The Writing Inertia

It was supposed to be a simple afternoon of clearing out the attic.

Lily sifted through boxes of old books, faded photo albums, and knick-knacks from her childhood home, humming to herself in the dusty light. She’d always felt a strange nostalgia for this house, even though she didn’t remember much of her early years here. Moving away when she was five meant she only had vague memories of the rooms and hallways, but the house felt oddly comforting every time she visited her parents.

In the far corner of the attic, under a frayed quilt, she found a metal box she’d never seen before. Curious, she brushed away the dust and pried it open. Inside, there was an assortment of VHS tapes labeled in faded ink, each with a date scribbled across the top in her mother’s careful handwriting.

She pulled out the first tape, marked “Spring 1997.” She was only two years old then, and memories from that time were nonexistent. She hadn’t seen her parents use the old VHS player in years, but she knew it still sat in the basement gathering dust.

With a sense of curiosity tinged with excitement, Lily made her way down to the basement, popped the tape into the player, and sat back to watch.

The screen flickered, and her mother’s voice echoed from behind the camera.

“Alright, everyone, say hi!”

There she was, her tiny self, wobbling as she toddled towards the camera with a huge grin. Her father appeared next, scooping her up and lifting her high into the air as she giggled. A warm smile spread across Lily’s face as she watched, feeling a strange sort of comfort in these old, forgotten memories. It was like visiting a life she had never fully known.

A few minutes into the video, Lily noticed a figure in the background—a young boy, maybe seven or eight, with shaggy brown hair and big, expressive eyes. He was playing with a set of toy cars, completely focused on lining them up in a neat little row. She squinted at the screen, trying to remember who he was.

Had her parents taken in a neighbor’s kid? A cousin? But her family wasn’t particularly close with anyone who had children that age.

The next tape, labeled “Christmas 1998,” held more surprises. The mysterious boy was there again, sitting beside her at the table as they decorated a gingerbread house. He laughed when she smudged frosting on her face, and she watched as her mother wiped it away, all the while ruffling the boy’s hair with a fondness that made Lily’s skin crawl.

The tapes grew stranger as she went on. The boy was always there, in every video, watching over her as if he were her older brother. She felt an inexplicable tightness in her chest every time he appeared. It was as if she were watching a version of her family she didn’t belong to, a strange alternate universe where this boy was as much a part of her life as anyone else.

Finally, she pulled out a tape labeled simply “July 1999.” There was no mention of a holiday or event, just the date. She hesitated, fingers trembling, but curiosity got the better of her.

The video began with her family playing in the backyard. The boy was there again, helping her onto the swings. This time, he looked older than in the previous videos, almost as if he’d aged faster. His eyes were sharper, his movements almost protective as he guided her onto the swing.

“Go higher, Jake!” she heard her own young voice cry out.

The name struck her like a hammer. Jake. She had no memory of ever knowing anyone named Jake, let alone calling someone by that name. Her hands were clammy as she reached for the remote, wanting to stop the tape—but something in her wouldn’t let her.

The tape continued, and the scenes grew more unsettling. Jake would look into the camera, straight at her mother, and the way he stared felt wrong. It wasn’t just a boy looking at his family; it was something dark, something with an intensity far beyond his years.

The screen crackled, and the footage cut to an entirely different scene: nighttime, in her childhood bedroom. The camera was set up at the foot of her bed, capturing her tiny figure sleeping soundly under a heap of blankets.

There was movement at the corner of the screen, and Jake’s face emerged in the shadows. He was standing at her bedside, just staring down at her, watching her sleep. His eyes seemed darker than before, hollow somehow, and he stayed there, motionless, for what felt like an eternity.

Then, slowly, he reached down, running his fingers through her hair in a gentle but unnatural way, like a puppeteer examining a marionette.

Lily's skin crawled. She could feel her heart hammering in her chest as she watched the boy—this stranger, this thing that seemed to be Jake—reach out with those unsettlingly still eyes.

As the camera recorded, Jake’s hand moved to her shoulder, pressing down firmly. Her tiny self stirred, letting out a muffled whimper, and Jake leaned in close, his mouth inches from her ear.

The screen went black.

Lily sat frozen, horrified by what she’d just seen. But before she could even process it, the video flickered back to life. This time, she was older, maybe four or five, in a dimly lit room. Her parents were huddled in the corner, whispering to each other, glancing nervously at the door. The camera’s microphone picked up faint snatches of their conversation.

“We need to take him back,” her mother was saying, her voice tight with fear. “I thought we could handle it, but… he isn’t normal. He’s not our son.”

“He’s all we have left of them,” her father replied, his tone strained. “We can’t just send him away.”

The camera panned to Jake, standing alone by the window, looking out with an expression that was both sad and… knowing. Lily shivered, feeling as if his gaze were somehow piercing through the screen, as if he could see her now, in the present.

Suddenly, the video cut out, replaced by a static hiss. She reached for the eject button, desperate to pull the tape out, but it wouldn’t budge. She pounded on the VCR, yanking at the cords, but the screen remained stubbornly black, crackling with static.

Then, the static cleared, and she was staring at her own reflection in the television screen.

Her face was pale, her eyes wide with terror. But behind her, she saw movement—someone standing there, just out of focus. She whipped around, but the basement was empty.

Heart pounding, she turned back to the screen, and there he was: Jake, now a grown man, standing directly behind her in the reflection, staring down at her with that same hollow expression, his eyes gleaming with a dark and twisted familiarity.

“Why did you forget me, Lily?” His voice was a whisper, raspy and low, filling the silence around her. “Why did you let them send me away?”

She tried to scream, but no sound escaped her lips. She stumbled back, feeling as if she were trapped in a nightmare, as if the boy from her past had somehow reached through time to confront her.

“You were supposed to remember,” he murmured, his voice cold and laced with sadness. “You promised we’d always be together. But you forgot me. You abandoned me.”

He stepped closer, his figure distorting and shifting in the reflection, growing taller, darker, his face twisting into something inhuman, a monstrous grin spreading across his face.

“Now I’m the only one who remembers,” he hissed. “And I’ll make sure you never forget again.”

The screen went black, and the room fell silent.

