NOTE TO READER: please read part one on my page before. Follow to keep up with the story :)

————————

I press myself flat against the wall, just outside the closest doorway. Shadows stretch across the room as two figures appear. One is tall, with an athletic build, and carries a stun baton gripped tightly in his hand. A jagged scar runs down the left side of his face, starting from his eyebrow and cutting all the way to his lip, giving him a hardened, intimidating look–Scarface, I think, the name fitting perfectly. The other is shorter, with a wiry, almost frail frame, holding a small glowing tablet. He looks more like a computer nerd than a killer, with his thin build and slightly hunched posture. But I can’t afford to let that fool me—appearances can be deceiving, and misjudging him could get me killed. Tablet Boy I decide, the nickname sticking in my mind as I size him up. They’re dressed in generic black—no logos, no identifying marks.

_Two? That’s it? _My lips curl into a smirk as the thought takes hold. Whoever’s calling the shots clearly doesn’t think I’m much of a threat. They probably expected me to panic, to fumble, to run. But underestimating me is their first mistake.

My fingers flex at my sides, a pulse of adrenaline sharpening my focus. I’ll make sure it’s their last.

“She’s gone,” Tablet Boy mutters, pointing at the overturned chair.

Scarface grunts, moving closer. “Told you we shouldn't have used rope.”

“Doesn’t matter. She’s not going anywhere.”

Wrong again.

As soon as they reach the corner, I swing the chair leg with all my strength at the man with the baton. It connects with his knee, and he crumples to the floor, cursing. The scar on his face twists as he grimaces in pain, making his already menacing appearance even more unsettling. The nerdy one freezes, eyes wide.

“Don’t move,” I hiss, holding the improvised weapon in one hand and the knife in the other, pointed at each man. My eyes dart between them, calculating every possible move they might make. My voice is calm, measured—exactly the opposite of what they expected.

“You won’t make it out,” Tablet Boy stammers, fumbling with the tablet, his hand inching towards his shoulder. 

I lunge before he can react, slamming the chair leg against his head. The impact is brutal, and he stumbles back, the device clatters to the ground as he collapses. 

The first man, still on the floor clutching his injured knee, grits his teeth and makes an attempt to grab the fallen stun baton. I stomp on his hand, and he yells.

"Stay down," I warn, my voice low and sharp. He pales, backing toward the door. "You don't understand. They'll come for you. You're just—“ "Highly trained," I finish for him, dropping the chair leg. With a swift kick, I send the baton skittering across the floor, out of his reach.  As I kick the baton, he growls and lunges at me, but I sidestep, bringing the hilt of the knife down hard against the back of his head. He crumbles to the ground, motionless. 

I snatch up the fallen tablet. A quick glance shows schematics—- this room, the building, escape routes. Jackpot.

Before moving on, I crouch down and search the unconscious bodies.

The shorter one has a small firearm tucked into a shoulder holster—a Glock, not your typical military standard-issue, it’s sleek and utilitarian, built for precision over flair. My gaze lingers on it for a moment, and the pieces click into place. Mercenaries. They’re not here by accident, and they’re certainly not amateurs. I pull it free, checking the safety before tucking it into my waistband. Scarface has a handful of zip ties in his pocket—useful. I grab those too, securing both their wrists tightly behind their backs. I shove the tablet into my pocket and gun into my waistband and limp toward the open door. "When they come, I'll be ready."

And with that, I disappear into the dark corridor beyond.

Current WIP — I have more written on a doc but would love feedback so far 🫧 I originally started it years ago but currently working on finishing old projects before starting new ones. Feel free to flllow me here for more of this story ———————

I wake up in a strange, dark room. My mouth is unbearably dry, and there’s a sharp, excruciating pain radiating from my head. My hands are tied behind my back, the restraints digging into my wrists. I try to move, but the bindings keep me locked against the hard chair. Something warm and sticky drips down the side of my leg, pooling on the floor. Is this… blood?

Bright lights illuminate, temporarily blinding me. I shout, but no words come out. My gag prevents any words from forming. As my eyes adjust to the lights, I see that I am in a windowless room with stage lights and an intercom system on the ceiling. I try screaming again, but nothing. No sound comes out.

A monotonous voice blares out of the intercom, “Marianna Nunez, welcome to your new reality.” The voice is robotic, emotionless, and grating, but I don’t flinch. Instead, I take a deep breath through my nose, steadying the adrenaline coursing through me. My leg throbs, but pain is just information. Blood means I still have time. Time to think, time to act.

“You’ve been chosen,” the voice continues. “How fortunate you are to participate in our little experiment. Cooperate, and your suffering will be minimal. Resist, and—well, you’ll see.”

An experiment. I’ve heard that line before. Same script, different amateur villain.

I subtly test the restraints. Rope—thick but poorly knotted. Amateur work. My leg is sticky, and I realize my knife must have grazed me on the way in. Sloppy. They didn’t check me for weapons.

Carefully, I shift in the chair, wiggling my fingers until I can nudge the blade’s handle tucked into the pocket of my cargo pants. It’s awkward and slow, but I manage to inch it upward, enough to grasp the tip with my fingertips.

The voice drones on about rules, consequences, and some garbage about control. I tune it out, concentrating instead on positioning the blade against the rope. The chair creaks as I move, but I freeze, waiting for the voice to continue.

My focus sharpens. The chair leg under my heel is wobbly. Good. I angle my body just enough to apply pressure, feeling the chair shift. A distraction is all I’ll need.

“You may feel fear, Marianne,” the voice says. “But it’s best to accept—”

The chair slams to the ground as I throw my weight sideways, snapping one of the legs clean off. The impact sends a jolt of pain through my injured leg, but it’s worth it. My captor goes silent.

“Fugg,” I mumble, the gag muffling my voice. I manage to grip the handle and work the blade upward, sawing carefully at the rope as I roll to the side, positioning myself for the next move.

“Subject is… noncompliant,” the intercom voice stammers.

No kidding.

The intercom clicks off, leaving an eerie silence that’s almost louder than the voice itself. Good. They didn’t expect me to fight back. That gives me the edge.

A quick twist, a sharp pull, and my hands are free. Blood rushes back into my fingers as I tug the gag from my mouth, gasping in the stale air. My leg protests as I shift, but I push through the pain. Quickly, I use the gag’s fabric and rope to wrap it around my wounded leg to slow the bleeding. It’s crude, but it’ll hold for now. I grab the broken chair leg. It’s not much, but along with my knife it’ll do.

A door opens. Heavy boots thud against the floor. The cavalry's coming.

The rain began as a light drizzle, dampening the edges of the bustling city streets. Lucy hurried down the sidewalk, clutching a bright red umbrella she’d picked up from a store earlier that day She had almost left it behind, thinking the color was too bold, but something about the intricate gold stitching on the edges had drawn her in. Now, she was thankful for her choice, as the drizzle turned into a relentless downpour.

Her phone buzzed with a text asking where she was. 7:12 p.m. Shit. She was running late.

It was her first date with Nathan, a guy she’d met on a dating app. He seemed nice—friendly, funny, and just charming enough to ease her nerves about meeting a stranger in person. They’d chosen a cozy Italian restaurant downtown, and she’d been looking forward to it all week.

But now, her excitement was dampened—literally—by the rain. Her jeans clung to her legs, and her hair was already frizzing despite her umbrella’s best efforts.

Lucy ducked under an awning to check the directions on her phone and fired off a quick reply.

Running late. Be there soon!

As she stepped back into the downpour, the phone buzzed again. This time, it wasn’t Nathan.

Unknown Number.

She hesitated but answered anyway.

“Hello?”

A raspy voice spoke. “You don’t know me, but I need your help. Someone’s life depends on it.”

“Who is this?” Lucy demanded, her pace slowing.

“No time to explain. Go to the corner of 5th and Main. There’s a man in a gray coat. Give him the umbrella.”

“What? Are you insane?”

The line went dead.

Lucy stopped in her tracks, heart racing. Was it a prank? But something about the urgency in the voice unsettled her. She glanced around the crowded streets. People bustled past, heads down, hoods up, umbrellas bobbing like flowers in the storm.

She could just ignore it. Go meet Nathan.

But she didn’t. The address was around the corner from the restaurant anyways.

At 5th and Main, Lucy spotted him immediately: a man in a gray coat, standing under a streetlamp. His hands were jammed into his pockets, his head low, as if he were trying to disappear into the background.

Taking a deep breath, Lucy approached him.

“Excuse me,” she said. “Are you waiting for this?” She held out the red umbrella.

The man’s eyes darted to hers, then to the umbrella. For a moment, he didn’t move, and Lucy wondered if she’d made a mistake. Then, his hand shot out and snatched it from her.

“Thank you,” he muttered, before disappearing into the crowd.

Lucy stood there, drenched, regretting everything. The man had vanished so quickly it was almost as if he’d never been there at all. The umbrella—her umbrella—was gone, leaving her exposed to the elements and the gnawing sense that she had just made a mistake.

What had she been thinking? A random phone call, a cryptic demand, and she’d obeyed like a fool. Her mind raced. Who even was that man? What was so important about the umbrella? The question burrowed into her thoughts, sharp and persistent.

A chill ran through her as the rain soaked through her jacket. She glanced up and down the street, hoping to catch a glimpse of the gray coat or the bright red umbrella. Nothing. Just the usual crowd of hurried pedestrians, cars spraying water as they sped by, and the suffocating hum of the city.

Lucy sighed, running a hand through her damp hair. She turned to leave when she noticed something—a crumpled piece of paper lying where the man had been standing.

Frowning, she bent down and picked it up. The ink had smeared in the rain, but she could still make out a few shaky words:

8:00 p.m. Hotel Briarwood. Room 614.

Her stomach twisted. It was already after 7:30.

“Not my problem,” she muttered, stuffing the paper into her pocket. But as she walked away, unease clung to her like the wet fabric of her clothes.

By the time she made it to the restaurant, the rain had slowed to a drizzle, though her mood remained heavy. Nathan was already seated at a small table by the window, checking his phone. When he spotted her, he stood and smiled warmly.

“Lucy?” he said, pulling out her chair. “You made it. You okay?”

