r/MrCreepyPasta

I used to think the worst part of my apartment was the noise.

Every night, right around 2:17 a.m., I’d hear something shift above me. Not loud—just a faint dragging sound, like fabric being pulled slowly across wood. At first, I blamed the upstairs neighbor. Old building, thin floors, whatever.

But then I met her.

She laughed when I asked.

“I live below you,” she said. “There’s no one upstairs. That unit’s been empty for months.”

I wish I had left it there.

Instead, I started listening more carefully.

The sound wasn’t random. It followed a pattern. Three slow drags… pause… then a soft thump. Every single night. Same time. Same rhythm. Like something was pacing. Or practicing.

One night, I stayed up to record it.

At exactly 2:17, the dragging started. I held my phone to the ceiling, barely breathing. The sound came through clearly—closer than I expected, like it wasn’t above me, but inside the ceiling itself.

Then, in the recording, there was something I didn’t hear in real time.

A whisper.

I replayed it over and over, turning the volume all the way up. It was faint, stretched thin, like it had to crawl through wood and dust to reach me.

“…almost… done…”

I didn’t sleep after that.

The next morning, I called maintenance and insisted they check the unit upstairs. The guy looked annoyed, but he let me follow him up.

The door creaked open. Dust everywhere. No furniture. No signs of anyone living there.

But the floor…

There were marks.

Long, thin scratches dragged across the wood, looping from one end of the room to the other. Overlapping. Repeating. Like something had been tracing the same path again and again.

“Probably old damage,” the guy shrugged.

Then I saw the hatch.

A small, square panel in the corner of the ceiling—leading to the attic.

It was slightly open.

“Hey,” I said, pointing. “Was that open before?”

He frowned. “No… shouldn’t be.”

He dragged over a chair and pushed it open the rest of the way. A ladder unfolded with a sharp snap, echoing through the empty apartment.

“Stay here,” he said, climbing up.

I didn’t listen.

I followed him.

The attic was low and suffocating, thick with insulation and the smell of something damp and stale. He swept his flashlight around.

At first, nothing.

Then the beam caught something in the far corner.

A shape.

Too long to be a person. Too thin. Folded in on itself like it had too many joints and not enough space to use them.

It didn’t move.

“Probably just—” he started.

Then it unfolded.

Not quickly. Not suddenly. Just… wrong. Like watching something remember how to stand.

The dragging sound filled the attic.

Three slow pulls.

Pause.

Thump.

It turned toward us.

I didn’t see a face. Not really. Just an impression of one, pressed into skin that looked stretched too tight, like it didn’t belong to whatever was underneath.

Then it spoke.

Not from its mouth.

From everywhere.

“…almost… done…”

The maintenance guy fell backward off the ladder.

I don’t remember climbing down. I don’t remember getting back into my apartment. I just remember the sound following me.

That night, I didn’t stay.

I packed what I could and left before midnight.

I’m staying at a motel now. I haven’t heard the dragging since.

But last night, I listened to that recording again.

I thought I knew what it said.

“…almost… done…”

But I was wrong.

There’s more.

It was just too quiet to hear before.

Right after that whisper, there’s another voice.

Clearer. Closer.

And it sounds exactly like me.

“…almost… down.”

Something extraordinary has happened. I’ve kept it to myself longer than I should have, telling myself it was safer that way—that it was part of some greater plan I wasn’t meant to interfere with.

But I can’t carry it alone anymore.

If I’m wrong… then at least someone else will know. And if I’m right—if this truly is what I believe it is—then the world deserves to understand.

My name is Dominik. I am an associate pastor at the only chapel in Los Haven.

Or at least, I still try to be.

Faith doesn’t come easily in a place like this. Los Haven isn’t just corrupt—it feels abandoned by God. Like whatever light once touched it has long since turned away. You grow up surrounded by violence, by cruelty that goes unpunished, and eventually you stop expecting anything better.

It becomes difficult to believe in Heaven when your whole life has been spent in something that feels like Hell.