Shaking, Lily stumbled out of the basement, her mind racing with fragments of memories she couldn’t piece together. She ran to her parents, demanding answers, but they looked at her with haunted expressions, a flash of guilt flickering in their eyes.

After a long silence, her mother finally spoke.

“He… he wasn’t ours,” she whispered. “He came to us after… after you lost your real brother in an accident. We thought… we thought he’d be like a second chance. But he was… wrong. He was never like you. He was… something else.”

Lily’s blood ran cold as her mother’s words sank in. Jake hadn’t just been a memory erased. He was something darker, something her parents had desperately tried to hide, to forget.

And now he was back, haunting her, clinging to the shadows of her past. She knew, deep down, that he would never leave. 

Ethan gazed out over the city skyline, a sprawling labyrinth of shimmering lights and shadows. The night was deep and quiet, but he could feel the restless energy pulsing beneath the surface—a city breathing on borrowed dreams. In this world, dreams were more than just fragments of the mind’s wanderings. They were the currency of life itself, traded in whispers and silences, in shadowed corners and quiet deals.

If you wanted to rise, to thrive, you needed dreams, and not just your own. Because, in a dark twist of fate, the world had turned dreams into something finite, fragile, and frighteningly powerful. People could buy dreams, steal them, shatter them, and even extinguish them, leaving behind hollow shells of what once was.

Ethan knew this all too well.

He had tried, for years, to scrape together enough dreams to lift him out of the gray mundanity of his life. He had bargained, saved, and sacrificed every dream he could muster. Yet every time he got close to realizing the life he had envisioned—enough dreams to start his own business, to live without fear or scarcity—something slipped away. It was as if he were locked in a battle against an invisible force, pulling him under every time he tried to rise.

Then, one night, everything changed. He met The Broker.

The Broker was a figure of whispered legend, a shadow who dealt in the most illicit form of trade: dream shattering. Ethan had always thought the stories about The Broker were exaggerated, the kind of thing told to frighten people into appreciating what dreams they had. But on that cold night, The Broker appeared before him, eyes gleaming like polished obsidian, with an offer that sent chills down his spine.

“You want to be free, don’t you, Ethan?” The Broker’s voice was smooth and sharp, like silk laced with poison. “I can give you that freedom. I can give you the life you’ve dreamed of.”

Ethan’s breath caught. He knew the cost of dealing with The Broker, knew what it meant. To fulfill his dream, he’d have to destroy someone else’s.

“Who… whose dream would I have to shatter?” Ethan’s voice wavered.

The Broker smiled, a thin, knowing smile. “Someone close. The more meaningful their dream is to them, the more powerful it will be for you.”

Ethan clenched his fists. He’d worked so hard, yet here he was, faced with an impossible choice. Destroy someone else’s hope, their passion, their dreams—all for his own ambition. He thought about his girlfriend, Maya, an artist who spent her nights creating vibrant paintings that brought color to his world. Her dreams were luminous, filled with joy, an escape from the drudgery of their shared life. Or his best friend, Kyle, who wanted nothing more than to open a bakery, a place where he could fill the air with warmth and sweet smells, bringing comfort to a fractured city.

Ethan stared at The Broker, feeling the weight of his decision pressing down on him. But the thought of a life without struggle, of finally achieving something lasting… it gnawed at him, an ache that had plagued him for years.

“I’ll do it,” he whispered, his voice barely audible. “But… can I choose who?”

The Broker nodded, a cruel glint in his eye. “Of course. But remember—once you make this decision, there’s no going back. You will take from them everything, leave their dreams in ruins, beyond repair.”

Ethan shuddered, but he nodded. “I choose Maya.”

That night, as Maya slept beside him, he watched her, memorizing every detail, every expression as she dreamed. Her face was peaceful, lost in a world of her own creation. He felt a pang of guilt, but he reminded himself that this was his only chance to escape the life that had trapped him. The Broker had assured him that she wouldn’t know he was the cause, that her dreams would simply wither and die, leaving her to drift through life without purpose.

When he closed his eyes that night, he felt the cold fingers of The Broker reaching into his mind, pulling out every ounce of Maya’s dreams, every bit of her passion, and giving it to him. He could feel it flooding through him, lighting up his mind with new possibilities, with vivid visions of a life he had only dared to imagine.

The next morning, Maya seemed… different. Her usual vibrant smile was gone, replaced by a dull, listless expression. She stared at her blank canvas, paintbrushes untouched, eyes hollow. Ethan tried to ignore the guilt gnawing at him, convincing himself that this was just the price of survival.

Over the next few weeks, things started to fall into place for him. Opportunities he had longed for began to materialize. His career took off, people noticed him, respected him. He felt invincible, his dream finally within reach. But in the quiet moments, when he saw Maya’s lifeless eyes, he felt a pang of something dark, something twisted clawing at him from the inside.

One night, after a particularly successful day, Ethan returned home to find Maya sitting on the floor, surrounded by shattered glass. She was holding a picture of herself, one taken years ago, back when her eyes sparkled with life.

“I don’t know who I am anymore, Ethan,” she whispered, tears streaming down her face. “I look at these paintings, at all the things I used to love, and they feel like they belong to someone else. It’s like… like I’m empty inside.”

He knelt beside her, feeling the weight of what he’d done settle like a stone in his chest. But he couldn’t turn back. He couldn’t bring her dreams back, even if he wanted to.

Over the following months, Ethan’s life continued to flourish, yet an unseen darkness seemed to follow him. He started to experience vivid nightmares, images of Maya staring at him with hollow eyes, reaching out to him, accusing him in silence. The dreams grew worse, and he began waking in cold sweats, feeling as if something was watching him.

One night, he woke to find his reflection in the mirror smiling at him, though his own face was expressionless. The face in the mirror was distorted, twisted in a sinister grin, and its eyes were empty, just like Maya’s had become.

“You thought you could take her dreams without consequence,” the reflection whispered, its voice a low hiss. “But dreams are not currency. They are life itself. You are a thief, and a thief must pay.”

Ethan stumbled back, heart racing. He tried to ignore the reflection, to bury the guilt and fear, but the nightmares and hallucinations only intensified. He started seeing Maya everywhere—on the streets, in his office, her empty eyes haunting him, her face twisted in sorrow and rage.