“Yeah, sorry,” she said with an apologetic smile, sitting down. “It’s been… a weird evening.”

He waved it off with a chuckle. “No worries. Crazy weather, huh?”

She nodded, but as he launched into small talk about the rain and how long it had taken him to find parking, Lucy found herself zoning out. The man in the gray coat kept replaying in her mind: the way he snatched the umbrella, the look in his eyes—anxious, almost desperate.

“Lucy?” Nathan’s voice pulled her back.

“Sorry!” she said, flushing with embarrassment. “What were you saying?”

“I was asking if you’re a red wine or white wine person,” he teased, smiling kindly.

She forced a laugh, trying to focus. Nathan was nice—understanding, even—but as the evening dragged on, it became clear that the date was ordinary. Nothing to brag about. He told stories about his job, made a few decent jokes, and asked polite questions about her work and hobbies.

Still, Lucy couldn’t shake the feeling that she’d just stepped into something bigger than herself. Her fingers kept brushing the edge of her pocket, where the crumpled piece of paper sat like a weight. 8:00 p.m. Hotel Briarwood. Room 614.

She glanced at her phone. 8:07 p.m.

Nathan noticed her distraction and tilted his head. “Everything okay? You seem a little out of it.”

“Yeah, yeah,” she said quickly. “Just… it’s been one of those days.”

By the time he paid the bill, the rain had stopped completely. Nathan walked her toward the corner where she’d catch a taxi home, still chatting about weekend plans, but Lucy barely heard him.

“Thanks for dinner,” she said, interrupting him gently as they reached the curb.

“Of course,” he said, shoving his hands into his jacket pockets. “We should do this again sometime.”

“Yeah,” she lied, forcing a smile. “I’ll text you.”

Nathan smiled, but Lucy was already turning away, staring down the dimly lit street. Her thoughts weren’t on him anymore. They were back at 5th and Main, on the man in the gray coat and the strange call that had started it all.

What had she really given away tonight?

And what would happen next?

———

That night, the 11 o’clock news was filled with reports of an attempted kidnapping at a luxury hotel downtown. A man had been arrested in the lobby, armed with a gun and fake credentials, trying to gain access to a visiting diplomat’s suite.

Lucy froze. The image on the screen was unmistakable: her red umbrella, spread wide on the marble floor of the Briarwood Hotel lobby, its gold-stitched edges gleaming under the harsh light of a camera flash. Police officers crowded the scene, one of them holding the hollowed-out handle that had concealed the weapon.

Her stomach churned. That umbrella was hers. It had been hers just hours ago, and now it was evidence in a foiled attack on a diplomat.

“What the hell…” she whispered, sinking onto her couch.

The news anchor’s voice was steady but tense, describing how an anonymous tip had led security to intercept the suspect. “Authorities are investigating whether the man acted alone. Reports suggest the suspect gained access to the building by blending in with guests and using the hollow umbrella to smuggle in a firearm.”

Lucy’s blood ran cold. The man in the gray coat.

The next morning, Lucy woke to the sound of heavy knocking on her apartment door. She crept to the peephole and saw two men in black suits standing in the hallway.

“Ms. Daniels?” one of them called. “We’d like to speak with you.”

Lucy’s breath hitched. The men didn’t look like your average detectives—they looked like something out of a spy thriller. Suits too sharp, expressions too unreadable. She debated pretending she wasn’t home, but the knock came again, louder this time.

“Ms. Daniels, we know you’re in there,” the taller man said.

Heart racing, Lucy opened the door a crack. “Yes?”

The shorter man held up a badge. “Detectives Marshall and Greene, special investigations. May we come in?”

Her mind spun. Special investigations? What does that even mean? She forced herself to nod and stepped aside, pulling the door wider. “Uh, sure. Please come in.”

The detectives entered, their eyes scanning the apartment with the precision of people trained to notice every detail. Lucy fidgeted, suddenly hyper-aware of her unwashed dishes and the clutter on her coffee table.

“Sorry for the mess,” she muttered.

“This won’t take long,” Marshall said, his tone clipped.

“May I take your coats?” she asked, gesturing to the coat rack by the door.

They hesitated for a beat before shrugging off their jackets and handing them over. Lucy turned to hang them up, but as she did, the motion jostled her own coat. A piece of paper fluttered to the floor.

She froze.

The crumpled paper with the address and hotel room number lay face up, the smeared ink glaring like a beacon.

“What’s that?” Greene asked, his voice sharper now.

Lucy bent to grab it, but Marshall was faster. He plucked the paper from the floor and scanned it, his jaw tightening.

“Hotel Briarwood,” he said, exchanging a look with Greene. “Room 614.”

Lucy’s mouth went dry. “I… I found it. On the street.”

“Did you?” Greene said, his gaze narrowing.

“Yes! I swear,” Lucy insisted, her voice rising. “I don’t know anything about this. I just… someone called me. They told me to give my umbrella to some guy on the corner. That’s all.”

Marshall folded the paper and slipped it into his pocket. “Why didn’t you report this?”

“I didn’t think it mattered,” Lucy admitted. “I thought it was just some weird prank. I didn’t know…” Her voice trailed off as the memory of the news broadcast flashed in her mind.

Greene stepped closer, his expression unreadable. “Ms. Daniels, the man you handed that umbrella to was caught attempting to kidnap a high-profile diplomat. The weapon hidden in that umbrella could have changed everything.”

Lucy staggered back a step, her knees suddenly weak. “I didn’t know! I didn’t know anything about a weapon or kidnapping or—”

Marshall raised a hand, cutting her off. “We believe you didn’t know. But you’re involved now, whether you like it or not.”

“What does that mean?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

“It means whoever orchestrated this is still out there,” Greene said grimly. “And now they know your face. Your name.”

Lucy’s stomach sank. “You’re saying I’m in danger?”

Marshall’s eyes were hard. “We’re saying you need to be very careful. Until we figure out who’s behind this, you’ll be safer under our watch.”

Lucy swallowed hard, the weight of their words pressing down on her. She thought back to the man in the gray coat, to the desperation in his eyes, to the cryptic phone call that had started it all.

Her ordinary life had just become anything but.

☔️ to be continued ☔️

In a small, snowbound village in New England, nestled among frostbitten pines and silent fields Christmastime was not a time for celebration but for survival. Generations of villagers told of a vengeful spirit, known only as the Chain Bearer. Whispers spoke of its icy touch and shadowy form, a harbinger of doom that prowled the snow-draped woods during Christmastime.

According to the lore, if he found you, he would drag you into a haunting vision of your Christmas past and future, forcing you to confront the darkest corners of your soul. Those who failed to change their ways would meet a grimmer fate—the Chain Bearer would bind them in his heavy, spectral chains and take them into the void, never to be seen again.

To avoid his wrath, the villagers shunned Christmas entirely. No wreaths adorned their doors, no candles burned in their windows, and no songs filled the air. They bolted their homes, hung crude talismans made of iron and holly, and whispered prayers through the night, begging for the spirit to pass them by. From sunrise on Christmas Eve to sunset on Christmas Day, the village endured its most harrowing hours. When the sun chased away the shadows, did the village dare to breathe again.

The air was this particular evening was bitterly cold, the kind that pierced through even the thickest coat and burrowed into your bones. The church bells in the town square had long since fallen silent, their tolling replaced by the crackling frost and the occasional murmur of wind.

Andrew Cavill, a bitter boy of thirteen, didn’t believe in the stories.

To Andrew, Christmas was a lie —a cruel facade designed to make the poor feel even smaller. He scoffed at the village’s fear, dismissing the local myths as nothing more than nonsense. To him, the stories of the Chain Bearer were just a way for the village to justify their inability to celebrate like the wealthier towns. For him, Christmas was a reminder of everything he lacked—a warm house, a table full of food, and the kind of joy that only came with privilege. While the village cowered behind locked doors and muttered prayers to ward off the Chain Bearer, Andrew scoffed at their fear. He didn’t believe in spirits or curses, only in the harsh reality of hunger and cold.

Let them hide, he thought bitterly, while he faced the night head-on. He’d never seen a ghost, let alone one dragging chains, and he refused to live in fear of shadows. After all, what could the spirit show him that he didn’t already know? His past was nothing but poverty and loss, and his future promised more of the same. To Andrew, there was nothing left to lose—except, perhaps, himself.

“Christmas spirit,” he muttered. “What a joke.”

Andrew watched his mother, her frail form curled under the threadbare quilt, holding tightly onto the talisman that hung around her neck. Her shallow breaths were the only sound in the quiet house. With a final glance, Andrew moved quietly to the door, leaving the lights on, their dim glow cutting through the darkness like defiance itself. He pulled it open, letting the cold air spill into the house, and didn’t bother to shut it behind him. The creaking hinges echoed softly in the still night as he stepped outside, his breath visible in the freezing air. His mother remained inside, her tiny figure still clinging to the talisman, unaware of his departure.

He stepped into the cold night, the crunch of frozen snow beneath his boots the only sound. The village was silent, its streets empty and still, save for the occasional flicker of moonlight. Andrew clenched his fists, his breath misting in the chill air.

He didn’t believe in ghosts, didn’t believe in myths. But the stories of the Chain Bearer had become more than warnings— they were a symbol of their poverty, a reminder of what they couldn’t escape. And tonight, Andrew was determined to confront whatever fear haunted the village.

He walked deeper into the shadows, his steps steady, his gaze fixed on the horizon. “I’ve got nothing left to lose,” he muttered. “Show me what you’ve got.”

“Come on then,” he muttered again, louder this time, his voice rough from the hours spent wandering the empty streets. “Show yourself, if you’re real.”

He didn’t believe in the tales of the Chain Bearer, but if the spirit was supposed to come, maybe he could summon it himself. Perhaps all those old stories were just waiting to be broken.

Taking a deep breath, Andrew began to sing—quiet at first, then louder, his voice cutting through the silence like a challenge. The lyrics of old Christmas songs filled the air, defying the fear that had haunted the village for generations.

“Silent night, holy night, All is calm, all is bright—”

His voice cracked, but he pressed on, forcing the words into the darkness.

“Joy to the world, the Lord is come!”

