climbed to the top of his perch and placed it at the center.

Yesterday, on my last day there,
he broke the sun.

He pulled it down and found the hidden ventilation shaft we used to cycle air through the chamber. 

SB7 forced his way in.

Now he’s missing.

I’m sitting in my study writing this, periodically looking out the window. I have a flight to Spain tomorrow.

If you are capable of doing so, I suggest you do the same.

Three weeks ago, I moved to a small coastal town in New Hampshire.

Now, I refuse to step foot in the state.

After a long, exhausting divorce, I lost everything that mattered.

The house.
The car.

None of that bothered me.

But my son—

I couldn’t even get partial custody.

So I did what people always do when their lives fall apart.

I got up, packed my bags and ran.

Put only what I needed in the car and left before dawn and drove east, convincing myself things would somehow be better there.

Greener pastures.

The drive took two days.

By the time I reached the town, rain was hammering the windshield so hard I could barely see the road.

Almost looked like Hail a few times.

Honestly, I probably should’ve pulled over hours earlier.

But I kept driving.

The boats in the harbor rocked violently beneath the storm.

The port town itself was small. Quiet.

Almost welcoming.

A bait shop sat beside the pier.

And above the seafood restaurant next door—

was my new apartment.

Small.

Cheap.

I sat in the car for a moment.

Not waiting for anything in particular.

There was just something about the rain running down the windshield that held my attention.

Maybe it was the exhaustion.
Or curiosity.
God knows.

The cold eventually made the decision for me.

I unbuckled my seatbelt, reached into the back seat for my umbrella, and turned toward the restaurant.

An old woman was staring at me through the glass.

She stood motionless behind a rack of salted fish.

Watching me.

I waited for a moment.
Not sure if I was waiting for her…
or myself.

Eventually, I stepped out into the rain.

By the time I opened the umbrella, I was already soaked.

The bell above the restaurant door chimed as I stepped inside.

No music.
No clattering utensils.

Just rain hammering the roof—
and the silence beneath it.

A man stepped out from behind one of the booths.

Jeans and a button up shirt. Unkempt beard and a ponytail

He rested a hand on the old woman’s shoulder.

“Sit down,” he said softly.

His voice was calm. Warm, even.

The woman slowly lowered herself into the booth without taking her eyes off me.

The man looked my way.

He hesitated for just a second before walking over.

Then he held his arms out slightly in greeting.

“Luke, right?” he asked.
“I think we spoke online about the apartment upstairs.”

I reached out to shake his hand.

“Yeah. This is the place.”

He shook it firmly.

“I take it you had a good drive,” he said, glancing toward the rain-streaked windows.
“At least until now.”

I nodded.

“Well, I’m not gonna waste any more of your time than I have to. Since you already paid rent the other day—and weren’t here yet—I’ll do you a favor.”

He smiled faintly.

“A month from now, you pay again.”

Then he finally let go of my hand.

Long handshake, I thought.

Something about it felt deliberate.

He left the keys sitting in my palm.

“Apartment’s through that door. Up the stairs.”

He pointed toward a door near the back of the restaurant.

A faded sign hung across it.

SOLD.

I glanced back toward the old woman.

“What’s her deal?” I whispered.
“She wouldn’t stop looking at me.”

The man followed my gaze.

“Oh, Margaret?”

He smiled faintly.

“She’s blind.”

A pause.

“Wouldn’t hurt a fly. You’ve got nothing to worry about.”

Something about the way he said it didn’t help.

“If you need anything else, I’ll be in the back,” he continued.
“And if you’re hungry, I could make you something.”

“No,” I said quickly.
“No, thank you.”

I tightened my grip on the keys.

“What I need… is a nap.”

For a moment, neither of us said anything.

The silence stretched long enough that I finally turned and walked away first.

As I climbed the stairs, I noticed something strange.

No creaking floorboards.
No exposed pipes.

The building felt… clean.

Which was the opposite impression I’d gotten from outside.

Maybe the storm had made the place seem worse than it was.

Not that it really mattered anymore.

By the time I reached the top floor, another thing stood out to me.

There was no apartment door.

Just an open room.

A stained mattress sat in the middle of the floor beneath a single dim light.