Desperate, he sought out The Broker, demanding a way to undo what he had done. But The Broker only laughed, a hollow, echoing sound that chilled him to the bone.

“Dreams are not easily returned, Ethan,” The Broker said, his eyes glinting with malice. “You chose to shatter her soul for your own gain. You cannot simply undo that. You carry her broken dreams within you now, tainted and twisted, a part of you forever.”

Ethan’s world began to crumble. The success and admiration he had once felt turned hollow. People around him seemed distant, his achievements losing their luster. The visions of Maya grew more intense, her spirit clinging to him, dragging him deeper into despair.

One night, he woke to find himself in a dreamscape of endless darkness, with Maya standing before him, her figure wreathed in shadows. Her eyes bore into his, filled with sorrow and anger.

“You took everything from me,” she whispered, her voice echoing in the emptiness. “And now, you’ll have nothing.”

With a wave of her hand, his surroundings dissolved, leaving him in a void. His memories, his identity, everything he had achieved began to slip away, unraveling like threads. He tried to scream, but no sound escaped his lips. He was disappearing, just as he had erased Maya’s dreams, fading into nothingness, becoming a shadow, a ghost within the dreams of others.

In the waking world, Ethan was never seen again. People forgot him, as if he had never existed. And deep within the darkness, his spirit lingered, forever haunted by the dreams he had shattered, his essence consumed by the very thing he had once coveted.

In the end, dreams were not meant to be bought or stolen. They were a part of the soul, fragile and powerful, and those who sought to exploit them found themselves bound to a fate worse than death, lost in the shadows of dreams that would never be their own.

Thomas hadn’t planned to sort through the attic, but with the rain hammering down and no other distractions, he found himself amid dusty boxes and old relics of his childhood. Each box seemed to have its own story—faded photographs, forgotten toys, clothes that no longer fit, and the odd piece of memorabilia from family vacations. It was in one of these boxes, buried under an old quilt, that he discovered a folder labeled "Missing Person Files."

A chill ran through him as he opened it. It wasn’t a name he recognized or a familiar address he thought he’d find. Instead, he was staring at a photo of himself—a child’s school portrait from when he was around eight years old. The flyer bore his full name, date of birth, and a simple statement:

MISSING PERSON: Thomas Gray Last Seen: November 5, 1994

He felt a strange pang of confusion. November 5, 1994, was just a normal day from his childhood, one that he barely remembered. He would have been eight at the time, likely playing soccer or doing his homework.

He flipped to the next flyer. This one was from a few years later, with his awkward pre-teen face staring back at him. His gangly frame, oversized glasses, and a forced smile; he recognized it as his school photo from seventh grade. The flyer said he had gone missing again—this time on March 14, 1999.

Thomas’s fingers trembled as he flipped through the folder, each flyer and clipping carrying his face, as he aged through his teens and into adulthood. Every few years, it seemed, his photo appeared on another missing person’s poster, his date of birth and details all consistent, but each listing a different “last seen” date.

The next page contained a newspaper clipping from his high school years: Local Teen Mysteriously Disappears, Last Seen on Family Trip to the Mountains. It was dated in the summer of 2002. Thomas had a dim memory of that trip, a family outing that was overshadowed by a nasty storm. He remembered the days feeling blurry, almost as if they’d faded before he’d even lived them.

He tore through the remaining flyers, finding his own face frozen in time again and again. There were dozens, each from a different year, each detailing a new disappearance. In some, he looked younger than he remembered at that time, with an odd vacancy in his eyes that felt wrong. It was as though he were a ghost in these pictures, his familiar face captured in a way that seemed distant and hollow.

A strange unease twisted in his gut. He tried to dismiss it as some elaborate joke, something his family had put together as a prank. But why? No one he knew had a sense of humor that dark, and there was no reason they’d gone through such trouble. It didn’t make sense.

Clutching a handful of the flyers, he headed downstairs to confront his mother, his head swimming with questions. He found her in the kitchen, stirring a pot of soup with a distant look in her eyes.

“Mom, did you know about these?” he asked, holding the flyers out to her.

His mother looked up, her eyes widening with a flicker of something he hadn’t seen before—fear.

“Where… where did you find those?” she asked, her voice barely a whisper.

“In the attic. They’re all of me, but I don’t understand. They say I went missing, but… I didn’t, right? I’ve been here the whole time.” He laughed, but it sounded forced even to his own ears.

His mother didn’t smile. She turned pale, her eyes darting from the flyers to his face. For a moment, it looked like she was going to say something, but she shook her head instead, her lips pressed tightly together.

“Thomas,” she finally said, her voice trembling. “There are some things better left alone.”

“What are you talking about?” he demanded, growing frustrated. “I want to know why there are all these flyers with my face on them. Why do they all say I went missing?”

His mother looked away, as if gathering her thoughts. When she finally spoke, her words were heavy with resignation. “I hoped you’d never find those. It wasn’t supposed to happen this way.”

Her cryptic response sent a shiver down his spine. “What do you mean, ‘wasn’t supposed to happen this way’? What happened to me?”

Her eyes filled with tears as she took a shaky breath. “You’ve always… come back. But we never know how long you’ll stay.”

Thomas felt a sharp pain in his chest. “Come back? What does that mean? I don’t remember leaving. Ever.”

She sighed, placing a hand on his shoulder, her touch cold. “You don’t remember, but we do. You disappear, Thomas. You always have. Every few years, you vanish without a trace. Sometimes for days, sometimes for months. And then, one day, you’re back, like nothing ever happened.”

His heart raced as he struggled to make sense of her words. “But… where do I go? Why can’t I remember any of it?”

She shook her head. “We don’t know, Thomas. Every time you come back, you have no memory of leaving. The doctors couldn’t explain it, and no one believed us. We did our best to keep it hidden, to keep you safe. But the disappearances… they keep happening.”

He backed away, feeling a surge of panic. It was as if the ground beneath him was crumbling, leaving him suspended in a dark, terrifying void. “No, this can’t be true. I would know… I would remember something.”

But deep down, he knew that strange things had always lingered at the edges of his life, memories that seemed out of place, moments of time that felt like gaps he couldn’t account for. There were always those hazy flashes—images of places he couldn’t place, faces he didn’t recognize, and a sensation of drifting, like he’d been plucked out of his life only to be dropped back in.