The echoes of his own singing reverberated through the empty streets, but there was no response, only the wind and the distant creak of frozen trees. He clenched his jaw, refusing to let doubt take hold.

“Frosty the Snowman, Was a jolly, happy soul!”

His voice faltered as he realized how absurd it sounded, standing alone, singing to the night. But he didn’t stop. If the Chain Bearer was real, he had to face him. And if the spirit didn’t come, well, he’d take the risk anyway.

Tears stung the corners of his eyes, but he kept singing, letting the cold seep deeper into his bones. The songs were meant to be heard, even if no one was listening.

“Run, run, Rudolph, Santa’s gonna make him —”

A sudden silence fell, heavier than before. The wind died down, leaving behind only Andrew’s ragged breathing. The air felt thicker now, like the world itself had paused. His pulse quickened, and for the first time all night, he wasn’t sure if it was fear or something else.

Then, from the darkness, the sound of chains scraping against concrete emerged. Followed by a chilling voice.

“Is that how you wish to be remembered, boy?”

Andrew froze. The voice was cold, hollow, like the wind itself had taken form. His stomach tightened as he slowly turned, expecting to see the figure the village had feared for generations. But there was nothing. Only shadows.

“Who… who are you?” Andrew’s voice shook.

A figure began to emerge from the darkness, shrouded in the faint glow of dawn. Tall, with a long white beard, spectral, with chains clinking softly with each step. The Chain Bearer. The spirit of their cursed folklore, now stepping into the world of the living.

Andrew stood his ground, his fists clenched but his heart racing. “I’m not afraid of you,” he said, his voice steadier now. “What do you want from me?”

The Chain Bearer didn’t answer right away. His hollow gaze seemed to peer into Andrew’s very soul. “You summon me,” the spirit said at last, his voice like the whisper of the wind. “What do you seek?”

Andrew took a deep breath, meeting the spirit’s hollow stare. “I seek nothing but the truth,” he replied. “No more fear, no more myths. If you’re real, show me what lies ahead.”

The Chain Bearer regarded him for a long moment, then spoke again. “If you face your past and change your ways, you will escape your fate. But if you fail, you will carry these chains for eternity.”

Andrew clenched his fists tighter. “I have nothing to lose. Show me.”

The spirit regarded him one last time, then began to fade into the shadows. As the night grew darker over the horizon, Andrew remained standing alone in the quiet, empty streets, his heart both lighter and heavier than before.

Andrew’s breath came in short, sharp gasps as the Chain Bearer loomed before him once more. The spirit’s hollow gaze was piercing, unrelenting, as though he could see deep into Andrew’s very soul. Without a word, the Chain Bearer reached out, and in an instant, Andrew was pulled back—back to a time he wished he could forget.

The scene unfolded before him like a ghostly replay. A younger Andrew stood in a dimly lit room, watching his parents in their younger days, vibrant and full of life, before they had moved to this godforsaken village. His mother was smiling, her laughter echoing through the halls as they both tucked him into bed, her hand warm on his head. His father stood beside them, strong and proud, his smile bright as he tousled Andrew’s hair, his presence a pillar of strength and love. The warmth of those moments clung to Andrew, a reminder of a family that had once been whole and joyful.

But soon, the vision shifted, growing darker and colder.

His mother, now older, frail and hollow-eyed, sat alone by the fire, clutching that same talisman. The warmth of her presence was gone, replaced by silence. The once-bright spark in her eyes had dimmed, leaving behind a deep, unrelenting sorrow. Her face was lined with weariness and sadness—sadness Andrew hadn’t fully understood, hadn’t cared to acknowledge.

For years, he had blamed her. Blamed her for his father leaving. In his mind, she had been the one who couldn’t hold everything together, the one who had failed to keep their family whole. The one who moved them away with nothing but the clothes on their backs. The bitterness had grown like a weed, suffocating any affection or understanding he once held for her. He had turned his anger inward, turning away from the very person who had given him life, who had fought to shield him from their shared pain.

He had ignored her for years, treated her with coldness and indifference. Her quiet cries, her hidden pain, had become background noise to his own struggles. The burden of poverty, of the village’s fear, had hardened him. And in his own bitterness, he had failed to see the woman who had once given everything to protect him.

Andrew’s throat tightened as the vision lingered. Tears streamed down his face as he sank to his knees, the memory of his mother’s quiet suffering consuming him. “I didn’t mean to…” His voice cracked. “I didn’t mean to be so cruel.”

But part of him didn’t care. Part of him didn’t believe that was his future. This wasn’t how things were supposed to end—shackled by guilt, by regret, by the weight of a life that felt beyond his control. He clenched his fists, staring at the ethereal being in front of him , and the anger inside him simmered, sharper than before.

The Chain Bearer’s words echoed in his mind. “Your future is condemned. You shall carry these chains forever.”

“No,” Andrew whispered, his voice trembling. “That’s not my future. My mom always tried her best. I wouldn’t leave her.”

“You are not good,” the Chain Bearer hissed, his voice filled with the weight of centuries. “You cannot escape what’s coming. I will not allow it.”

The icy grip of the chains tightened around Andrew’s throat, dragging him closer, choking him with the very burden he had fought against. His vision blurred, his body went rigid, but deep inside, a flicker of something stronger than fear stirred—a burning desire to break free.

In a sudden surge of defiance, Andrew lashed out, his fists clenched tightly. The Chain Bearer let out a cold, hollow laugh, and his chains began to tighten around Andrew’s neck, pulling him closer. The sound of their clinking grew louder, suffocating, as if they were trying to drag him into the very abyss of his own regret.

“You cannot escape!” the spirit growled. “You are bound to these chains!”

Acting on instinct, Andrew reached into his coat pocket, his hand shaking, and grabbed a sprig of mistletoe he had stolen from a neighbors garden. With all the strength he could muster, he hurled it at the Chain Bearer.

A blinding light burst forth, illuminating the street. The chains clattered to the ground, dissolving into nothingness. The spirit let out a low, tortured wail as he vanished into the mist.

Breathless, Andrew stumbled back, his chest heaving. For a moment, the world felt still, as though the nightmare had finally ended.

The sun rose began to rise, casting a pale light over the village. As Andrew walked home, his mind was consumed with thoughts of his mother. When he stepped through the door, his heart sank.

There, on the worn floorboards, lay his mother—lifeless, her frail body still clutching the talisman. The warmth he had fought to preserve was gone, replaced by the cold emptiness that had haunted their lives for too long.

Tears blurred his vision as he knelt beside her, gripping her lifeless hand. “I thought…” his voice broke. “I thought I defeated him.”

But there was no answer, only the echo of his sobs.

Don’t Walk Home Alone

The air was heavy with the lingering warmth of the day, but the encroaching darkness brought a sharp chill that crept through the streets. Nadia adjusted the strap of her backpack, her steps echoing through the deserted alleyway as she walked briskly toward her apartment. She told herself it was just another evening. But deep down, she knew something felt… off.

She had been warned. Everyone in the neighborhood knew the rule: don’t walk home alone after sunset. Stories of strange disappearances floated around, whispered in the shadows, but Nadia never put much stock in rumors. Tonight, though, the silence felt different—too thick, too deliberate. Even the usual hum of distant cars seemed to have disappeared.

As she passed under a flickering streetlamp, a sudden movement caught her eye—a faint shadow shifting against the wall ahead. She froze, her breath caught in her throat. The shadow wasn’t hers. It moved differently, slower, creeping along the concrete as though it had a mind of its own.

“Hello?” she called out, her voice trembling despite her attempt to sound firm. The alley offered no reply, only an oppressive stillness that made her pulse quicken. She clutched her backpack tighter and picked up her pace, her shoes tapping against the pavement.

The silhouette of a man emerged from the dim glow of another streetlamp, his figure partially obscured by the brim of a floppy fisherman’s hat. He walked at a deliberate pace, his head slightly tilted, as if listening for something. Nadia felt a strange mix of relief and unease—relief that she wasn’t truly alone, unease because the man’s movements were unnaturally smooth, almost mechanical.

She quickened her pace, hoping to pass him, but as she did, his shadow seemed to stretch toward hers, like ink bleeding across the pavement. She glanced back and found him staring—not at her, but past her, as though seeing something she couldn’t. His face was obscured by the dim light, but she could sense the intensity of his gaze.

Her heart hammered as she turned a corner, nearly breaking into a run. The shadows grew thicker, pooling in the crevices between buildings. Every instinct screamed at her to get off the streets, to find shelter, but she was so close to home. Just a few more blocks.

Behind her, she heard it: the faintest shuffle of footsteps, a rhythm that didn’t match hers. She whipped around, but the alley was empty. The man with the hat was nowhere in sight.

A sound like a whispering breeze brushed past her ear.

“Nadia…”

Her blood ran cold. She didn’t recognize the voice, but it knew her name. She broke into a sprint, her legs burning as she darted past the pools of shadow, her mind racing with a singular thought: get home, get inside, get safe.

The lights of her apartment building came into view, and relief washed over her like a wave. She fumbled for her keys, her hands shaking, and shoved the door open. The warm glow of the hallway light was a small comfort as she slammed the door shut behind her, locking it with trembling fingers.

Safe. She was safe.

Or so she thought.

As she leaned against the door, catching her breath, she noticed it—her shadow cast against the wall. But something was wrong. It wasn’t hers anymore. The outline of a floppy hat loomed over her own silhouette.

And then, the lights went out.

As Zaina opened the floral curtains, the sun beamed through the windows, letting in enough light to wake her newborn baby. After feeding and burping him, she crept passed several boxes to get down to the kitchen, going straight for the coffee maker she unpacked last night. Minutes later, the air is thick with the scent of coffee. Zaina didn’t even bother to add cream or sugar. _I don’t ever want to move again, _she thought as she took a sip from her mug. She closes her eyes and takes a deep sigh of satisfaction. A loud thump followed by the sound of Ezekiel’s tiny cries from upstairs caused her to reach for the baby monitor sitting gracefully on the counter. As the monitor blares into life, a blurry figure stands over Ezekiel and then disappears. The crying stopped.

“Honey!” Zaina yelled. “Are you with Zeke right now?”

She doesn’t receive an answer.