Folded sheets and a pillow rested neatly on top of it.

The room smelled faintly of mold.

As I stared at the mattress, I remembered I’d left my bags in the car.

Not that I was going back out in that storm.

I’d wait until morning.

After a few minutes of wandering the room and memorizing the layout, I unfolded the sheets and dragged the mattress into the corner opposite the windows.

Then I sat down and listened to the rain.

A crash echoed from downstairs.

Porcelain.

I got up immediately and headed back down to make sure nobody was hurt.

The restaurant was empty.

No sign of the old woman.
No sign of the landlord.

Just a shattered white plate in the middle of the floor.

Most of it had broken into tiny pieces.

But one fragment remained almost intact.

A painted image stretched across it—
the roof of a snow-covered house.

Everything else lay scattered around it in fragments.

The floor beneath my shoes felt damp.

Soft.

Every step I took felt heavier than the last.

Like I was slowly sinking into it.

Not water.
Not wood.

Something thicker.

Red beneath the porcelain shards.

Like quicksand.

The whole building felt… wrong.

Uneasy.

Sick.

However you want to put it.

The air felt heavy. Thick enough that every movement reminded me of wading through a river.

Then the bell above the front door chimed.

I turned.

A man stepped inside wearing a baseball cap, overalls, and a red flannel jacket darkened by the rain.

“How you doing?” he asked casually.

I stared at him for a moment too long.

“Where’s Margaret?” I asked.

“I’m sorry?”

Something about him made my stomach tighten.

He looked exactly like the landlord.

Not similar.

Exact.

Same face.
Same voice.

Just dressed differently.

“The resemblance was uncanny.”

“Twins?” I asked.

“I’m an only child,” he replied immediately.

His expression never changed.

“You new here?” he asked.

“First day. Just moved from out west.”

He nodded slowly, like he already knew that.

“Mind if I give you some advice?”

“Advice?”

“I mean, if you don’t want it, I won’t give it.”

“No—go ahead.”

For the first time since walking in, he glanced toward the rain-covered windows.

“Keep to yourself.”

A pause.

“There’s no bigger problem in this town than outsiders.”

“Pardon?”

He scratched at the side of his neck.

“No offense,” he said.
“It’s just… you people always bring something with you.”

Something about the way he said it made my chest tighten.

“Listen,” I snapped, “you don’t know a damn thing about me.”

His eyes stayed fixed on mine.

“And you need to stop acting like you do.”

I stared at him for a moment.

Something felt wrong.

Then I realized what it was.

There was no reflection in his eyes.

No shine from the lights.
No movement.

Just flat darkness staring back at me.

I blinked hard.

And suddenly—

the reflection was there.

Like his eyes had noticed the mistake…

and corrected it.

“Let me rephrase,” he said calmly.

“The tide’s rolling in soon.”

He glanced toward the windows.

“I’d head back upstairs if I were you.”

A pause.

“Or get yourself a drink.”

He tapped his glass against the table.

“Tide?” I asked.

“The storm,” he replied.
“It’s a big one.”

He leaned back slightly.

“Sleep through it.”

I shook my head and headed back upstairs.

I sat on the mattress listening to the rain hammer against the building until exhaustion finally pulled me under.

I don’t know how long I slept.

But when I woke up, the storm outside was worse.

The wind thrashed against the building.

Like waves crashing against the walls themselves.

I slowly sat up.

Something was different.

Then I noticed the windows.

The curtains were drawn shut.

I never shut them.
I looked at them for a moment. wondering. Who? or how.

Then I heard it.

A child’s voice downstairs.

A little boy.

“Dad?”

The word echoed softly through the building beneath the storm.

Then again.

“Dad?”

I stayed perfectly still, listening.

Something about it felt wrong.

Not the voice itself.

Where it was coming from.

It sounded close.

Too close.

Like the boy was standing just outside the room—
right near the top of the staircase.

But when I looked toward the doorway, nothing was there.
And the staircase beside it.

Downstairs? I thought.
No.
It couldn’t be downstairs.

The voice sounded too close.
Like it had been right in front of me.

The hairs on my arms stood up instantly.
Every part of me had been trying to warn me since I got here.

The people.
The building.
The storm.

Something about this town wasn’t right.