Desperate for answers, Thomas stormed out of the house, ignoring his mother’s pleading calls. He drove aimlessly, his mind racing as he tried to fit the jagged pieces together. If his mother was telling the truth, it meant his life wasn’t what he thought it was. It meant he had been vanishing and reappearing, slipping through time like sand through fingers.

After hours of driving, he found himself at the edge of town, in a small, forgotten cemetery he’d never noticed before. Something drew him to it, a strange compulsion he couldn’t explain. He parked the car and wandered through the rows of gravestones, feeling the chill of the evening settling in.

Then he saw it—a headstone with his name on it.

Thomas Gray Born: September 9, 1986 Died: March 14, 1999

His legs went weak, and he sank to his knees, his mind reeling. March 14, 1999—that was one of the dates on the missing person flyers. The one from his pre-teen years. He stared at the gravestone, feeling a hollow, sinking sensation as the impossible reality dawned on him.

He wasn’t supposed to be here.

He was dead.

His mind fought against the truth, trying to rationalize it, but he knew that the answer had been staring at him all along. He was a ghost, some twisted remnant of the boy who had gone missing all those years ago. His family had buried him, but for reasons beyond understanding, he had continued to live, reappearing time and time again, unaware of the truth.

The whispers around him grew louder, faint voices calling his name. He looked up, and in the dim light, he saw other figures standing between the gravestones—people with pale, lifeless faces, watching him with expressions of sorrow and understanding.

They were other versions of him, other Thomases who had gone missing and been buried over the years. They stood silently, their eyes empty, each one representing a time he had disappeared, only to come back as a hollow reflection of himself. The truth settled over him like a suffocating weight—he was a lost soul, trapped in an endless cycle of disappearance and reappearance, his memories and identity slipping further away with each return.

The last thing he saw was his own face, staring back at him with a ghostly, vacant gaze, before the world faded into darkness, and he became just another face on a missing person flyer, waiting to be found… again.

And so, the cycle continued, with each version of Thomas bound to repeat his fate, his soul forever tethered to a life that would never truly end, a ghost lost in the annals of time, a name on a headstone in a forgotten cemetery.

Eleanor sat cross-legged on her couch, her laptop perched in front of her, casting a pale glow in the dim room. She’d spent the last hour scrubbing through video footage from her vacation. She had returned home from the mountains days ago, yet the humdrum of daily life had already swallowed any sense of calm she’d found in nature. Her body was back in her apartment, but her mind longed for the misty forests, the crisp air, the way time had slowed.

As she clicked through her gallery, she spotted an unfamiliar file. A video she didn’t remember filming: IMG_7562.

Curious, she clicked play.

The screen filled with a grainy, shaky shot of her cabin’s living room. She was in the frame, sitting on the small, scratchy couch, looking off-camera with a glass of wine in hand. The video timestamp showed it was taken on her last night there, a night she barely remembered; she’d had a few too many glasses of wine and had drifted into a peaceful sleep, lulled by the quiet of the forest.

As the video played, Eleanor noticed something strange. In the recording, she was still, sitting in silence, the same glass of wine barely raised to her lips. A minute passed, then two, then five. Her recorded self hadn’t moved an inch, hadn’t even blinked.

The screen’s eerie stillness unnerved her. "Must be a glitch," she muttered, her voice sounding strangely loud in the empty room. But she couldn’t shake the unease clawing at her as she kept watching.

Another ten minutes passed in the video, and her frozen likeness hadn’t moved a muscle. The shadows from the fire in the recorded cabin flickered across her face, but her eyes, her mouth, her hand—they all remained perfectly still, as though she were a mannequin posed for some cruel trick.

She checked the timestamp again. The video was nearly an hour long.

She tapped the progress bar to skip ahead, but then her own face on the screen moved—just a slight, almost imperceptible twitch of the head.

Her recorded self slowly turned, and for the first time in the entire video, her lips curled into a thin smile.

Eleanor’s stomach twisted. She hadn’t moved like that. She knew she hadn’t. She’d been drunk, yes, but not enough to forget something like this. As the video continued, her recorded self stared directly into the camera, as if looking straight through the screen and into Eleanor’s eyes.

“Hello, Eleanor,” the voice on the recording said.

Her heart stopped. The voice was hers—but lower, colder, like a version of herself she’d never heard before.

She pressed pause, fingers trembling. The screen froze with her recorded self’s face tilted at an unnatural angle, eyes gleaming with something dark and wrong. She blinked, trying to make sense of the impossible. Had she… spoken to herself? And if she had, why did she remember none of it?

Against her better judgment, she pressed play again.

The figure on the screen continued, her voice thick and syrupy, dripping with malice. “Are you enjoying watching, Eleanor? Does it feel strange?”

Her recorded self took another pause, eyes narrowing in mock concern.

“Or does it feel… familiar?”

Eleanor’s hands gripped the edge of the laptop. She could feel her heart pounding against her ribs, a heavy drumbeat filling her ears. She wanted to shut the laptop, close the recording, and pretend she’d never seen it, but she couldn’t tear her eyes away.

“Let me tell you something,” the voice on the screen continued, her tone sharpening. “This isn’t just a recording. This is me. And you—”

Eleanor’s recorded self raised her hand, pointing a finger that seemed to press right through the screen, almost reaching out to touch her.

“You’re nothing but a reflection.”

Eleanor recoiled, the words ricocheting through her mind. This was ridiculous. This couldn’t be real. But there was a sinister familiarity in the way her recorded self moved, a darkness in her eyes that felt too close to her own fears, her own secrets. She forced herself to calm down. “It’s a trick. A hallucination,” she whispered, barely believing her own words.

She stopped the video and closed the laptop, drawing in deep breaths, trying to shake the feeling of being watched. She looked around her living room, but everything was as it should be—the dim light, the quiet shadows. Nothing out of place. She told herself it was only a dreamlike trick her mind had played on her, a leftover figment of her imagination from too much wine and too little sleep.

But then she heard the soft ping of a new notification.

Her stomach dropped as she opened her laptop again, instinctively glancing at the file icon in the corner of the screen. The timestamp had updated—it was playing live.