The only reason I held onto my faith as long as I did was because of Pastor Frederick. He took me in when I was a child—gave me food, shelter, purpose. He raised me as his own.

He was the closest thing I ever had to a father.

And for years, I believed he was the one good man this city had left.

I was wrong.

When the truth came out, it didn’t just shake my faith—it shattered it. The things he had done, hidden beneath the very chapel where he preached… I still can’t bring myself to write them out in full. Women. Locked away. Forgotten. For decades.

It made everything feel hollow. Every sermon, every prayer, every word he ever spoke.

After that, I stopped trying to be anything at all. I drank. I used whatever I could get my hands on. I filled my nights with noise and bodies—anything that might quiet the emptiness inside me.

But when it got quiet—when I was alone—it always came back.

So I prayed.

Not because I believed. Not anymore. But because I didn’t know what else to do.

I would kneel there in the dark, night after night, asking for something. A sign. A reason. Anything to prove that there was still… something out there worth holding onto.

And then, one night, something answered.

It was late. Around 2 a.m., maybe. I hadn’t been keeping track of time for a while. Rain hammered against the windows hard enough to blur the glass, steady and relentless. I remember staring at the floor, mumbling half-formed prayers, my head heavy, my thoughts drifting.

That’s when I heard it.

A sound that didn’t belong.

At first it was faint—a thin, rising wail that almost blended into the storm. Easy to dismiss. Easy to ignore.

But then it changed.

It sharpened.

Became something raw.

A scream.

Not a word. Not a cry for help. Just pain. Pure, unbearable pain.

And then—

A heavy thud.

Close.

My backyard.

I stayed still, listening, waiting for it to come again. When it didn’t, I pushed myself to my feet. My heart was beating harder than it had in weeks.

I grabbed my shotgun before going outside. Habit. Survival. Even a man of God learns that much in Los Haven.

The rain hit me immediately—cold, soaking, needling against my skin. The yard was barely visible, the ground already turning to mud beneath my feet.

And then I saw her.

She was lying in the center of the yard, crumpled where she had fallen. Naked. Barely moving.

For a moment, I thought she was dead.

Then her chest rose. Just slightly.

And I saw them.

Her wings.

Not the kind you see in paintings. Not soft or radiant or whole. These were broken. Twisted. Feathers bent at wrong angles, some torn out entirely, leaving behind dark, wet patches where blood mixed with rainwater.

They looked heavy. Useless.

Like something that had failed.

She looked like something that had been thrown away.

Bruised. Swollen. Hurt in ways I couldn’t begin to understand.

And yet…

She was beautiful.

Not in a simple way. Not something I could explain. It was something else. Something that made everything around me fade—the rain, the cold, the fear.

I remember whispering it out loud.

“A miracle…”

Because that’s what she was.

I had asked for a sign.

And God had given me one.

She was unconscious when I reached her. Light—too light. Her skin was cold against my hands, her breathing shallow, uneven.

I couldn’t leave her out there. Not in this city. Not like that.

So I brought her inside.

I laid her in my bed, dried her off as best I could, covered her. I didn’t know what else to do—only that I couldn’t let anything else happen to her.

That’s when the nightmares began.

Her body jerked violently beneath the blankets. Her breathing turned sharp, panicked. She clawed at herself—her chest, her stomach—hard enough to leave fresh marks over already damaged skin.

“Hey—stop, you’re hurting yourself,” I said, grabbing her wrists.

She didn’t respond. Didn’t hear me.

She was stronger than she looked. Desperate strength. The kind that doesn’t think, only reacts. She thrashed like something caught in a trap, and I could barely keep her from tearing herself apart.

I didn’t have a choice.

I tied her wrists to the bed. Carefully. Securely.

“I’m sorry,” I told her, tightening the knots. “This is just to keep you safe.”

I stayed with her. I didn’t trust leaving her alone—not like that.

When she woke, it was sudden. Immediate panic.

Her eyes snapped open, wide and unfocused. She pulled against the restraints, breathing fast, chest rising and falling in sharp, uneven bursts.