It took everything in me just to stand and walk toward the staircase.

Slowly, I stepped closer and looked down into the darkness below.

Nothing.

No child.
No movement.
Not even dust.

The staircase was completely still.

But there was one thing.

A smell.

I hadn’t noticed it before.

Salt.

Strong enough now that it filled my lungs the closer I got to the bottom of the stairs.

Like ocean water trapped inside the building itself.

Even now—hours later as I write this—
I can still smell it.

I walked back into my room, attempting to close the door behind me.
Forgetting there is none.

I walked toward the window and pulled the curtain aside to look out.

“DON’T!” the landlord stood at the doorway.
“Don’t look outside.”
“What? Why?”
“Just don’t look out.”

“Why is it that big of a deal if I look out a window or not?”

He hesitates. “Look out if you must.”

He turns around and walks down the stairs.

A knock on the window.

I peek out and the glass hums. In the mist, I see someone. A kid. Standing on the port.

But before I could get a good look, the mist obscures him.

Beneath the window—almost like it was in my car—I hear what sounds like my ex-wife.

“Honey! Come outside. We’re waiting.”

Wait… was that them? Are they out there in the storm?

I rush down the stairs and to the front door. I open it.

Before I knew it, the mist was throughout the whole room. I couldn’t see anything.

A deep groan came from the sea outside.

I step into the mist and look around, and nobody is outside.

A shadow.
Then another.

They went inside.

There’s a scream.

I run inside and shut the door behind me.

As I turn around, in the same spot as before, the blind woman sits in the booth.

Her body is now pale as the mist—no color left in her at all.
I rush over to her and check her pulse.
Nothing.

As I lift my hand, it shakes.

A hand rests on my shoulder.

“You shouldn’t have looked outside.”

“I… I didn’t know.”

“They were closed for a reason.”

I turn to look at them.

There is nobody there.

I fall to the floor and just sit there.

I don’t even remember how long.

I just cried until the storm passed.

Afterwards, the landlord told me to leave.

“This place isn’t good for you,” he said.

I agreed. A woman had died.
Because of my negligence—or his lack of warning.

Now it’s 9 PM. I’m staying in a motel as I write what happened, asking if anyone has encountered anything similar.

The room smells faintly of salt. Not strong—just enough that I notice it every few minutes, like it comes and goes with the air.

Nobody is answering their phones. And those who do don’t believe a word of my story—they think I’m asking for an alibi.

I think tomorrow I will report what happened to the police. After which, I will be heading back west. No real plan after that. Just one goal.

Avoid the coast.

Even writing it feels wrong, like I’m putting distance on something that isn’t actually staying behind me. 

I am a priest in a small town. A tight-knit community. The kind that wouldn’t hurt a fly—though we do have our rougher individuals. What town doesn’t?

By all accounts, we are normal.

For the past month, a new individual has shown up every Sunday after Mass. I will refer to them as he for now. I have not seen his face, only heard his voice—raspy, worn. The kind you’d expect from a man who has worked construction for years.

The first time we spoke, I was sitting in the booth waiting. For a few moments, nothing happened.

Then the curtain on the other side rattled open. Someone sat down and closed it behind him.

He was quiet. Breathing slow and heavy. Even his breath seemed to fill the booth, making it feel warmer.

“Forgive me, Father, for I will sin.”

I assumed he had misspoken.

“How long has it been since your last confession?” I ask.

“Never.”

“What were your sins?”

“Nothing yet.”

“You can tell me the truth, son. This is between you, me, and the Lord Almighty.”

Silence.

“Whatever you plan on doing—however large or small—a sin is still a sin. And you wouldn’t want God to have an unfavorable judgment when you reach His gates, would you?”

“Father… how about your sins?”

“My sins?”

“Will He approve of your sins?”

The man stands and leaves the booth.

The warmth he left behind lingers—stagnant, trapped in the space like a sauna.

For the next week, I thought about it. Deeply. Things I had long buried. Things anyone would forget… and things no one should.

Until Sunday.

After Mass, the man returned. He sat in the booth and said:

“Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned.”

His voice was thicker this time, as though he had smoked twenty cigarettes before stepping inside.

He reeked of garlic.