Her recorded self had returned, and now her eyes followed her, tracking her every move as she shifted on her couch, as if the video were somehow watching her back.

“You’re confused, Eleanor,” the recorded self murmured, her tone dripping with malice. “But don’t worry. You’ll understand soon.”

Eleanor’s hands moved to shut the laptop, but she froze as her reflection on the screen twisted into a grotesque grin, wider than any human smile. Her recorded self leaned closer, pressing a distorted face against the camera, her breath fogging the lens.

“You thought you were alone, didn’t you?”

The words hit her like a slap. Eleanor’s eyes darted around her living room, but it was empty, silent. The only movement was her reflection’s sickening grin, her face stretching and twisting into something monstrous. Her stomach churned, and she forced herself to glance at the screen.

But her recorded self had moved.

Now, she was standing in the doorway of the cabin, her dark silhouette blending into the shadows. The image was fuzzy, barely visible, but Eleanor could just make out a faint figure in the background. Her mouth went dry as she leaned closer to the screen, her heart hammering in her chest.

In the distance, beyond the cabin door, something shifted—a flicker of movement. A dark shape emerged, its twisted form barely visible in the grainy recording. It was tall, impossibly tall, with long, thin arms and hollow eyes that seemed to absorb the light. It stood silently, watching Eleanor’s recorded self with an intensity that made her skin crawl.

Her recorded self turned, her eyes narrowing as she locked onto the dark figure.

“Hello,” she whispered, her voice a faint, sinister echo.

Eleanor’s throat tightened as the creature slowly approached her recorded self, its footsteps soundless, its hollow eyes fixed on her. She wanted to scream, to look away, but her body felt paralyzed, as if the screen had trapped her in its nightmarish grip.

Then, just as the creature reached the doorway, her recorded self smiled, a twisted, knowing smile that sent a chill down Eleanor’s spine.

“It’s here, Eleanor,” her recorded self said, her voice barely a whisper. “It’s been waiting… waiting to meet you.”

Eleanor’s heart raced as the figure moved closer, its dark, clawed fingers reaching toward the camera. Her recorded self stepped back, as if offering herself to the creature, her expression serene and unafraid.

“No,” Eleanor muttered, her voice barely audible. “No, this isn’t real.”

But even as she spoke, the creature’s hand broke through the doorway, its fingers stretching toward the screen. Eleanor could feel a cold, unnatural chill seeping through the laptop, filling the room with an unholy presence.

Her recorded self looked directly at her, a malicious gleam in her eyes.

“It’s time, Eleanor,” she whispered, her voice echoing through the empty room. “Time to come home.”

The screen went black.

Eleanor sat frozen, her breath coming in shallow gasps, her heart pounding in her chest. She stared at the blank screen, her mind reeling, trying to process what she had just seen. She wanted to believe it was a hallucination, a glitch, anything but reality. But the cold, lingering dread told her otherwise.

Then, a soft knock sounded at her door.

Eleanor’s blood turned to ice. She stared at the door, her mind racing, her body paralyzed with fear. The knock came again, louder this time, echoing through the silent room. She wanted to scream, to hide, to do anything but answer.

But the knock persisted, each tap sending a jolt of terror through her body.

She rose from the couch, her legs trembling, and took a hesitant step toward the door. Her heart hammered in her chest, her breath coming in shallow gasps. She reached for the doorknob, her hand shaking, and slowly turned it.

The door creaked open, and Eleanor’s breath caught in her throat.

Standing in the doorway was her recorded self, her face twisted into a malevolent grin, her eyes gleaming with a dark, unnatural light. And behind her, shrouded in shadows, loomed the creature from the recording, its hollow eyes fixed on Eleanor with a hunger that sent a chill down her spine.

Eleanor took a step back, her mind screaming in terror, but her recorded self reached out, her cold fingers brushing against Eleanor’s arm.

“Welcome home,” she whispered, her voice a soft, sinister echo that reverberated through Eleanor’s mind.

The creature stepped forward, its shadow enveloping Eleanor, its hollow eyes consuming her last glimpse of light.

And as darkness claimed her, she realized with a chilling certainty that the recording hadn’t just been watching her—it had been waiting. Waiting for the moment it could reach through the screen and drag her into its nightmarish embrace.

The wind howled through the cracks in Victor’s old cabin, rattling the broken shutters and groaning against the rotting wood. Halloween was the night for evil things to rise, and he knew that all too well. He’d seen his share of monstrous things; in fact, he was one of them.

It had been nearly twenty years since he’d made his pact with the devil.

Victor could still remember that night vividly. He’d stood under the skeletal branches of a dying oak, his heart a tangled web of hatred and rage. There, beneath the Halloween moon, he had offered his soul to the Devil himself, a sacrifice to the ancient fires in exchange for revenge on those who had wronged him. They had taken everything from him, mocked him, cast him aside like trash. Victor had wanted them to suffer, to feel the pain he’d held for so long, gnawing at him from the inside.

And the Devil had appeared.

It wasn’t like the stories. No sulfur, no flash of fire. The Devil came as a figure in a dark cloak, his face hidden, his voice a quiet, silken whisper that promised the one thing Victor craved: vengeance. The Devil had taken his soul, sealing it with a cruel smile that was barely visible beneath his hood, and Victor’s vengeance was unleashed.

The people who wronged him suffered in ways only the darkest magic could manage. Victor had felt satisfaction, and a terrifying thrill, watching them writhe in agony, their lives falling apart piece by piece. But after the fires of his revenge cooled, he felt only emptiness, a gaping hollowness where his soul had been. Nothing mattered; not food, not sleep, not even the world itself.

Years passed, and Victor isolated himself, sinking deeper into despair. He thought his bargain had freed him, but it had only bound him to his own rage.

Then, on this bleak Halloween night, as the wind tore through the forest and darkness clung to the air like smoke, there was a knock at his door. Startled, he rose, every bone in his body creaking. He rarely had visitors, and he knew better than to expect friends.

He opened the door, and there stood the Devil.

The figure was just as he remembered, his form cloaked in shadow, his eyes twin pinpoints of red beneath a deep hood. Victor felt a shiver run down his spine, memories of his pact rushing back in a flood. He’d felt powerful that night, but now he only felt dread.