“It’s okay,” I said quickly, keeping my voice steady. “You’re safe. Nothing can hurt you here.”

I don’t think she understood me.

Her gaze darted around the room, searching, frantic—until it landed on me.

And something shifted.

Fear, yes. But something else beneath it.

Distrust.

“It’s alright,” I repeated, softer now. “I’m here to help you.”

I tried to get her to speak. To tell me what had happened.

When I gently opened her mouth, I understood why she hadn’t made a sound.

Her tongue was gone.

Cut out. Clean. Deliberate.

Something cold settled in my stomach.

What kind of thing would do that?

What kind of thing could?

I made her soup that night. Something warm. Something she wouldn’t have to chew.

She didn’t recognize it. That much was clear. She flinched when I brought the spoon close, turning her head away, her body tensing against the restraints.

“It’s just food,” I said softly. “You need it.”

She resisted.

I held her jaw—gentle, but firm—and guided the spoon to her lips.

“Easy… just a little.”

Some of it spilled. Some she choked on, coughing weakly, her body shaking with the effort.

“It’s alright,” I murmured. “You’ll get used to it.”

I kept feeding her until she swallowed enough. She needed her strength back. That mattered more than her fear.

“Good girl,” I said, brushing her hair back into place.

The words felt natural. Right.

After that, I took care of her. Every day.

Feeding her. Cleaning her wounds. Washing her. Talking to her, even if she couldn’t respond.

I taught her small things. How to stay still. How to follow simple instructions.

She watched me constantly.

Always tense.

Always waiting.

One day, I thought she was ready.

I loosened the restraints. Just enough to give her some freedom. To show her she could trust me.

The reaction was immediate.

She lashed out, her nails cutting across my face before I could pull back. Then she was off the bed, stumbling toward the door, desperate, unsteady.

“No—stop!”

A wave of panic hit me, sharp and sudden.

She didn’t understand what was out there. What would happen if she got out like this.

I caught her before she could reach the hallway, pulling her back as she fought against me, wild, terrified.

“You can’t go out there,” I said, struggling to hold her still. “You don’t know what’s out there!”

She didn’t stop.

So I steadied her the only way I could.

My hand closed around her throat—not tight, just enough pressure to ground her, to make her stop fighting.

“Calm down,” I whispered. “You’re safe. I won’t let anything happen to you.”

She struggled for a moment longer. Then less.

Then… not at all.

“That’s it,” I said softly. “You see? You’re alright.”

I carried her back to the bed.

“I’m helping you,” I murmured to reassure her.

I secured the restraints again. Tighter this time.

“I won’t let this city take you too.”

 

Over the following weeks, I started to believe we were… connecting.

Not just existing in the same space, but forming something real.

It didn’t happen all at once. At first, she wouldn’t look at me unless she had to. Every movement I made—every step closer to the bed—made her body tense, like she was bracing for something.

But little by little, that edge dulled.

Her eyes didn’t dart away as quickly. She stopped pulling at the restraints unless something startled her. Sometimes she would just lie there, watching me without that same frantic energy.

I took that as a sign.

So I leaned into it.

I brought in a small television and set it up across from the bed. The reception was poor—flickering images, washed-out colors—but I managed to find a few old cartoons. Bright, simple things. Soft voices. Predictable endings.

At first, she didn’t react.

She just stared past it. Past me.

But I kept it on anyway. Sat beside her, speaking quietly, explaining things she couldn’t ask about.

“They’re friends,” I told her once, nodding toward the screen. “See? They help each other. That’s what matters.”

Her gaze lingered there a moment longer than usual.

It was small. But it was something.

After that, it became routine. I would sit with her for hours, the same episodes looping over and over. The light from the screen would flicker across her face, reflecting faintly in her eyes.

Sometimes she looked… still.

Not calm. Not really.

But quieter.

I started to look forward to those moments.

It felt like progress. Like proof that what I was doing mattered.

Taking care of her gave me something I hadn’t felt in a long time.