“I’ve killed.”

“Take a breath, son. God is here. Now tell me—was this an accident?”

“No.”

“Who have you killed?”

“An older lady. She was gardening.”

“Have you spoken to anyone about this?”

Silence.

The smell grows stronger—more pungent now, like rotten eggs.

He says nothing.

I felt as if he were staring at me through the screen, though I could not see him.

At that moment, I was unsure what to do. Conflicted. Do I betray my oath and report his crime?

I sat there for nearly a minute, weighing it. If he stayed free, would he do it again? Was he even telling the truth?

I clear my throat.

“As I cannot tell you to turn yourself in, I believe you should. But I will assign you to volunteer at the community garden. Fast for a week. Reflect upon your actions. Read your scripture more thoroughly. And please—I encourage you to turn yourself in.”

The man scoffs. “Next week father?”

Before I can respond, he walks out.

I am half tempted to pull the curtain aside and see him.

But I don’t.

The third Sunday.

He steps into the booth. Sits down. Faces forward. I swear he doesn’t glance my way once—not the entire time.

“Good evening, Father.”

“How was your penance?”

“I have sinned, Father.”

“We will get to that in a moment. How was your penance?”

“I’ve killed a man.”

I don’t say anything. I just sit there, mouth shut.

“A sinner. A gambling man. It’s what God would’ve wanted.”

The booth falls silent.

It almost feels like he’s breathing on the back of my neck—yet a wall separates us.

The only thing between a madman… and myself.

“God wouldn’t approve of his lifestyle. But that is no reason to kill a man. Do you see me killing someone for what they believe?”

“Do you think God wants that of me?” I add.

He falls silent.

The sulfuric stench clings to the seat as he stands and exits the booth.

The entire next week, I regret not accepting his confession. I am not one to judge. We are all sinners.

Then today— 4/26/26.

He steps into the booth. Same foul stench. Same nicotine-ridden voice. But now… there’s a weight to his boots.

He doesn’t sit right away.

“Father, it’s time for you to confess.”

His voice drops—something deeper beneath it. A guttural undertone that doesn’t belong to him.

“I have seen you kill… for what people believe in.”

The room goes still. Cold as a refrigerator.

“You misled your congregation, Father.”

“And how did I do that?”

“Oh… where to start,” he says with a low chuckle.

“Selling them your so-called anointed oils. It led to the death of an old woman. A gardener. Does that sound familiar?”

“Or how about when someone tried to expose you—misused funds, wasn’t it? You killed him. A man by the name of Jared… was it?”

“Who are you?”

The air grows thick. Like breathing molasses.

“Do you repent?”

“Yes—yes. I confess. I am truly sorry.”

The voice murmurs something. I can’t make it out.

I lower my head into my hands.

How?

Why?

“You are not forgiven.”

The man stands and steps out of the booth.

A moment passes.

Then the curtain rustles again.

A woman steps in.

“Do you have any more of that oil?” she asks.

“My son has leukemia. I think he’s getting better.”

She smiles faintly.

“You know… they always get worse before they get better.”

I ignore her and step out of the booth.

On the pew before me rests an open Bible.

Between its pages is a yellowed substance—thick, smeared into the paper.

The Bible is opened to 2 Corinthians 12:7–10.

“A thorn in the flesh was given to me…”

I touch the substance with my finger.
Bring it to my mouth.

Sulfur.

I have these dreams. Of a town called Redmon’s Warren. In them, I stare at the sign for what feels like an eternity.

That’s all I remember. There might be more to it, but my mind goes blank. It bothers me.

The sign stands on two wooden poles. A green board with wooden lettering that reads:

“Redmon’s Warren”
Beneath it: “Where dreams come true.”

Over the past few nights, when I’m not at work, I’ve been scouring the internet. Reddit. Random forums. Even Google Maps.

Nothing. Radio silence. There is no town called Redmon’s Warren.

That was until I found an article from a now-defunct news agency in an internet archive.

“R. W. Times couple found dead in mine shaft after tragic countryside collapse.”

I printed out the article. As I was putting it away, I noticed the date: 11/9/93.

If I had to guess, the town must have collapsed sometime in the 2000s. The housing crisis and everything else might’ve caused it to disappear.