The Devil stepped into the cabin, his presence filling the room with an oppressive weight, though he barely made a sound. The silence was suffocating as he raised his head, fixing Victor with a look that seemed to pierce through flesh and bone.

"Victor," the Devil’s voice was soft, almost weary. "I have come to return something to you."

Victor swallowed, his mouth dry. “Return something?”

The Devil extended a hand, and in his palm was a pulsing, blackened orb. It looked like a heart, but it was covered in cracks, leaking a thick, dark mist. A shudder of recognition ran through Victor. It was his soul.

“I don’t understand,” he whispered, his gaze locked on the twisted, shriveled thing in the Devil’s hand. “You took it… isn’t it yours now?”

The Devil’s lips curled in a grim smile. “It was mine, but it’s too... much. Burdened even for me.” His voice was edged with disdain, as if Victor’s soul was some wretched thing he could hardly stand to touch. “It reeks of hatred and vengeance, and not the sort that can satisfy even the darkest appetite. I return it to you, Victor, for I want no part of it anymore.”

Victor stared at the Devil, stunned. He’d given up his soul for revenge, and now it was being thrust back at him like spoiled meat. The Devil’s hand reached out, pressing the twisted mass into Victor’s chest. He gasped as it sank in, filling the hollow space that had ached for so long. He expected to feel whole, to feel a sense of freedom or peace. But as his soul settled back into place, a chill ran through him. His hands began to tremble.

The Devil’s eyes glinted with a terrible amusement. “You may think you have found freedom, but vengeance does not loosen its grip so easily. You are bound to it, Victor, and it will consume you from within.”

With that, the Devil turned and disappeared into the shadows, leaving only the scent of cold ash lingering in the air. Victor stood in the dim room, feeling his soul like a poisoned weight pressing against his heart.

For the first few moments, he felt nothing, only numbness. But then, as he moved through his dark cabin, he felt a whisper in his mind, faint at first, but growing stronger, clawing at the edges of his consciousness. It was a murmur of hatred, cold and sharp, whispering of vengeance and rage, pulling him back to the night of his pact.

Images of the people who had wronged him swam before his eyes. His fists clenched, his jaw tightened. They’d mocked him, humiliated him, left him with nothing. And now, even with his soul returned, he felt the rage stir inside him, deeper and darker than before.

Suddenly, Victor was gripped by a strange urge to look in the mirror. He staggered to the bathroom, feeling a sick compulsion pulling him forward. When he reached the mirror, he froze. Staring back at him was his reflection, but there was something horribly wrong.

His face was twisted, contorted with rage, his eyes bloodshot and hollow, his mouth curled in a bitter snarl. But he hadn’t made those expressions. He was still, but the face in the mirror writhed, sneering back at him.

“Do you see it now, Victor?” the reflection whispered, though his lips never moved. “Do you see what you’ve become?”

Victor staggered back, his mind spinning. His soul had been tainted, blackened with hatred, and now he could feel it leeching into every corner of his mind. The memories of his vengeance, the twisted satisfaction he’d once felt, now turned rancid, festering inside him like a disease.

He tried to leave the bathroom, but his feet wouldn’t move. It was as if some invisible force held him in place, forcing him to stare at the wretched face in the mirror. His reflection’s eyes grew darker, and a smile stretched across its face—a cruel, mocking smile that chilled him to the bone.

“Did you think the Devil would give you peace?” it sneered. “No, Victor. Evil doesn’t lie with him. It lies in you.”

With a shudder, Victor felt his body moving of its own accord, his arms twisting and contorting as he reached up, clawing at his own face, his nails scraping against his skin. He tried to scream, but no sound came out, only a low, choking sob. His reflection continued to smile, watching with a sick pleasure as he fought against himself.

Days passed in a blur. Victor tried everything to rid himself of the haunting rage that gnawed at his mind. He locked himself in his cabin, tried to drown out the whispers with alcohol, tried to fight the dark urges that filled his thoughts. But no matter what he did, he couldn’t escape the twisted, hateful whispers echoing in his mind.

Each time he looked in the mirror, his reflection seemed more distorted, more monstrous, as if the hatred inside him was consuming him from within. His skin grew pale, his eyes hollow, and his body grew weaker as the days wore on. It was as though his very soul was devouring him.

One night, he woke to find himself standing in the middle of the forest, his hands smeared with dirt. He had no memory of how he’d gotten there, but as he looked around, he realized with horror that he was standing before the same gnarled oak where he’d made his pact.

The Devil was there, waiting for him, his figure shadowed beneath the moonlight.

Victor fell to his knees, his body wracked with exhaustion and despair. “Please,” he whispered, his voice barely a rasp. “Take it back. Take my soul... take everything. I can’t bear it anymore.”

The Devil chuckled, a low, mocking sound that echoed through the night. “But, Victor,” he said, his voice dripping with mock sympathy, “you wanted revenge. And you got it. Isn’t this what you wanted?”

Victor shook his head, tears streaming down his face. “No... I didn’t want this. I didn’t know it would—”

“That it would hollow you out?” The Devil leaned closer, his eyes gleaming with malice. “Hatred and vengeance are sins not of hell, but of the human heart. I only gave you the freedom to indulge them.”

As the Devil’s words sank in, Victor felt a terrible understanding wash over him. The Devil hadn’t cursed him—he’d only given him what he’d wanted, and it was his own soul, blackened with hatred, that had bound him to this misery.

The Devil straightened, turning to go, leaving Victor kneeling in the dirt. “Farewell, Victor,” he said, his voice fading into the wind. “Your soul belongs to you now. Do with it what you will.”

And with that, he was gone.

Victor was left alone in the darkness, feeling the weight of his soul pressing down on him, heavier than any chain. He understood now that there was no escaping the darkness within him, no way to be free of the hatred he’d let consume him. His own heart was the prison, and it was a prison that no one—not even the Devil—could release him from.

The text message arrived on Amara’s phone just as she was about to slide into bed, the screen casting a faint glow in the darkened room. Her hand paused, hovering over the screen as she read the message.

“Whatever you do, DON’T look at the moon tonight.”

The sender was unknown. She frowned, swiping to dismiss it. A spam message, probably. But something about it unsettled her. Just as she was setting her phone down, another notification popped up.