Purpose.

The more I focused on her, the quieter everything else became. The past didn’t press in as much. The questions didn’t feel as heavy. It was as if helping her—protecting her—was slowly putting something broken inside me back together.

But the room wasn’t enough.

I started noticing it more. The damp creeping along the walls. The smell that never quite went away, no matter how much I cleaned. When it rained, the ceiling would leak—slow, steady drips that echoed in the silence.

It wasn’t a place meant for something like her.

She deserved better.

The thought came slowly, but once it settled, it didn’t leave.

The chapel.

More specifically… the basement.

I hadn’t gone down there since everything came to light. Most people avoided the entire building now. But it was still there. Empty. Hidden.

And spacious.

The first time I unlocked the door again, my hands were shaking. The smell hit me immediately—stale air, something deeper beneath it that time hadn’t managed to erase.

I hesitated at the threshold.

Then I stepped inside.

“This isn’t what it was,” I said out loud, my voice hollow in the empty space. “It won’t be.”

I spent days down there. Cleaning. Scrubbing. Tearing things out. Anything that reminded me of what had happened there, I removed. I worked until my hands blistered, until my arms ached, until I was too exhausted to think.

I wasn’t restoring it.

I was remaking it.

For her.

At the center of the room, I built something new.

A glass enclosure. Large enough for her to move freely—but contained. Safe. The panels were thick, reinforced, fixed into the floor. I checked every edge, every corner. Nothing sharp. Nothing she could use to hurt herself.

Inside, I placed everything she might need. A proper bed. Clean sheets. A small table. Paper and crayons, so she could communicate without needing words. A radio, to fill the silence when I wasn’t there.

I even brought the television down.

There was a toilet, too. Privacy mattered. Dignity mattered. I wanted her to feel… comfortable.

There was a small window built into one side of the enclosure. Just large enough to open from the outside. I tested it again and again, making sure it moved smoothly. That I could pass food and water through without any risk.

When it was finished, I stood there for a long time, just looking at it.

It wasn’t a cage.

It couldn’t be.

It was a sanctuary.

A place where nothing could reach her.

Where nothing could hurt her again.

“All of this is for you,” I murmured, already picturing her inside it. Safe. Protected.

For the first time in a long while…

I felt certain I was doing the right thing.

With the chapel abandoned by the town, my work there became… almost nonexistent. No services. No visitors. Just an empty building people avoided.

That left me with time.

All of it.

And I gave it to her.

Days blurred together in the basement. I would sit just outside the glass, watching her move through the space I had made. The radio hummed softly. The television flickered with the same looping programs.

Sometimes she sat on the bed, knees drawn in, staring at nothing.

Other times she paced. Slow, repetitive steps, tracing the same path over and over again.

She never went near the door for long.

Not unless she thought I wasn’t looking.

I talked to her constantly.

There was so much I wanted to know. Questions that pressed against my mind until they almost hurt.

“What was it like up there?” I asked once, leaning closer to the glass. “Was it peaceful?”

No response.

“Who did this to you?” I tried another time, softer now. “Who hurt you?”

Her shoulders tensed. Just slightly.

I noticed. I always noticed.

“And why were you sent here?” I continued. “Was it punishment?”

She moved away from me then, retreating to the far corner, folding in on herself.

I waited before asking the question that mattered most.

“When my time comes… will there still be a place for me?”

The words stayed there between us.

Unanswered.

She didn’t look at me again that day.

I tried to find other ways for her to communicate. That’s why I gave her the paper and crayons. I showed her how to hold them, guiding her hand, drawing simple shapes.

“You can tell me things this way,” I said. “Anything you want.”

She watched me.

But when I placed the crayon in her hand, she held it loosely. Uncertain.

Sometimes she dragged it across the paper—hard, uneven lines.

Sometimes she dropped it immediately.

One time… she pressed so hard the crayon snapped.

She stared at the broken piece for a long time after that.

“I know you can do this,” I told her, keeping my voice steady. “You just need time.”