As I went to sleep that night, all I could think about was that town. How could a place just fall off the face of the earth? And why was I dreaming about somewhere I’d never even heard of?

I woke up with a drawing on my chest.

An old man. White hair. Brown coat. Kneeling at the side of a road, feeding a squirrel. Thick fog and pine trees surrounded him—leaning inward, like they were bowing.

But the most distinct part of the drawing wasn’t the man.

It was the address.

An address to a town a few hours north of me.

I stared at the drawing for nearly an hour. Checked the doors. The windows. There was no way anyone could have gotten in.

But…

A freshly sharpened pencil now rests on my desk.

Later that night, I went to a bar with a friend. After a few drinks, I told her what I’d found. The conversation went something like this:

“Jackson, I heard you’ve been having sleep problems?”

“Yeah,” I reply.

“Have you seen a doctor about it?”

“No, no—it’s nothing like that. I just keep having this recurring dream.”

“Can you tell me about it, or—?”

“Jamie, I’m trying to—”

“No, no, you’re right. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have asked,” she says, looking down at her drink.

I pause.

“Have you heard of Redmon’s Warren?”

“Redmon’s Warren?” she asks.

“Yeah.”

She goes quiet for a moment. Hesitates. Then takes a drink.

“Never heard of it.”

“Come on. I’ve known you for how long? You can do better than that,” I reply.

She looks me in the eyes.

“Never heard of it.”

I reach into my pocket and pull out the paper.

“This was on my chest when I woke up.”

I set it on the table and push it toward her.

She turns it around and studies it for a moment.

“You drew this?”

“No, no,” I say. “It was on my chest. I didn’t draw it. Hell, I wish I could draw.”

“It sounds like you need sleep,” she says with a slight sigh.

“Why are you looking at me like I’m insane?”

“I’m not. What do you mean?”

“Whatever. I don’t have time for this.”

I stand up and step out of the booth. “I’m heading there tomorrow—”

“Wait.”

She pauses.

“That’s my grandfather.”

“Your grandfather?”

“He and my grandmother died in ’93. I know that picture anywhere. They…”

She trails off, swallowing.

“They died in a mineshaft when my mom was twelve. There’s a photo just like that in our living room.”

“Your grandfather? How is that—”

“I want to come,” she says.

“No. It could be dangerous.”

“And? You’re getting recurring dreams of a town I’ve never even heard of, and a drawing of my grandfather shows up on your chest. This clearly has something to do with me. We’ve known each other our whole lives—practically siblings. Hell, if you’re going to take anyone to do this, it better be me.”

“Fine. Fine. On one condition—you send me a picture of that photo of your grandpa. I want to see it.”

“Seriously?”

I start to walk away.

“I’ll pick you up tomorrow around 12,” I say.”

Now, today. As I write this at 10 a.m., she sent me the photo.

It’s the picture of her grandfather.

But something is wrong.

The trees are standing perfectly straight. There’s a raccoon instead of a squirrel. Or is it an owl?

We’re heading out later today. I’ll update this when I can. If anyone has any idea what this could be… I’m all ears.

Every night before I fall asleep, I listen to music. White noise. Something to drown out the silence of the night. I keep the lights off because I can’t sleep with light bleeding through my eyelids.

Yet every month, on the third, I wake up in the middle of the night. 3 or 4 a.m. No rhyme or reason. My mom first noticed it when I was a few years old. She’s a pretty happy-go-lucky person, so she never really thought anything of it.

But last night, I was on a call with a few of my friends, and we started talking about ghost stories we’d experienced. Most of them were probably made up. My friend Aiden, for example, said that one time he and his dad were driving to Ohio and saw a woman in a white dress on the road. I didn’t buy any of it. Eventually, they started begging me to tell one.

I told them I’d never experienced anything supernatural. They called me boring—lame. After thinking for a moment, I told them about how I uncontrollably wake up.

They asked, “Have you ever tried to stay up the whole night?”

I hadn’t.

Which is why I’m trying it tonight. They begged me to do it on call, with my webcam on.

“Alan, stay awake, man,” Aiden says with a sigh.

“Huh?” I shake my head, trying to wake myself back up.

“I’m gonna make a coffee. I’ll be back,” I say.