“ARE YOU WITH THE BABY?” She anxiously screamed.

At the sound of a rumble and the wrestling of boxes from around the corner Zaina let out a sigh of relief. Austin peered into the kitchen. His eyes were low and his hair was mangled as if he had just hopped out of bed. Shrugging the incident as simply a camera issue, she hugged her husband and handed him a mug of lukewarm coffee. It’s been one busy week. The couple made a huge move from Atlanta to a small town in Georgia called Pine Hollow, while seven months pregnant. It wasn’t an easy pregnancy either. The stress of the move caused the baby’s eviction to be earlier than expected, leading to living in the NICU for weeks. At one point the baby had stopped breathing but eventually, he made it. It has only been a couple days since they were able to bring him home and they till have yet to unpack.

“You asked me something?” Austin asked after he chugged the coffee.

“I heard Zeke cry and thought I saw you in the the baby monitor.”

They both exchanged puzzled looks, and without saying anything they both knew someone else was up there. Running up the stairs, and tripping over boxes, they made it to the nursery to see a black, smoky apparition hovering over the crib. It had this dark glow surrounding its human-like form. It had no obvious face but the couple sensed it was evil. Austin grabbed the baby and they both ran down stairs. It didn’t walk or run after them. It only appeared in the hallway and stood there motionless. As Zaina ran out the front door, Austin stopped in his tracks, staring back at the figure glaring from the top of the staircase.

“Come on, let's get out of here,” Zaina pleaded. 

“I don’t think—”

Before Austin could finish his sentence the doors slammed shut locking Zaina out and separating her from her husband and son. Neither one could get the door to budge open. Austin yelled out for her to get help; however, the keys to the car were in the house. Zaina ran down the street hoping a neighbor would hear her cries and assist. After knocking on about five different houses, a couple finally answered the door.

“Are you okay, miss?” The husband asked, raising an eyebrow at the strange woman.

“I... we... uh,” she stuttered, trying to catch her breath. “My husband and I moved in a couple days and we just had a baby. I seen something strange on the baby monitor and it was a black—"

“A black figure was standing over the baby, correct?” The wife interjected. “We know.”

Zaina’s eyes widened as the woman spoke. _I’m not crazy... or maybe I am and they are too, _she thought. This could not be real. The couple invited her in and the house was a mess. Toys and clothes were everywhere. Two twin boys, no older than three, were running around naked, holding their dirty diapers in their tiny hands. Suddenly, the air turned black and the figure appeared grabbing both boys and putting diapers on them in one motion. It disappeared in a tornado-like smoke, along with the boys. A loud crash and tiny laughter appeared upstairs. Zaina, wide-eyed and distraught, backed up slowly towards the door.

“I— I gotta go...”

“Wait!” The wife grabbed Zaina’s arm. “It’s not what you think. Please sit.”

Zaina froze.

“Okay, standing works too, I guess,” mumbled the husband.

“That demon... whatever that was was JUST at my house,” stammered Zaina as she pointed at the eerie figure as it appeared again, this time picking up the toys. “My husband got trapped with my baby in the house after we tried to leave with Zeke.”

The wife took a deep sigh. “I’m Cecilia, and this is my husband, Noah. That ‘thing’ is the Babysitter. It won’t harm your baby. It’s not necessarily evil. Everyone in this town has probably encountered it.” Zaina just stared blankly at her as she spoke.

“It comes with a cost,” she continued. “Nothing in life is free, unfortunately, and even though none of us asked for this, we have to pay up.”

“Uh, what happens if you don’t pay up?” Zaina asked, a puzzled look washed over her face.

The couple looked at each other, returning their gaze to Zaina. It was the husband who spoke. 

“As far as we know, payment is not optional.”

Zaina’s head spun. “You’re telling me this… thing just exists? In our homes? Taking care of children? And we’re supposed to…just accept it?”

Cecilia nodded solemnly. “It started decades ago. The first families here reported strange occurrences—children being lulled to sleep, rooms tidied overnight, meals prepared without anyone lifting a finger. At first, people thought it was a blessing, a guardian angel, maybe even a local legend came to life.”

Noah interrupted, his voice barely above a whisper. “Then people started disappearing. Anyone who refused the Babysitter’s… arrangement.”

Zaina’s stomach churned. “What kind of arrangement?”

Cecilia hesitated. “It varies. Sometimes it asks for something small, like a family heirloom or a cherished possession. Other times… it’s more personal. Memories. Dreams. Parts of yourself.”

Zaina’s heart dropped. “But why? What does it want?”

Cecilia shrugged helplessly. “No one knows. It’s not like it explains itself. It just… does. And the cost is always different.”

Suddenly, a loud crash came from upstairs, followed by the unmistakable giggle of the twins. The Babysitter had returned, carrying the boys in its smoky arms. Zaina stumbled back as it deposited them gently on the couch, ruffled their hair, and disappeared in a wisp of shadow.

“That’s what it does,” Cecilia said softly. “It takes, but it also gives. You have to decide what you’re willing to sacrifice.”

Zaina’s mind raced. Her baby was in that house, with that thing. What would it ask of her? Could she bargain with it, or was the cost already set?

“I have to get back,” Zaina said, her voice trembling. She turned and bolted out the door, ignoring Noah’s shout to wait. Her feet pounded against the pavement as she ran toward her house, fear and determination propelling her forward.

When she reached her home, the front door creaked open as if it had been waiting for her. The air inside was heavy, charged with an unnatural stillness.

“Zeke? Austin?” she called, her voice quivering.

No response.

She crept through the house, her eyes darting from shadow to shadow. In the nursery, the crib was empty, the blankets neatly folded. Her heart sank. Then she heard it—a low, guttural whisper coming from the living room.

She followed the sound, her pulse racing. There, in the center of the room, stood the Babysitter. It held Zeke in its smoky arms, cradling him with surprising tenderness. Austin was nowhere to be seen.

“What do you want?” Zaina demanded, her voice shaking but firm. “What’s the cost?”

The figure turned its featureless face toward her, and for a moment, the air seemed to hum with an unspoken answer. Then, in a voice that resonated deep within her bones, it spoke:

“You.”

---

Zaina’s breath caught in her throat. “What… what do you mean, me?” she stammered.

The Babysitter’s form shimmered, shifting like smoke caught in a breeze. Its voice came again, low and resonant. “Your life.”

“No!” Zaina shouted, stepping closer, her fists clenched. “You can’t just take me! I didn’t agree to this. I didn’t ask for you to be here!”

The figure tilted its head as if considering her protest. “You moved here. You brought the child. You invited me.”

Zaina’s mind raced. She thought back to their first night in the house after graduating from the NICU. She’d whispered a desperate prayer while holding Zeke, begging for help to be a good mother, to keep him safe. Was this thing some twisted answer to that plea?

“There has to be another way,” she pleaded, tears spilling down her cheeks. “Please. Don’t do this.”

The Babysitter hovered silently for a long moment, as if weighing her desperation. Then it spoke again, its tone colder, final. “One must pay. It is law.”

Zaina’s knees buckled, and she sank to the floor. She couldn’t leave Zeke. He’d already been through so much—born early, struggling in the NICU, and now this. But Austin… where was Austin? He was supposed to protect their family, to stand by her. She clung to the hope that he might still be somewhere in the house, waiting for his chance to fight back.

“Take me,” she whispered, her voice breaking. “But only if you let my husband and son go. No harm comes to them. Ever.”

The Babysitter loomed closer, it's dark glow intensifying. It extended an inky tendril toward her face, brushing her cheek. “Your sacrifice will bind them to safety. Do you consent?”

Zaina closed her eyes, trembling. “Yes.”

The room erupted in shadow, a swirling storm of darkness and cold. For a moment, she felt weightless, as though her body was being unraveled. Then, just as suddenly, it stopped.

When she opened her eyes, she was in the nursery. The air was still, the house eerily quiet. She stumbled to the crib and found Zeke lying peacefully, his tiny chest rising and falling with each breath. Relief flooded her, but it was short-lived.

“Austin?” she called out, her voice cracking.

No response.

She searched the house frantically, but he was nowhere to be found. Panic set in as she realized the truth: the Babysitter had taken him instead.

A note lay on the kitchen counter, written in smoky black letters:

_A father’s love can pay as well. He chose to give himself. _ Zaina sank to the floor, clutching the note. Tears streamed down her face as the weight of what had happened settled over her. Austin had saved her and Zeke, sacrificing himself in her place.

But the Babysitter wasn’t gone. She could feel its presence lingering, a shadow in the corner of her vision, always watching.

From that day on, Zaina knew her family would never truly be free. The Babysitter had claimed its price, but its gaze would remain on her son. And she vowed to do whatever it took to keep him safe—even if it meant facing the shadows again.

———

Zaina didn’t sleep that night. Every creak of the floorboards, every rustle of wind through the house set her on edge. She sat by Zeke’s crib, clutching the note in her trembling hands. Morning light crept through the windows, but it brought no comfort. She knew she couldn’t face this alone.

She bundled Zeke in a blanket, strapped him into his stroller, and headed straight to Cecilia and Noah’s house. Her knock was frantic, and it wasn’t long before Cecilia opened the door, her face pale with concern.

“Zaina, are you okay?”

“No,” Zaina snapped, pushing past her into the chaotic house. “I need answers. Now.”

Noah appeared in the doorway, holding a cup of coffee. He frowned when he saw Zaina’s wild eyes and shaking hands. “What happened?”

“What happened?” Zaina spat, her voice trembling with fury and fear. “The Babysitter confronted me, demanded my life, and when I agreed, my husband gave himself up instead. I don’t even know where he is! It left me a note like this was some kind of twisted transaction. I need to know what you lost—what this thing took from you.”

Cecilia and Noah exchanged a somber glance. After a moment, Cecilia gestured to the couch. “You should sit down.”

“No!” Zaina yelled. “Just tell me.” Cecilia sighed, sitting down herself. Her voice was soft, almost reluctant. “When our twins were born, they were… sick. We didn’t know if they’d make it through their first month. One night, in desperation, I whispered a prayer. I begged for something to save them. And the Babysitter came.”

“It took care of the boys,” Noah added. “Helped them recover. But the price…” He trailed off, his jaw tightening.