But time didn’t change much.

If she understood me, she didn’t show it.

Still… something was shifting. I could feel it.

She didn’t recoil as quickly when I approached. Her breathing didn’t spike the same way. Sometimes, when I spoke, she would look at me—really look.

There was something there.

Recognition, maybe.

Trust.

I held onto that.

And as it grew, I started rewarding it.

Extra food at first. Small things. Another portion. Something sweeter when I could get it. I made sure to give it to her when she stayed calm. When she didn’t pull away.

“See?” I said gently, sliding the tray through the window. “This is good. You’re doing well.”

She hesitated. Always hesitated.

But she ate.

After a while, that didn’t feel like enough.

The glass between us started to feel unnecessary.

So one evening, I unlocked the enclosure and stepped inside with her meal.

She noticed immediately. Her whole body went rigid, her eyes locking onto me.

“It’s alright,” I said quickly, keeping my movements slow. “It’s just me.”

I crouched a short distance away, setting the bowl down carefully.

“I thought this might be better.”

She didn’t move.

Not toward the food. Not away from me. Just watched.

“It’s okay,” I repeated softly. “You don’t have to be afraid.”

I picked up the spoon. Held it out.

“Here. I’ll help you.”

A long pause.

Then, slowly, she leaned forward. Just a little.

It was enough.

“That’s it,” I murmured, guiding the spoon toward her mouth. “You’re safe.”

Up close, I could see everything. The faint tremor in her hands. The way her eyes kept flicking past me—toward the door. Measuring. Waiting.

But she didn’t pull away.

Not this time.

And as I fed her, one slow spoonful at a time, that quiet certainty settled in again.

This was working.

She was learning.

Learning to trust me.

I smiled at her when she leaned closer again.

“That’s it,” I said softly. “You see? There’s nothing to be afraid of.”

For a moment, she just stared at me.

Then she moved.

Fast.

Her head snapped forward, slamming into my chin. Pain burst through my jaw, sharp enough to make my vision blur. I staggered back.

That was all she needed.

She grabbed the spoon.

And drove it into my eye.

The pain didn’t register right away—just pressure, wet and sudden—then it exploded, white-hot, swallowing everything else.

I tried to shout, but it came out broken.

She screamed too. A raw, wordless sound—and then she ran.

Toward the door.

“No—!”

I dropped blindly, one hand clutching my face, the other reaching. My fingers caught her ankle just as she crossed the threshold.

She fell hard.

We struggled on the floor, slipping against the cold surface. Her fists struck whatever they could reach—my chest, my face, my shoulder. Desperate, unfocused.

“Stop—!”

She didn’t.

She couldn’t.

I grabbed her. Held her down.

“You’re going to hurt yourself—”

She kept fighting.

So I tightened my grip. My hands closing around her throat.

“Please,” I whispered. “Just stop.”

Her movements slowed.

Weakened.

Stopped.

Her body went limp beneath me.

For a moment, there was nothing but the sound of my own breathing.

Then I let go.

“I’m sorry,” I said quietly.

I carried her back to the bed, my vision blurred, my head pounding. I secured the restraints again—tighter this time. Stronger.

I couldn’t let that happen again.

Not for her sake.

Not for mine.

 

I didn’t understand what had gone wrong.

I sat with it for days.

Replaying it over and over in my head—the moment she leaned closer, the way her eyes fixed on mine, the sudden shift. The violence. The fear.

It didn’t fit.

Not with everything I had done for her. Not with the progress we had made.

I tried to see it from every angle. Maybe I had moved too quickly. Maybe she wasn’t ready. Maybe something inside her was still… damaged.

That had to be it.

Because it didn’t make sense otherwise.

Until it did.

The thought didn’t come all at once. It built slowly, piece by piece, until there was no other explanation left.

She had fallen from Heaven. That much was clear. Broken. Cast down. Stripped of what she once was.

Of course she would be afraid.

Of course she would resist.

You don’t fall that far without losing something. Without becoming… lost.

I had been looking at it the wrong way.