As I take my headphones off, I hear from the speakers, “Alan, make me a coffee also,” followed by a few giggles.

I glance at the webcam, shake my head, and smile. The time on my PC reads 2:45 a.m.

I work tomorrow. Why am I doing this anyway?

The chair creaks as I stand and walk into the hall.

The wooden floorboards creak beneath my feet as I head toward the kitchen—loud enough to wake a small village.

I sit in the kitchen, waiting for the coffee to brew, twiddling my thumbs. I left my phone on my desk.

The coffee burns my tongue. Too hot. But I need to stay awake.

As I walk back to my room, the house falls silent. Like a forest on a winter’s day.

I set the cup down on my desk and sink back into my chair. My headphones, lying on the desk, buzz faintly.

The time is 3:00 a.m.

There’s no way it took me fifteen minutes to make a coffee. Right?

I brush it off and put the headphones back on.

“Alan, what took you so long? Get lost?” Ryan says.

I ignore him. “It’s 3. Nothing happened. Are you two happy?”

“Behind you.”

“Stop messing with me. That’s so immature,” I say with a slight chuckle.

“No, seriously. Look behind you.”

I hesitate. They’re just messing with me. There’s—

I cut myself off and quickly turn around. Nothing.

“There’s no way he actually fell for that,” Ryan says.

But on the corner of my door…

There’s something.

An outline.

A person—standing there, looking down at me.

They would have to be—

I slowly turn around.

Trying to act like there isn’t something—someone—standing in the hallway, watching me.

“Is he okay?”

“Yeah. No, I’m fine.”

“You know we’re just messing with you, right?” Aiden says, his voice edged with confusion.

I click onto my webcam to see what they’re seeing.

There’s nothing behind me.

My mind must be playing tricks on me, I tell myself as I take another sip of coffee.

“Alan… honey. Did you make coffee for me as well?” my mom calls out.

I hesitate.

“No, I didn’t. Do you want some?”

“Alan, are you good?” Ryan asks.

My skin crawls. Should I turn around?

I set the coffee down.

The floor creaks behind me.

“Did you hear that?” I ask.

The Wi-Fi cuts out. I click around—the call, the group chat—anything, just trying to hear them.

The room turns cold, like all the blood in my body has drained out, leaving me hollow.

I tap my foot against the floor, trying to distract myself.

Knock. Knock. Knock.

The sound echoes down the hall—farther away, then closer. Moving.

“Alan… honey. Coffee?”

My neck starts to itch as I force myself to turn around.

I grab my phone and call Aiden.

After what feels like forever, he answers. “Yo, what happened? You left.”

The call cuts out.

From the door, I hear scratching. Clawing. I don’t know how else to describe it.

“Alan… I’m—coming in,” something says. It sounds like Ryan, but the voice skips, dropping pieces of itself between words.

I hear something crawling. Like a spider moving along the wall.

Its legs—tendrils—tap against the surface as it climbs.

Higher.

Closer.

Until it stops.

Above me.

The urge to look up overwhelms me.

Slowly, I do.

A colorless void clings to the ceiling.

The light from my monitor bends toward it—stretching, thinning—like it’s being pulled in.

My ceiling fan is gone.

There’s only that thing.

From the hallway: “Alan, are you good?”

I jump to my feet, knocking the chair back as I stare at it.

I sprint out of the room, down the hall, and into the bathroom. I slam the door shut, lock it, and wait.

A voice from my room—its cadence shifting, breaking mid-sentence:
“Go to sleep. It’s late.”

Scratching. The same voices. The same sentences. Over and over. For hours.

Until it stops.

And I’m not sure which was worse—the noise, or the silence.

I wait.

And wait.

Until I finally build up the courage to leave the bathroom. I peek around corners, fully expecting to see something again.

Nothing.

My bedroom window is open. Light spills in. Sunrise.

I walk to my desk and check the time.

5:54 a.m.

I check the group chat. Everyone is offline.

For the next hour, I try to rationalize what happened. My monthly… whatever this is. I call off work.

One thought keeps coming back.

As I write this, I’m afraid to leave my room. Afraid to look out my window. Afraid of next month.

If anyone has any advice—anything—please help.