Cecilia reached for his hand, her voice breaking. “It took away my ability to have more children. I didn’t know that was the cost until months later, when we started trying for another.” She looked at Zaina with tear-filled eyes. “It always takes something. Something it knows will hurt.”

Zaina swallowed hard, her throat tight. “That’s not all, is it?”

Noah shifted uncomfortably, avoiding her gaze. Cecilia hesitated before continuing. “Noah… lost his memories of his childhood. It didn’t ask for them; it just took. He can’t remember his parents, his siblings, or anything before he turned eighteen.”

“It’s like they were erased,” Noah muttered, his voice low and bitter. “I only know them through photographs and stories Cecilia’s pieced together for me.”

Zaina stared at them, her stomach churning. “So it doesn’t just take what it asks for?”

Cecilia shook her head. “It doesn’t always. But sometimes… it does. And you never know what it’ll choose.”

Tears welled in Zaina’s eyes. “My husband is gone. It took him instead of me. Is there any way to get him back?”

Noah’s expression turned grim. “No one who’s been taken has ever returned. I’m sorry, Zaina. The Babysitter doesn’t bargain twice.”

Zaina’s knees buckled, and she collapsed into a chair, clutching her face as sobs wracked her body. Cecilia knelt beside her, placing a comforting hand on her shoulder.

“I know it’s hard,” Cecilia said softly. “But you still have your son. You have to protect him now. Whatever the Babysitter does, whatever it takes… it always ensures the children are safe.”

Zaina looked up, her tear-streaked face hardened with resolve. “Safe isn’t enough. I need to end this. For Zeke. For Austin. For everyone in this town.”

Cecilia and Noah exchanged worried glances.

“End it?” Noah said, his voice incredulous. “No one’s ever been able to stop it. What makes you think you can?”

“I don’t know,” Zaina said, standing and wiping her eyes. “But I’m going to try. It’s taken enough from us all. It’s time it paid our price.”

The room fell silent, Cecilia and Noah staring at Zaina as if she’d just declared war on the sun.

“You can’t fight it,” Cecilia whispered, anxiously looking around. “It’s not human, Zaina. It’s not even something we understand. What could you possibly do?”

“I don’t know yet,” Zaina admitted, her voice trembling with both fear and determination. “But I can’t just sit here and let it control our lives. It took my husband, and I won’t let it take anything else.”

Noah frowned, rubbing the back of his neck. “People have tried to fight back before. They’ve tried moving away, destroying the houses, even burning the thing when it appears. It always comes back. Stronger.”

“Then I’ll find another way,” Zaina said, her voice hardening. “There has to be something it wants. Some reason it’s tied to this town.”

Cecilia hesitated, then stood and walked to a small desk near the corner of the room. She opened a drawer and pulled out a worn leather journal, its cover cracked with age. She handed it to Zaina.

“What’s this?”

“It belonged to the first family who encountered the Babysitter. We found it in the attic when we moved in the house,” Cecilia explained. “They lived here in the 1920s. The journal talks about their experiences and what they learned about… it.”

Zaina took the journal, her fingers trembling. “Does it say how to stop it?”

Cecilia shook her head. “No. But it talks about where it came from. There’s a section about an old well in the woods behind the neighborhood. The family thought it might be the source of its power.”

Noah cut in, his voice sharp. “But no one’s gone near that well in years. The last person who did… disappeared.”

Zaina clenched her jaw. “Then that’s where I’ll start.”

“Zaina,” Cecilia said urgently, grabbing her arm. “You have a baby to think about. If you go after this thing and fail, who’s going to take care of Zeke?”

Zaina hesitated, the weight of her decision pressing down on her. But then she thought of Austin, of the life they’d dreamed of building together, of the smoky figure cradling her son. Her resolve returned.

“I’ll find someone to watch him,” Zaina said firmly. “But I can’t sit here and do nothing. If there’s even a chance to stop this, I have to try.”

Cecilia sighed but nodded reluctantly. “Fine. But be careful. If the Babysitter knows what you’re doing…”

“I’m sure it already knows,” Zaina said grimly, clutching the journal. “And I don’t care.” ———— Zaina left Cecelia and Noah’s house with the worn journal clutched tightly in her hands. The sun was starting to set, but she couldn’t shake the urgency to learn more. She had to understand what this Babysitter was and why it seemed tied to her family—and this town.

Zaina dropped Zeke off with Mrs. Hollis, the elderly neighbor who had agreed to watch him. Mrs. Hollis, for the most part kept to herself and Zaina knew very little about her past. What she did know, though, was that Mrs. Hollis had lost her own child many years ago—long before the Babysitter had the chance to come into her life. That loss had been heavy enough to carry, and Zaina often wondered if that was why Mrs. Hollis had agreed to help. Perhaps her own pain had made her more empathetic, more willing to protect others.

Zaina drove straight to the closest university, the University of Georgia, about thirty minutes away. The sprawling campus felt foreign and overwhelming as she parked near the library, the imposing building glowing under the streetlights.

Inside, the air was thick with the smell of old books and faint traces of coffee. Students milled around, their voices hushed as they studied. Zaina approached the reference desk, where a middle-aged librarian with wire-rimmed glasses and a sharp gaze greeted her.

“Hi,” Zaina began, hesitating slightly. “My name is Zaina and I’m… looking for information on local legends or… supernatural occurrences around the town of Pine Hollow.”

The librarian froze mid-turn, her hand hovering over a stack of returned books. Her brows furrowed, and her expression shifted from polite curiosity to something guarded, almost wary. “I’m Erin and I, uh, grew up there actually,” she said cautiously, setting the books down with deliberate care. “What exactly are you looking for?”

Zaina hesitated, unsure of how much to reveal. The Babysitter wasn’t the kind of topic you could bring up without risking skepticism—or worse, outright dismissal. “I’ve just… heard some strange things about the area,” she said, choosing her words carefully. “There’s this story about a… presence. Something people call the Babysitter. I was wondering if you’ve come across anything about it in your research.”

The librarian’s face darkened, her lips pressing into a thin line. She looked around the library, her sharp eyes scanning for anyone nearby before leaning in closer. “The Babysitter,” she said in a low voice, as if the name itself carried weight. “Where did you hear about that?”

“I moved to Pine Hollow recently,” Zaina explained, her voice barely above a whisper. “It’s not just a story, is it? It… came to my house. It’s taken something from my family.”

For a moment, the librarian didn’t respond. Her fingers tapped anxiously against the desk, and Zaina could see a flicker of unease in her eyes, like someone forced to confront a ghost from their past. Finally, she sighed, her shoulders sagging under the weight of whatever she was about to say. “I’ve heard of it,” she admitted. “More than I’d like to, if I’m being honest. But it’s not something people around here like to talk about.”

“Why not?” Zaina pressed.

“Because once you start talking about it, it feels like you’re inviting it in,” the librarian said grimly. “And if it’s already been to your home, then you’re in deeper than most.” She paused, studying Zaina with a mixture of sympathy and apprehension. “I can help you, but you need to understand something. The Babysitter doesn’t just show up for no reason. It’s drawn to something—pain, fear, desperation. If you’re not ready to face whatever that is, no amount of research is going to save you.”

Zaina swallowed hard, her determination outweighing her fear. “I have to try. It has my family. I can’t just walk away.”

The librarian nodded slowly, her hesitation giving way to a reluctant sense of duty. She gestured for Zaina to follow her deeper into the library, where the air grew cooler and the shadows darker. “Come with me,” she said, pointing to a small table. “There’s something you need to see.”

She disappeared into the rows of bookshelves and returned with a thick, dusty book titled Legends of Georgia: Hauntings and Myths. Flipping through its pages, she stopped at a section labeled “The Watcher of Pine Hollow.”

“Here,” the librarian said, sliding the book across the table.

Zaina’s heart raced as she read:

“The Watcher of Pine Hollow, known locally as ‘The Babysitter,’ is a spectral figure said to protect children in times of danger. However, its protection comes at a cost, often taking something from the family—be it memories, loved ones, or their very freedom. Its origins are tied to the Pine Hollow Well, where, according to local lore, a grieving mother made a pact in the late 1800s to save her dying child. The child survived, but the mother disappeared, and the Babysitter was born. Since then, it has haunted the area, bound to the well and drawn to desperation.” __

Zaina felt a chill run down her spine. “It’s tied to the well,” she murmured.

The librarian nodded as Zaina continued reading.  “The well is mentioned in several stories. It’s said to be a gateway, though no one knows to where. Some think it’s Hell; others believe it’s another dimension. Either way, it’s dangerous.” __

“Has anyone ever… stopped it?” Zaina asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

The librarian hesitated. “There are accounts of people trying to sever ties to their families. Most failed. The few who succeeded…” She trailed off, flipping to another page. “Here. One woman in the 1950s managed to end her connection to the Babysitter by performing a ritual at the well. It involved returning something the Babysitter had taken and refusing to give it power through fear or guilt.”

Zaina’s eyes darted over the page. The ritual required three things: the presence of the well, an offering from the family that made the original pact, and a willingness to face one’s deepest truths.

She swallowed hard. “What happens if the ritual fails?”

The librarian’s face darkened. “It doesn’t just take. It consumes.”

“Have you ever encountered it?”

The librarian paused, her lips pressing into a thin line. She glanced around the nearly empty library before leaning forward, lowering her voice.

“I was hoping you wouldn’t ask that,” she said, her tone guarded.

Zaina frowned. “You have, haven’t you?”

The librarian nodded slowly. “Yes, I’ve encountered it. Not recently, thank God, but enough to know what you’re dealing with is very real—and very dangerous.”

Zaina leaned against the counter, her hands gripping its edge. “What happened?”

Erin took a deep breath, her fingers fidgeting with the corner of her book. “It was about ten years ago. My sister had just given birth to her first baby. She was struggling—her husband left her, postpartum depression, financial issues, you name it. One night, she called me, terrified. She said she saw something standing over her baby’s crib—a figure, dark and shapeless. She was convinced it was protecting her baby but… something felt off.”

Zaina’s chest tightened. “The Babysitter.”