She wasn’t just sent here for me.

I was sent here for her.

The realization settled into place with a kind of quiet certainty. Not sudden—but inevitable. As if it had always been there, waiting for me to understand it.

Redemption goes both ways.

I had asked for salvation.

But she needed it too.

I returned to the chapel not long after. I’m not sure how much time had passed. Days, maybe. It felt different when I stepped inside. Quieter.

Empty—but not hollow.

Waiting.

I walked to the front and knelt before the cross, just like I used to. For the first time in a long while, the words came easily. No hesitation. No doubt.

“Show me,” I whispered, bowing my head. “Tell me what to do.”

The silence that followed didn’t feel empty.

When I lifted my gaze…

The answer was right there.

It always had been.

The cross.

I stared at it for a long time, my thoughts aligning, settling into something clear. Something simple.

It wasn’t punishment.

It was sacrifice.

It was love.

The only way to cleanse what had been broken.

The only way to redeem.

Her.

Me.

All of Los Haven.

Once I understood that, everything else followed naturally.

I prepared carefully. It had to be right. It had to mean something.

Back in the basement, I released the gas into the enclosure. Colorless. Odorless. It filled the space slowly, quietly, curling into the corners.

She didn’t notice at first.

She was sitting on the bed, staring at nothing like she often did. Then her movements slowed. Her posture slackened. Her head dipped forward.

“It’s okay,” I told her through the glass. “You can rest.”

Her body gave in soon after.

When she was still, I opened the enclosure and carried her out. She felt lighter than before. Fragile.

I laid her down gently and took my time.

Everything had to be done properly.

The wreath came first. Not thorns—not exactly—but close enough. Twisted, sharpened, pressing into her skin as I settled it carefully around her head.

“I’m sorry,” I whispered, leaning down to kiss her cheek. “This is for you.”

She didn’t wake.

Not yet.

I positioned her against the wood, lifting her arms into place, securing them where they needed to be. It had to mirror what came before. It had to be right.

My hands trembled as I picked up the first nail.

For a moment, I hesitated.

Then I drove it through her wrist.

Her body jerked awake instantly.

The sound she made—

It wasn’t a scream. Not a word. Just that same raw, broken sound I had heard the night she fell.

“It’s okay,” I said quickly, my voice unsteady but certain. “You’re doing so good. I’m proud of you.”

The second nail went through the other wrist.

She strained against the wood, her body trembling violently, but there was nowhere for her to go.

“This is necessary,” I told her. “This is how it has to be.”

Then her feet.

Each strike echoed through the empty chapel. Loud. Final.

When it was done, I stepped back, breathing heavily, my hands shaking as I wiped them against my clothes.

I climbed down the ladder slowly, each step deliberate.

And then I looked up.

She hung there, high above the chapel floor, framed by dim light filtering through the stained glass.

Broken. Suspended.

Radiant.

More beautiful than ever.

Complete.

I stood there for a long time, just looking at her. Letting it settle inside me.

That certainty.

That peace.

I will be reopening the chapel soon.

The doors will be unlocked again. The pews will be filled.

It’s time Los Haven meets its savior.

You are all invited.

Come and witness.

Let her light guide you.

The way it guided me.

 

ZZTrauma was a fairly well-known girl in a small Roblox community. She often joined abandoned games just to talk to random strangers. Several old players claimed that she met xgh0st_ZZ in an empty server.

He supposedly became obsessed with her.

Constant private messages. Strange threats. Paranoid theories.

Eventually, she blocked him.

A few weeks later, she completely disappeared from Roblox.

Account deleted.

Profile empty.

No more activity.

Three days after her disappearance, xgh0st updated his game called xgh0st_zz places.

The game was empty. Just a simple map with no purpose. Most people assumed it was just an abandoned project accidentally published by xgh0st_ZZ.

But some players noticed something strange.

Whenever someone typed:

one day

in the chat, a message would instantly appear…

Then the player would immediately get kicked from the server without any explanation.