This time, it was from a group chat with her friends.

“OMG, guys, the moon is SO beautiful tonight!” one message read, decorated with heart emojis.

Another one chimed in. “You have to go look at it! It’s huge and glowing like crazy. Never seen anything like it!!”

A chill ran down her spine. She had no idea why the first message got to her, but now she felt a strange tightening in her chest. Her thumb hovered over the chat before she switched over to her social media feed. Post after post from friends, family, and random people she barely remembered following—all raving about the moon.

“The moon tonight... Just, wow.”

“Everyone, go outside and look at the moon! You won’t regret it!”

As Amara scrolled, a few words from the original text echoed in her mind. Don’t look. The more she tried to dismiss it, the more her eyes were drawn to her window, where moonlight was spilling in, casting an eerie silver glow across her floor. It felt alive somehow, too bright, as if it had substance and weight.

Her phone buzzed again, and this time it was another message from the unknown sender.

“I mean it. Don’t look up. Whatever you do, stay inside. Don’t even think about it.”

With a nervous laugh, Amara tossed her phone aside. This was ridiculous. But her hand reached for the blinds on instinct, tugging them down, blocking out the sliver of moonlight that seemed to pulse against the fabric as if it were trying to get in.

A moment later, she heard a notification chime, then another. Her phone wouldn’t stop buzzing. Slowly, she picked it up, and her stomach dropped.

Her friend Maya had texted her. “Amara, why haven’t you gone outside yet? The moon is beautiful. It’s calling you! It’s like... it’s talking to me!”

Her heart skipped a beat. Talking to her? She tried to brush it off, but when she opened her chat with Maya, her messages were filled with strange symbols. Text after text was a garbled mess of symbols, all repeating the same characters that her eyes couldn’t quite process, like her brain didn’t want to understand them.

Then, another text came through from Maya.

“Amara... I saw it. And now it’s all I can see. You should look too.”

Panic clawed at her chest. She wanted to respond, ask her friend what she meant, but her hands were trembling too much. She watched, wide-eyed, as another message came in from someone else entirely.

“It’s beautiful, Amara. Don’t be afraid. Just look up.”

Her thumb hovered over the call button, but before she could press it, she heard her phone chime again with another notification. This time, it wasn’t from Maya or any of her friends—it was a voicemail. Her heart pounding, she pressed play, holding the phone to her ear.

A long, low hiss filled her ear, like static. Then, as if from a great distance, she heard Maya’s voice, but it was garbled, almost like she was underwater. The words were distorted, but one thing was clear: “Look... at... the... moon...”

Amara’s hands were shaking so hard she dropped the phone. It clattered against the floor, and in the silence that followed, she heard something that nearly stopped her heart—a faint, rhythmic tapping on her window. It was slow and deliberate, like someone was tapping their fingernails against the glass, trying to get her attention.

Don’t look up, she told herself, squeezing her eyes shut. She pressed her hands over her ears, trying to block out the sound. But the tapping grew louder, more insistent, like fingers scraping against the glass, hungry and desperate.

She backed away from the window, her breathing ragged. The darkness in her room seemed to press in around her, and the silver light from outside was seeping under the blinds, stretching across the floor in tendrils that twisted and pulsed like something alive.

Then her phone buzzed again, and she nearly screamed.

The notification read, “It’s too late, Amara. It sees you.”

She clutched her phone, her heart pounding so hard it felt like it might burst. She wanted to scream, but fear had closed her throat. Slowly, she forced herself to look around the room. Shadows seemed to stretch and shift along the walls, crawling and twisting like they were made of the same strange silver light.

The tapping grew louder, becoming a furious pounding, shaking the glass in its frame. It was as if whatever was out there couldn’t stand to be ignored any longer. It wanted her to look.

She closed her eyes, trying to shut it out, but the pounding only grew louder, a deafening rhythm that matched her racing heart. And then, with a terrible certainty, she realized something that made her blood run cold.

The tapping wasn’t just coming from her window.

It was coming from all around her.

Her phone buzzed one last time, and she forced herself to look at the screen, her vision swimming with terror.

“We all looked, Amara. Now we see. And soon... you will too.”

Something was whispering in her ear now, a voice soft and cold, echoing the words on the screen. She could feel breath against her skin, something pressing close to her, wrapping around her like a shroud.

In a sudden burst of desperation, she ran to her bedroom door, fumbling with the handle. She had to get out, get away from the silver light and the whispering voices that filled her room. But as she threw open the door, she stopped dead in her tracks.

Her apartment was bathed in that same terrible, pulsing glow. The moonlight was everywhere, filling every inch of space, casting strange, twisting shadows that seemed to watch her with hungry eyes.

She backed away, feeling a scream rise in her throat. She knew, somehow, that if she looked up, if she let herself even catch a glimpse of the moon, it would be the end of everything. She would be lost, just like everyone else.

Her phone buzzed one last time, and this time it was a video call. Trembling, she accepted it, her vision blurring as she looked at the screen.

The face on the other side was her own.

Pale, wide-eyed, her reflection stared back at her, a twisted grin spreading across its lips. And then it whispered, in a voice that wasn’t hers, “Look at me, Amara. Look at what you’ve become.”

The screen went dark, and in the silence that followed, she felt something cold wrap around her, pulling her toward the window, her feet moving against her will. She stumbled forward, her hands reaching for the blinds, trembling fingers gripping the fabric.

As she pulled them back, the silver light flooded in, bathing her in its glow. Her mind screamed at her to close her eyes, to look away, but something far stronger had taken hold.

She found herself looking up, staring into the face of the moon. And as she did, she saw it—truly saw it. A vast, hollow eye staring back at her, endless and empty, filled with countless reflections of herself, each one twisted and distorted, lost and screaming.

The moon swallowed her gaze, pulling her in deeper, until there was nothing left of her but the echoes of her own terrified screams.

The next morning, her friends received a text from her number.

“The moon is beautiful. You should look.”

The dim hospital corridor was silent as I shuffled along its length, clutching a piece of paper that would alter my life—or perhaps seal my fate. Room 201, the paper read, in neat, almost mechanical script. My heart pounded, not with hope but with the strangling sense that something was very wrong. The silence here felt unnatural. How could a place teeming with patients fighting for their lives be so dead quiet?