Erin nodded. “Exactly. At first, we thought she was hallucinating. She was so sleep-deprived. But then I saw it too. I went to check on my niece, and there it was, just… standing there. It didn’t move. It didn’t speak. It just watched. And when I tried to pick up the baby, it blocked me.”

“What did you do?” Zaina asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

“I panicked,” Erin admitted. “We tried to leave the house, but the doors wouldn’t open. My sister started begging it to leave, but it just stood there, like it was waiting for something. The next day, my sister woke up and couldn’t remember anything about her pregnancy or her baby. She didn’t even recognize her own daughter.”

Zaina’s eyes widened. “It took her memories?”

Erin nodded, her expression pained. “Yes. I ended up moving, raising my niece because my sister couldn’t connect with her anymore. The Babysitter didn’t come back, but the damage was done. It always takes something.”

Zaina’s stomach churned. “Do you know if anyone’s ever undone it? Reversed what it took?”

Erin hesitated. “I’ve read about people trying. Some succeed, but it’s rare. And it’s not easy. You have to confront it directly, challenge its claim over you, and refuse to give it power through fear. But there’s always a risk. If you fail…” She trailed off, shaking her head.

“It consumes you,” Zaina finished, recalling the words from the legend.

Erin met her gaze. “Yes. If you’re planning to face it, be sure you’re ready. It feeds on desperation and fear. You have to be stronger than it. And you have to mean it when you say you’re taking back what’s yours.”

Zaina straightened, determination hardening in her eyes. “I don’t have a choice. It has my family in its grip. I have to stop it.”

Erin studied her for a long moment before nodding. “Then I wish you luck. And… take this.” She slid a small, leather-bound notebook across the counter.

“What is it?” Zaina asked, picking it up.

“My notes,” Erin said. “From everything I’ve researched over the years. Maybe it’ll help you. And if you need more, come back.”

Zaina clutched the notebook tightly. “Thank you, Erin. I won’t forget this.”

Armed with the journal, the book, and her growing determination, Zaina spent hours in the library, combing through every piece of information she could find. By the time she left, it was past midnight, and the campus was eerily quiet.

Back at home, she spread out her findings on the dining table. The journal’s cryptic entries, the book’s detailed accounts, and even notes Erin had scribbled from her memories all pointed to one undeniable truth: the Babysitter was bound to the well, and it fed on fear and desperation.

If she wanted to free her family, she needed to confront it at the source.

The next morning, Zaina called Cecelia and Noah, sharing what she had learned. To her surprise, they were willing to help.

“You’re really going to the well?” Noah asked over the phone, his tone both incredulous and admiring.

“I have to,” Zaina said. “I can’t let it keep controlling us.”

“We’ll meet you there,” Cecelia said firmly.

Zaina hesitated. “Are you sure? This could be dangerous.”

Cecelia’s voice softened. “We’ve lived with this thing our whole lives. If there’s even a chance to stop it, we’re in.”

———

That evening, the three of them stood at the edge of the woods, flashlights cutting through the growing darkness. The path to the well was overgrown and treacherous, but Zaina felt a strange sense of calm as they walked. She wasn’t alone. When they reached the clearing, the well stood before them, just as the journal and books had described. The air was thick, almost suffocating, and the shadows seemed to move of their own accord.

“This is it,” Noah said, his voice barely audible.

Zaina stepped forward, clutching the journal in one hand and a small locket—a keepsake of her own mother—in the other. She didn’t know if the locket would work as an offering, but it was the most meaningful thing she had.

As she approached the well, the air grew colder, and the Babysitter appeared, its form more solid than ever.

“You cannot break the bond,” it said, its voice echoing in the stillness.

Zaina took a deep breath, holding the locket tightly. “Watch me.”

Zaina stood at the edge of the well, her heartbeat pounding like a drum. The Babysitter loomed before her, its featureless form flickering between solid and shadow. Its presence was suffocating, but she didn’t waver. She had come too far to falter now.

Cecelia and Noah stood behind her, their flashlights barely cutting through the oppressive darkness. Cecelia whispered, “We’re with you. Whatever happens, you’re not alone.”

Zaina nodded but kept her eyes fixed on the Babysitter. The journal had been clear: to sever the bond completely and undo everything the Babysitter had taken, Zaina had to confront her deepest truths and offer a part of herself willingly—not out of fear or desperation, but out of strength.

The Ritual Zaina opened the journal to the page she had marked earlier. The instructions were cryptic, written by a desperate mother decades ago:

“Return what was taken. Confront the shadow within. Refuse its power.” __

She took a deep breath and began.

Step One: The Offering****

---

Zaina held up a locket, its small, heart-shaped frame catching the faint glow of her flashlight.  The locket was old, its edges worn from years of use, but its intricate design still shimmered in the dim light. Inside was a faded photograph of a woman with soft eyes and a gentle smile—her mother. It had always been more than just a piece of jewelry to Zaina. It was a symbol of her mother’s love, her strength, and the bond they had even in her absence. Now, it felt like the last connection to a past that had been violently torn away.

“I found this in my mother’s belongings after she died,” Zaina said, her voice trembling as she traced her fingers over the locket. “It’s all I have left of her, and it’s the only thing that’s kept me grounded. The Babysitter took more than I realized, and I don’t even know if it knows what it’s doing. But it’s taken something from my family—my son—and I can’t let that stand.”

“This is for you,” she said, her voice steady despite the anxiety clawing at her chest. “Not as a bribe, but as a symbol of my strength. I don’t need to hold onto the past to protect my son’s future.”

The Babysitter paused, its flickering form stilling for a moment. The locket floated from her hand and hovered over the well before vanishing into the shadows.

A low, guttural sound echoed from the well, as though the Babysitter were considering her gesture.

Step Two: Confronting the Shadow****

---

Zaina closed her eyes and focused inward. The journal had warned her that this part would be the hardest. She needed to face the guilt, fear, and desperation that had summoned the Babysitter in the first place.

Suddenly, the world around her shifted. She was no longer in the woods but standing in her old apartment in Atlanta again. The memories weren’t just flickers in her mind; they were alive. She could see the half-packed boxes stacked haphazardly against the walls, each one a reminder of the looming move they weren’t ready for. Her swollen belly ached as she stood by the kitchen counter, her hands trembling over a stack of unpaid bills. Austin paced back and forth in the narrow hallway, his voice tight with frustration as he spoke to the landlord about the deposit they wouldn’t get back. Tension hung in the air like a storm cloud, thick with worry and exhaustion. She felt the weight of it all again—the fear of uprooting their lives, the dread of bringing a baby into chaos, and the crushing guilt of feeling like she wasn’t ready to be a mother. It was a moment frozen in time, one that had unknowingly set the stage for everything that came after.

The vision flashed to the night they came home from the NICU and saw herself holding a tiny Zeke, sobbing uncontrollably as Austin tried to comfort her.

“I can’t do this,” her past self whispered, the words dripping with despair. “What if I fail? What if something happens to him? I don’t have the help of the nurses anymore. Please, someone—anyone—help me.”

Zaina watched as the shadows in the room darkened, the Babysitter materializing for the first time, drawn by her desperation.

“This was my fault,” Zaina murmured. “I let my fear call you here.”

Her past self turned to her, eyes filled with tears. “You did what you thought you had to. You’re only human.”

Zaina’s breath caught. She realized then that she had been carrying the weight of that moment for too long, blaming herself for Austin’s disappearance and the Babysitter’s hold on their lives.

“I forgive myself,” Zaina said aloud, the words feeling foreign but powerful. “I forgive myself for being scared, for being desperate, for not being perfect. I forgive myself because I love my son, and that love is stronger than my fear.”

The vision faded, and Zaina was back at the well. The Babysitter recoiled, its form flickering violently as though her words had struck it.

Step Three: Refusing Its Power****

---

The Babysitter’s voice boomed, a mix of rage and desperation. “You called me. You needed me. You cannot undo what has been done!”

Zaina took a step forward, her voice unwavering. “I needed you once, but not anymore. You have no power over me, or my family, or this town. I’m taking back what you’ve stolen.”

The shadows surged toward her, cold and suffocating. But Zaina stood firm, focusing on her love for Zeke, her memories of Austin, and the strength she had found within herself.

“You don’t get to take anything else from me,” she said, her voice ringing through the clearing. “Not now. Not ever.”

A brilliant light burst from the well, blinding her momentarily. The Babysitter let out a deafening wail as its form disintegrated, the shadows swirling into the light before disappearing entirely.

Undoing the Damage As the light faded, the clearing grew still. The air felt lighter, as though a weight had been lifted.

Cecelia and Noah rushed to Zaina’s side. “Did it work?” Cecelia asked, her voice trembling. Before Zaina could answer, the sound of rustling leaves through the silence. She turned and saw Austin stepping out of the woods.

“Austin!” Zaina ran to him, tears streaming down her face. She threw her arms around him, her heart bursting with relief.

“What happened?” Austin asked, his voice thick with confusion. “I remember… shadows, and then nothing. Where is Zeke?!”

“It’s over,” Zaina whispered. “He is safe. The Babysitter is gone.”

As they embraced, Zaina felt a sense of peace she hadn’t known in months.

———

The next day, Zaina and Austin, along with Cecelia and Noah, returned to Mrs. Hollis’s house to retrieve their kids and share the news with the town. The couple looked lighter, as though a burden had been lifted from their shoulders.

“We don’t feel its presence anymore,” Noah said. “You really did it.” Zaina smiled. “I couldn’t have done it without you.” As she drove home, Zaina glanced at Zeke in the rearview mirror, his tiny face peaceful in sleep. For the first time since moving to Pine Hollow, she felt truly free. The Babysitter was gone, its hold on her family and the town broken. And though the scars of its presence would remain, Zaina knew she had the strength to move forward—stronger, wiser, and unafraid.

Her hands trembled as she read the note on her windshield: “I know your secret.” Nervously, she scanned the parking lot filled with regular people. She crumbled the note and tossed it in her car as she hopped in her old beat up Honda. She wanted to believe it was coincidence, or even a prank some kid left only on her car. She cranked the handle to roll down her window as she pulled out the parking lot, looking back in her rear view mirror hoping to notice anything out of the ordinary.