At first, people thought it was just some troll or another internet psychopath trying to scare kids online. Humanity keeps handing unstable people game engines and chat systems. Astonishing strategy.

But after digging deeper into the game, users discovered something far more disturbing.

Hidden in the game’s description was a set of GPS coordinates.

Out of curiosity, several people searched them up.

The location led to an isolated clearing deep in the middle of nowhere. No buildings. No signs. Just an empty patch of land surrounded by trees.

Since that day, nobody ever heard from ZZTrauma again.

Knock. Knock. Knock.

It doesn’t stop.

I don’t know how long I’ve been in here. Hours. Maybe longer. Time turned soft somewhere along the way, like it melted and slid down the drain with the heat from the bathwater.

“Honey, let me in. You’ve been in there long enough. Mum needs to get ready for work.”

Her voice comes through the door, calm, patient. The way she always sounds when she’s trying not to worry me.

I don’t answer. I can’t.

I lie curled in the bathtub, clothes soaked through, the water long since gone cold. My fingers are wrinkled and pale, trembling against my sides. Across the room, something waits.

I don’t look at it.

I tried, earlier. Just a glance. That was enough.

I squeeze my eyes shut instead, like that can undo it. Like if I stay very still, none of this will be real when I open them again.

Knock. Knock. Knock.

“Is everything okay, sweetie? Come on, talk to me. Whatever happened, we can face it together. I love you.”

My hands fly to my ears, pressing hard until it hurts. It doesn’t block her out. Nothing does. Her voice seeps through bone.

I start crying again. I don’t remember when I stopped the first time.

The sound I make is small. Embarrassing. Like a child.

My gaze slips, betrays me.

The body is still there.

On the tile. Half in shadow. Her head turned at an angle it shouldn’t be. Hair stuck to the dark, drying pool beneath her. One of her shoes is missing. I don’t remember when it came off.

“I didn’t mean to,” I whisper, though no one in here can hear me.

We were arguing. I don’t even remember what about. Something stupid. Something that shouldn’t have mattered.

She stepped closer. I told her to stop. She didn’t.

So I pushed her.

Just a shove. Not even that hard.

She slipped.

The sound her head made when it hit—

I choke on it, on the memory. My stomach twists.

“It was an accident,” I say, louder this time. The word echoes off the tiles and comes back thinner. Less convincing.

Knockknockknockknockknock.

The door rattles in its frame.

“Open the door,” she says. Her voice is tighter now. Less patient. “Please. You’re scaring me.”

I drag in a breath that doesn’t go all the way down. The air smells wrong. Metallic. Sweet.

“I can’t,” I whisper.

Because if I open the door, she’ll see.

She’ll see what I did.

Knockknockknockknockknockknockknock.

“Whatever you did, we can fix it together,” she insists. “Mum won’t let you fall. Just let me in.”

I let out a broken laugh that doesn’t feel like mine.

Fix it?

My eyes lock on the body again. On her face. On the way her eyes are still open, staring at nothing. At me.

I force myself to move.

The water sloshes as I push up from the tub. My legs feel weak, like they might fold. For a second, I think maybe they will. Maybe that would be easier.

But I don’t fall.

I step out, dripping onto the tile. Each footstep sounds too loud. Too final.

Closer.

I stop a few feet from her.

The body lies twisted on the floor.

My mothers body.

Behind me, the knocking becomes frantic.

“Let me in. Let me in. Let me in.”

The voice cracks on the last word.

I stare down at the corpse.

At the woman who raised me.

At the woman I killed.

Another knock. Hard enough to make the hinges creak.

“Please,” she says, softer now. Right against the door. “I’m right here.”

My skin prickles.

Slowly, I turn my head toward the bathroom door.

The handle rattles under her hand.

“I’m here,” my mother says.

I look back at the body on the floor.

Then at the door.

Then at the body again.

Knock.

“I’m here. I’m here. I’m here. I’m here.”

I don’t think I can stay in this room anymore.

I'm tired. I want this to be over.

I think I'm gonna open the door now.