I glanced at my phone. Three missed calls from my brother, his messages urging me to reconsider. But for me, this was it. I’d exhausted every treatment, spent all my savings, and even with months left to live, each day felt like a step closer to oblivion. But this doctor… Dr. Han, the "miracle surgeon," had allegedly cured people no one else could. He was infamous worldwide for his success with a groundbreaking “neurological procedure.” Some were skeptical, yet the patients—all of them cancer-free—praised him. And here I was, clinging to the hope that I, too, might one day be free.

Inside Room 201, I was immediately struck by the darkness. Only a faint, eerie blue light illuminated the walls, and the equipment around me buzzed with a strange hum. In the center of the room, Dr. Han himself was seated, his face obscured by a shadow, save for his gleaming eyes.

“Ms. Zhou,” he greeted me in a voice as smooth as velvet. “Please, sit.”

As I settled into the reclining chair, a wave of nausea rolled over me. I wanted to ask him questions, to know what exactly this “procedure” entailed, but something in his stare kept my mouth shut. Instead, he strapped a cold device to my temples and fingers, explaining that it would track my brainwaves. His fingers moved quickly, adeptly, as if he’d done this a thousand times before.

"This may feel a little strange," he warned, pressing a button on the console beside him. “Just relax, and let your mind drift.”

A faint warmth spread through my temples, followed by a creeping chill. The walls around me seemed to bend, colors swirling as though in a dream. I blinked, trying to focus, but reality slipped further away. Somewhere in the distance, I heard voices—echoing, whispering, each word blending into the next until they became a chant. Struggling, I tried to turn my head toward Dr. Han, but my body felt paralyzed.

The chant grew louder.

“Yi … er … san.”

One … two … three. The numbers repeated, and I felt a sharp jolt in my chest, as if my heart had skipped a beat. Then, with terrifying clarity, a vision rose in my mind: a grand room, an altar covered in crimson cloth, people—hundreds of them—kneeling in unison. And there, at the center, was a figure cloaked in dark robes, his face hidden. They called to him, each chant tightening the air around me.

In a flash, the vision dissolved. Dr. Han was staring at me, his eyes darker than before, gleaming with a strange hunger. He whispered in my ear, "Don’t resist, Ms. Zhou. This is the path to freedom."

As he spoke, the voices returned, echoing louder this time, filling my head until they drowned out all other thoughts. But this time, they weren’t just voices—they were commands, absolute and overwhelming.

“Obey.”

The word reverberated through me, sinking its claws into my mind. A part of me fought against it, screaming silently, but a soothing warmth wrapped around my consciousness, pulling me under. It was as if a thick fog had settled over my thoughts, silencing my will, bending me to a singular purpose I couldn’t quite grasp but felt compelled to serve.

When I awoke, I was no longer in Room 201. The sterile, blue-lit walls had been replaced by a long, dim hallway. The patients around me, all of them clad in white gowns like mine, walked forward in a daze, their faces blank, their eyes unseeing. We were marching in silence, our feet moving in unison down the corridor, as if under a spell. I tried to break away, but my legs moved of their own accord, my body now merely a puppet.

Ahead, the doors swung open, revealing a room that looked nothing like a hospital. Tall stone pillars lined the walls, red banners draped from the ceiling, flickering torches casting eerie shadows. At the far end of the room, the cloaked figure from my vision stood, a faint, sinister smile flickering across his face. He lifted his hand, and at once, we knelt. I felt my knees hit the cold stone, pain shooting up my legs, but I couldn’t make a sound, couldn’t move.

“Brothers and sisters,” the figure intoned. “You have seen the truth. You have received the gift.”

His voice was unmistakable—it was Dr. Han. He slowly pulled back his hood, revealing his face, and my mind twisted in horror as I understood. The man I’d trusted, the man I’d thought would save me, was not a doctor but something far darker.

“Cancer was only a vessel,” he said, his voice smooth and sickly sweet. “A tool to bring you all here, to free your minds from mortal pain. Now, you are bound to me.”

A silent scream filled my mind. I struggled against the fog that wrapped around my thoughts, the haze that had turned my will to dust. But his gaze was an iron vise around my soul, and I couldn’t look away. I could feel my mind bending, the strings of my thoughts being pulled tighter, forcing me to accept his words as truth.

He raised his hands, and a murmur went through the crowd as he whispered, “Let us share in the truth of pain, the freedom from fear.”

The others around me—my fellow “cured” patients—began to sway, their mouths moving in sync with his chant. I heard the words spilling from my own lips, unbidden, as if they were not mine but his. In that moment, I realized the horror of his work: he hadn’t cured us. He had enslaved us, fused our minds into a single, controlled hive, a living network that would obey his every command.

But just as I began to succumb, a jolt of clarity shot through me. A memory, raw and vivid, surfaced in my mind—my brother’s voice, warning me, begging me not to go. Resist, the memory urged. Fight.

With all the strength I could muster, I tore my gaze away from Dr. Han, breaking the trance for the briefest of moments. The chant faltered on my lips, and for a fleeting second, I was free. I felt a wave of horror flood me as I looked around, truly seeing the others for the first time. Their eyes were dead, blank, their minds hollowed out.

In that instant, Dr. Han’s gaze found mine, his eyes narrowing. He knew I had broken free, even if only for a moment.

“Ah, Ms. Zhou,” he said, stepping down from the altar, his voice laced with a chilling calm. “It seems your will is stronger than most. But no matter.”

He raised his hand, and a white-hot pain shot through my skull, as if he were tearing my mind apart from the inside. I screamed, feeling my vision blur, my thoughts disintegrate. It was like drowning, sinking beneath an ocean of darkness as his will crushed mine.

As my consciousness faded, the last thing I saw was his face, twisted in a triumphant smile. I knew then that there was no escape. He hadn’t just taken my life; he had taken my mind, my soul, leaving me an empty vessel, a tool to serve his dark purpose.

When I awoke again, the pain was gone. I was calm, detached, my fears and doubts erased. A hollow peace settled over me as I stood with the others, facing our leader, ready to do his bidding.

And deep inside, buried beneath layers of obedience, a single, fractured thought remained, like a phantom echo: This is not a cure.