The ride home was a blur. The note’s words echoed in her mind, turning her thoughts into a jumbled mess of panic and speculation. How do they know? she thought, her knuckles whitening as she gripped the steering wheel. It’s just a prank, she repeated to herself. Her heart pounded against her ribcage, louder with each passing moment.

Pulling into her driveway, she sat in her car, engine idling, and stared at her small bungalow tucked away in a quiet cul-de-sac. The curtains in the living room were drawn just like she’d left them. Nothing seemed out of place, but unease gnawed at her.

Inside, she double-locked the front door and leaned against it, exhaling a shaky breath. Her gaze darted around the living room, scanning for anything unusual. She told herself it was nothing—a stupid prank—but deep down, she knew better.

Her phone buzzed on the counter, making her jump. She hesitated before picking it up. It was a text from an unknown number:

“You can’t hide forever.”

Her stomach dropped. The trembling returned, this time worse. She stared at the message, her mind racing. This can’t be a prank, she thought. She thought about the file.

It had been weeks since she’d stumbled across it—an innocuous-looking folder buried deep in the archives at work. She hadn’t meant to open it, but curiosity got the better of her. What she found inside still made her stomach churn: names, dates, and payments linked to… something dark. She’d quickly closed it, told herself it wasn’t her problem, and tried to forget but couldn’t as she copied the files.

But someone must have seen her.

The phone buzzed again.

“Check your mailbox.”

She froze. How could they know where I live? The curtains were drawn, but she swore she felt eyes watching her. Slowly, she crept to the window and peeked through the edge of the fabric. The street was empty—silent and still. Her mailbox, illuminated by the soft glow of the streetlamp, looked ordinary.

Don’t do it, she thought. But she knew she had no choice.

Grabbing a flashlight and the baseball bat she kept in her closet, she stepped out into the night. The cool air nipped at her skin as she inched toward the mailbox, every shadow feeling like it was alive.

Her hands trembled as she opened the metal lid. Inside was another note, neatly folded and ominous in its simplicity. She unfolded it under the beam of her flashlight, her breath catching as she read the words:

“Time’s running out. Choose wisely.”

Her vision blurred. When she turned back toward her house, the porch light flickered once, then went out. A shadow moved in the corner of her eye, and she dropped the flashlight.

The flashlight clattered to the ground, its beam rolling erratically across the pavement. She fumbled to pick it up, her pulse roaring in her ears. A low rustling sound came from the bushes at the edge of her yard. She froze, every instinct screaming for her to run, but her legs refused to move.

“Who’s there?” she called out, her voice wavering.

Silence.

A car passed on the distant street, its headlights casting fleeting shadows across the yard. She gripped the bat tighter, her palms slick with sweat.

Then her phone buzzed again.

She yanked it from her pocket, the screen lighting up her pale face. Another text from the same unknown number:

“Don’t make me come inside.”

Her stomach twisted into knots. She turned and sprinted back to the house, slamming the door behind her and throwing the deadbolt. Her breathing was shallow, panic gripping her chest like a vice.

Her phone buzzed once more, but this time, it wasn’t a text. It was a call. The unknown number glowed on her screen.

She hesitated, her thumb hovering over the “decline” button. But what if this was her only chance to get answers? Steeling herself, she accepted the call and pressed the phone to her ear.

“Hello?” she whispered, her voice barely audible.

At first, there was nothing but static. Then a voice—low, gravelly, and chillingly calm—broke through.

“You shouldn’t have looked,” it said.

She felt the blood drain from her face. “Who is this? What do you want from me?”

The line crackled again, and the voice came back, colder this time. “You made a choice, and now you’ll pay for it.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about!” she cried, her voice rising.

“You will.”

The call ended abruptly, leaving her in suffocating silence. Her hand shook as she lowered the phone.

And then she heard it.

A soft thud on the back door.

Her breath hitched. She turned toward the kitchen, where the sound had come from. The faint outline of a shadow shifted against the glass door.

Someone was there.

Adrenaline coursed through her veins. Clutching the bat, she crept toward the kitchen, her heart threatening to burst out of her chest. The thudding came again, louder this time. Her trembling fingers reached for the curtain over the back door. She hesitated for a heartbeat before yanking it aside.

The glass was smeared with something dark. Red. Words scrawled in crude, uneven letters.

“Too late.”

Behind her, the floor creaked. Her entire body stiffened as the sound registered. The creak came from behind her—inside the house.

She didn’t dare turn around immediately. Her breath caught in her throat as she stared at the bloody words on the glass. Too late.

Gripping the bat with both hands, she forced herself to pivot slowly, her knees trembling. The living room was shrouded in shadows, the faint glow from a streetlamp outside barely illuminating the space. Everything looked the same—her couch, her coffee table, the stack of books she’d been meaning to organize. But something was wrong.

The air felt heavier, oppressive.

“Who’s there?” she demanded, her voice firmer this time, though fear cracked through the edges.

No response.

She stepped forward cautiously, her eyes darting to every dark corner of the room. The bat felt like a lifeline in her hands, but deep down, she wasn’t sure she’d be able to use it if it came to that.

Another creak. This time, it came from the hallway leading to her bedroom. Her mouth went dry. She knew she should run—throw open the front door and bolt into the night. But something about the voice on the phone, the message on the door… They weren’t trying to kill her. At least not yet.

They wanted her scared.

Steeling herself, she moved toward the hallway, each step feeling heavier than the last. The floor beneath her bare feet seemed to groan louder than usual, her every movement amplified in the silence.

As she reached the hallway, she paused. The shadows here were thicker, her flashlight’s beam barely cutting through the darkness. The door to her bedroom was ajar.

She hadn’t left it that way.

Heart pounding, she nudged it open with the bat, the hinges squealing in protest. The flashlight revealed her bed, her dresser, her scattered clothes on the chair in the corner—everything as she’d left it.

But then her gaze fell on her nightstand.

Inside was the USB drive. The one she’d used to copy the files.

Her stomach twisted as she stepped closer as she opened the drawer, her flashlight trained on the small, innocuous piece of plastic. But the moment she reached out for it, the bedroom door slammed shut behind her.

She screamed, whirling around to face the door. The flashlight wavered in her hand, the shadows on the walls dancing erratically. “Too late,” the voice from the phone whispered, this time right behind her.

She spun again, swinging the bat wildly, but it hit nothing but air.

The flashlight flickered, and when the light stabilized, she saw it.

Words carved into the wall above her bed, freshly etched:

“Give it back.”

Her knees buckled as she backed away from the nightstand, her flashlight trembling in her grip. The carved words glared at her, each jagged letter taunting her as the walls seemed to close in. Give it back.

She stumbled toward the door, desperate to escape the suffocating darkness of her bedroom. Her hand gripped the doorknob, but it wouldn’t budge. She twisted harder, pulling and shaking it, but it held firm, as if something on the other side was keeping her locked in. The phone buzzed again, startling her. She fumbled it out of her pocket and stared at the screen. Another text from the unknown number:

“Last chance. Meet me where it started.”

Her breath caught. Where it started? The office. The archive room where she’d found the file.

The lock clicked behind her.

She turned, her chest heaving, but the room was empty. The door was now ajar, swaying gently as if beckoning her. Gripping the bat tightly, she crept through the house and out to her car, her mind a whirlwind of panic and determination.

The drive back to the office felt like a fever dream. The streets were eerily empty, the silence pressing down on her. When she arrived, the building loomed in the darkness, its windows like dead eyes staring at her.

She parked and made her way inside, the stale air and dim emergency lights adding to her unease. Her footsteps echoed in the silence as she descended to the basement, where the archive room waited.

The door to the room was already open. Her flashlight cut through the darkness, revealing row after row of dusty shelves. She stepped inside, her movements slow and deliberate.

“Okay,” she called out, her voice trembling. “I’m here. What do you want?”

No response.

She moved deeper into the room, her bat raised, until she reached the far corner where her cubicle resides, where she’d first found the file. A single chair sat in the center of the space, a laptop resting on the seat. The screen glowed faintly in the dim room, its pale light casting an eerie glow over the cluttered desk. The soft hum of the computer was the only sound, a faint reminder of the desperate act that had taken place just weeks before. With shaking hands, she plugged the USB drive into the laptop on the cluttered desk, the faint click of the connection sounding deafening in the oppressive silence of the room.

A shadow shifted in the corner of her eye.

“You’ve caused a lot of trouble,” the gravelly voice said, echoing through the room. She spun, but there was no one there.

“What do you want from me?” she demanded, her voice rising.

“Finish it.”

She turned back to the laptop, her hands trembling. The file blinked at her, lines of damning information scrolling endlessly.

“What does this mean?” she whispered, more to herself than anyone else.

The voice came again, close and cold. “Erase it. Or you’ll regret it.”

Her fingers hovered over the keyboard. She could delete the file and walk away, leaving this nightmare behind. But if she did, the people implicated—the corruption, the crimes—would stay buried forever.

She hesitated.

“No.” The word came out firm, surprising even herself.

Silence. Then a slow, chilling laugh. “Wrong choice.”

The lights flickered, and a rush of air whipped past her. She grabbed the USB drive, yanked it from the laptop, and bolted for the door.

Behind her, the shelves groaned, crashing to the ground one by one. She ran, heart pounding, feet barely touching the ground as she burst out of the building and into the night. She didn’t stop until she reached her car, slamming the door and locking it. As she sped away, her phone buzzed one last time.

“You can’t outrun the truth.”

Tears streamed down her face as she gripped the USB drive in her hand. She didn’t know who was after her or what would happen next, but one thing was clear: the truth wouldn’t stay hidden, no matter the cost.

And now, she was the one holding it.

Her hands trembled as she plugged the USB drive into her laptop. She was back home now, every light in the house blazing, but it did nothing to quiet the fear curling in her chest. The laptop’s screen glowed like a beacon in the dark room, the files loading onto the drive, exposing every name, every transaction, every crime she wasn’t supposed to see.

The last text still lingered on her phone: “You can’t outrun the truth.”

She couldn’t outrun it. But maybe she could spread it.

She opened her email, typing in the addresses of every media outlet she could think of. Reporters, editors, even anonymous whistleblower hotlines—she didn’t care who got it, as long as someone did. In the subject line, she typed: “The truth they don’t want you to know.”

The attachment loaded, and she hesitated for only a second before clicking Send. A progress bar appeared, creeping forward painfully slowly.

Come on. Come on.

Her eyes darted toward the windows, their curtains drawn tight. She couldn’t shake the feeling she wasn’t alone, that someone—or something—was out there. The porch light flickered again, just as it had earlier.

The file sent.

She exhaled a shaky breath, relief washing over her as she leaned back in the chair. The truth was out now. They couldn’t stop it, no matter what they did to her.

But the relief was short-lived.

A low, almost imperceptible creak came from the hallway. Her blood ran cold. She turned slowly, the chair swiveling toward the sound. The light in the hall flickered, shadows shifting unnaturally.

“Who’s there?” she called, her voice barely above a whisper.

Silence.

And then, a shadow emerged. Not a person—no, this was something darker, something wrong. It moved toward her with deliberate, predatory steps.

She scrambled to her feet, knocking over the chair as she grabbed the bat again, her last line of defense.

“You can’t stop it,” she said, her voice shaking but defiant. “They know now.”

The figure didn’t respond. It lunged. The bat clattered to the floor, her scream piercing the night.

When the neighbors found the house the next morning, the door was wide open. The laptop sat on the desk, its screen still glowing, the email confirmation frozen in place.

But she was gone.

All that remained were the bloody words scrawled across the wall above her desk: “The truth comes at a price.”

Jordan had always hated the flickering streetlight outside their house. It buzzed like a dying insect, and its erratic blinking cast unsettling shadows in their living room. Night after night, the light would stutter, as though it were gasping for attention, and night after night, Jordan cursed it under their breath.

One particularly sleepless evening, armed with a mug of cooling coffee and too much frustration, Jordan found themselves staring at the offending lamp through their window. They noticed something unusual—the blinks weren’t random. There was a rhythm to them. A long flash, then two short ones. Another long. Three more short. It clicked in Jordan’s mind: Morse code.

Jordan sat up straighter, their annoyance morphing into curiosity. They grabbed a notebook and a pen, their fingers trembling slightly as they began to write down the sequence of long and short blinks.

“Okay,” they muttered, pulling up a Morse code chart on their phone. “Let’s see what you’ve got to say.”

The translation was slow work, and the message made no sense at first. T-H-E-R-E-.-I-S-.-S-O-M-E-T-H-I-N-G-.-I-N-.-T-H-E-.-B-A-S-E-M-E-N-T.

Jordan blinked, the words sinking in. They lived alone.

“Nope,” they said aloud, their voice wobbling. “This is ridiculous. Just a prank.”

But their basement door creaked faintly at that exact moment, as though stirred by an unseen draft.

The notebook fell from their hands. Their gut told them to leave, but their legs carried them to the basement door instead. The light in the hallway buzzed in sympathy with the flickering streetlamp.

Gripping the doorknob, Jordan hesitated. The streetlight blinked furiously outside, its message repeating. T-H-E-R-E-.-I-S-.-S-O-M-E-T-H-I-N-G-.-I-N-.-T-H-E-.-B-A-S-E-M-E-N-T.

Against their better judgment, Jordan pushed the door open. The basement stairs loomed below, shrouded in darkness. They fumbled for the light switch, but nothing happened. The streetlight’s frantic flashing filtered through a small window at the top of the stairs, illuminating the gloom just enough to guide their steps.

At the bottom, the air was damp and heavy, smelling of mildew and something faintly metallic. Jordan scanned the basement. It was empty.

Relief washed over them—until their foot brushed against something soft. Looking down, they saw the corner of a large tarp, slightly dislodged. Swallowing hard, Jordan pulled it back.

Beneath the tarp was an old chest, its metal surface riddled with scratches. Carved into the lid, in jagged letters, was a single word: HELP.

Jordan’s breath hitched. The streetlight outside went dark for the first time in years.

And then, the chest began to rattle.

Jordan stumbled back, their heart pounding. The chest rattled violently now, the sound echoing off the basement walls like a trapped animal fighting to escape. They wanted to run, to leave the basement and never return, but something rooted them in place—curiosity, terror, or maybe the desperate plea etched into the chest itself: HELP.

The rattling stopped. Silence pressed in, heavy and oppressive.

Jordan’s trembling hand reached out, almost as if guided by an unseen force. Their fingertips brushed the cold metal of the chest. The moment they touched it, the streetlight outside flickered back to life, its glow casting faint patterns through the basement window.

Jordan pressed the latch. It gave way with an eerie, almost reluctant creak.

Inside was a pile of old photographs. Dozens of them, yellowed and curling at the edges, all showing the same thing: a small child standing in front of a familiar house—their house. The child’s face was smudged and distorted in every photo, as though it had been erased or blurred out deliberately.

Jordan’s hands shook as they flipped through the stack. On the back of each photo, written in spidery handwriting, was the same message: DO NOT FORGET ME.

At the bottom of the chest lay a folded piece of paper. Jordan unfolded it carefully, revealing a crude map of their neighborhood, with a single red X marked over the streetlight in front of their house. Next to the X were three words: DIG. FIND ME.

A cold sweat broke out on Jordan’s forehead. They rushed back upstairs, grabbing a flashlight and a shovel from the closet. Against every instinct screaming at them to stop, they stepped outside into the chilly night.

The streetlight flickered, slow and steady, almost like a heartbeat, as Jordan began to dig.

The shovel struck something hard. Jordan knelt down, brushing the loose dirt away with their hands, and uncovered a small wooden box, weathered and cracked with age. They hesitated, their breath clouding in the cold air, before prying it open.

Inside was a tiny, leather-bound diary. The first page was dated December 8, 1974, the handwriting messy and uneven:

“My name is Emily. If you’ve found this, please help me. He locked me in the basement. No one hears me. No one looks for me. Please don’t forget me like everyone else did.”

The streetlight blinked one last time and went out. Behind Jordan, the basement door creaked open.

And from the darkness came a voice, faint and broken, but unmistakably a child’s:

“You found me.”

Jordan froze, the soft, trembling voice sending chills down their spine. Slowly, they turned toward the house. The basement door was ajar, a faint glow emanating from the darkness beyond it. The night felt unnaturally quiet, as if the world itself were holding its breath.

“Emily?” Jordan whispered, clutching the tiny diary tightly to their chest.

The voice came again, this time clearer, closer. “You found me… but I can’t leave.”

Jordan’s heart hammered as they stepped toward the house. “What do you mean? How can I help you?”

The glow from the basement grew brighter as they approached. The air grew colder, heavy with the weight of something unseen. Jordan descended the stairs once more, flashlight trembling in their hand.

At the bottom, the chest was open again, but this time, it was empty. The photographs, the map, everything was gone. Instead, standing in the middle of the room was a figure. A girl, no older than eight, her translucent form flickering like the streetlight outside. Her dress was torn and faded, her eyes wide and sad.

“You’re… Emily,” Jordan said, their voice barely above a whisper.

Emily nodded. “He buried me here. No one came to find me.”

Jordan’s breath caught. They looked down at the floor where the chest had been. The dirt beneath it seemed disturbed, loose and uneven.

“I’ll—I’ll call someone,” Jordan stammered. “The police, an investigator—someone who can—”

“No!” Emily’s voice cracked, sharp and desperate. “They can’t help me. Only you can. You’ve seen the signs. You’re the only one who listened.”

“What do you need me to do?”

Emily pointed toward the far corner of the basement. Jordan followed her gaze to see a patch of bricks along the wall that didn’t quite match the rest.

“Behind there,” she said softly. “That’s where he put me.”

Jordan’s stomach churned, but they nodded, adrenaline pushing them forward. Grabbing a crowbar from a nearby shelf, they chipped away at the bricks, the sound echoing in the small space. Each brick revealed more of a small, dark cavity behind the wall.

Finally, Jordan uncovered a bundle wrapped in tattered cloth. They froze, their hands trembling.

“Open it,” Emily urged, her voice both pleading and firm.

Jordan unwrapped the cloth, revealing the brittle remains of a small skeleton. A sob caught in their throat as they realized the truth. Emily had been here, forgotten, for decades.

Tears streamed down Jordan’s face. “I’m so sorry,” they whispered.

Emily knelt beside her remains, her translucent form flickering more violently now. “It’s not your fault. You’ve done more than anyone else ever did.”

The glow around her grew brighter, warmer, as though she were finally at peace. “Thank you,” she whispered, her voice fading. “I can rest now.”

The streetlight outside flared to life one last time, its steady beam cutting through the night. Jordan felt a wave of calm wash over them as Emily’s spirit dissolved into the light, leaving behind only the faint scent of lilies.

The basement grew quiet. The oppressive cold lifted. Jordan stood there for a long moment, staring at the small remains.

The next morning, they called the authorities. Emily’s story made the news, her remains finally laid to rest in the town’s cemetery.

And for the first time in years, the streetlight outside Jordan’s house shone steadily, casting a warm and unwavering glow.

“I wish I had never let go,” She whispers to the night, As memories rise like restless waves On shores she cannot fight.

She let him slip between her hands, Too scared to let him stay, Afraid that love would drown her whole, So she pushed it all away.

The weight of silence grew so loud, And fear became her friend, But in the dark, she couldn’t see What waited at the end.

His eyes, once full of endless hope, Now linger in her mind, A gaze that asked her to be brave, A love she left behind.

She walks along familiar roads, Where once they used to roam, But all she feels is emptiness— Her heart no longer home.

If only she had held on tight, To all she couldn’t show, Perhaps her heart would not be here, Wishing she hadn’t let go.

˚ʚ♡ɞ

˚ʚ

surrounded by many overlapping voices and ears that don’t listen constantly reminded of all my bad choices hoping, praying that all is forgiven

sitting here trying to scream for help but i’m slowly losing my vision this is the worst i’ve ever felt i’m trapped like my body is a prison

as i black out, my thoughts fill with desolation peoples faces begin to blur i wonder if it’s any consolation that i never meant to hurt her

i try to make sense of what i’m feeling knowing that you’ll never change but i got to focus on my own healing even if that means we’ll be estranged