Flickering street light it must be some kind of cold grab his paper started jotting down tougher morse code

Dot dot dot its the letter I I then an m then a then m then s then o then r then r then y He was shocked Finally it read I’m sorry

Per settimane, il lampione davanti alla casa di Alex era stato una fonte costante di irritazione. Ogni sera, mentre sedeva vicino alla finestra con una tazza di tisana alla camomilla, i bagliori irregolari si infiltravano attraverso le tende, interrompendo la sua tranquillità. Aveva chiamato l’ufficio manutenzione del comune tre volte. Ogni volta, aveva ricevuto la stessa risposta indifferente: “Manderemo qualcuno al più presto.” Ma quel “presto” sembrava non arrivare mai. Una sera fredda, mentre Alex fissava la finestra, con l’irritazione che ribolliva dentro di sé, si rese conto di qualcosa di strano. Il lampeggìo non era casuale. Aveva un pattern. Due brevi lampeggi, una lunga pausa, tre lampeggi più lunghi, un’altra pausa, poi un solo breve lampeggio. Si ripeteva. Alex si immobilizzò, mentre la realizzazione si faceva strada nella sua mente come una lenta alba. Non era semplicemente un malfunzionamento: era codice Morse. Affascinato e inquieto, Alex prese il telefono e cercò un traduttore di codice Morse. Scribacchiando i lampeggi su un pezzo di carta, iniziò faticosamente a decifrare il messaggio. Era un processo lento, ma con ogni lettera decifrata, il cuore di Alex accelerava. “A-I-U-T-O.” Si appoggiò alla sedia, un brivido gelido che attraversava le ossa. Chi poteva inviare quel messaggio? E perché? Il lampione era una proprietà comunale, e Alex era certo che non fosse collegato a nessun dispositivo—almeno, non ufficialmente. Ma qualcuno, o qualcosa, stava cercando di comunicare. Quella notte, Alex dormì a malapena. Restarono vicino alla finestra, aspettando che i lampeggi riprendessero. Quando lo fecero, il messaggio continuò. Ogni ripetizione aggiungeva altre parole. “AIUTO. SONO INTRAPPOLATO.” Intrappolato? Il cuore di Alex cominciò a battere più forte. Intrappolato dove? Il lampione era solo un palo di metallo inanimato... o no? La mattina seguente, Alex decise di indagare. Si vestì per affrontare il gelo e uscì verso il lampione. La lampadina lampeggiava debolmente alla luce del giorno, come se lo stesse sfidando. Alex ispezionò il palo, facendo scorrere le mani lungo la sua superficie fredda. Nulla sembrava fuori posto—finché non notò un piccolo pannello vicino alla base, appena visibile sotto uno strato di sporco. Esitò, poi usò un cacciavite per aprirlo. All'interno c'era un groviglio di fili e circuiti—ma qualcosa attirò la sua attenzione. Un piccolo dispositivo dall’aspetto antiquato, con una luce rossa lampeggiante. Era collegato direttamente ai cavi del lampione. Le mani di Alex tremavano mentre si avvicinavano. Improvvisamente, una voce parlò, distorta e meccanica, proveniente dal dispositivo. “Aiutami. Ti prego.” Alex indietreggiò, con il cuore che batteva all’impazzata. La voce sembrava vagamente umana, ma era diversa da qualsiasi cosa avessero mai sentito. “Chi—chi sei?” sussurrò, incerto se il dispositivo potesse sentirli. La voce gracchiò di nuovo. “Mi chiamo Dr. Elias Carter. Sono... intrappolato nella rete. Ti prego, non disconnettermi.” La mente di Alex vacillava. Intrappolato nella rete? Cosa significava? Si accovacciò più vicino. “Come sei... finito lì dentro?” “Stavo sperimentando l’interfacciamento neurale con i computer,” spiegò la voce, a fatica, come se ogni parola richiedesse uno sforzo immenso. “Qualcosa è andato storto. La mia coscienza è stata caricata. I lampioni... sono l’unico sistema che riesco a raggiungere. Sei la prima persona che si è accorta di me.” La sua razionalità lottava contro la surreale natura della situazione. “Se sei davvero una persona, come posso aiutarti?” “Trova il mio laboratorio,” disse il Dr. Carter. “L’indirizzo è... 72 Hawthorne Lane. Dovrai... invertire il processo. Ti prego, fai in fretta. La rete è... instabile.” Prima che Alex potesse fare altre domande, il dispositivo si spense. Il lampione lampeggiò irregolarmente, poi si spense del tutto.

Il giorno seguente, Alex si ritrovò davanti a un edificio fatiscente al 72 di Hawthorne Lane. L’insegna sopra la porta era sbiadita, ma le parole “Carter Innovations” erano appena leggibili. Il posto sembrava abbandonato, ma Alex sentiva di essere nel posto giusto. All'interno, il laboratorio era in rovina. La polvere copriva ogni superficie, e vecchi macchinari giacevano sparsi come reliquie dimenticate. Ci vollero ore di ricerca, ma alla fine Alex trovò un terminale ancora funzionante. Inserì le coordinate fornite dal dispositivo e, dopo aver navigato tra strati di vecchio codice, trovò un file etichettato “Protocollo di Ripristino.” Seguendo le istruzioni, Alex avviò il processo. I macchinari si riaccesero, le luci lampeggiavano in schemi che ricordavano quelli del lampione. Per un momento, non accadde nulla. Poi, una figura apparve sullo schermo—sfocata e indistinta, ma inconfondibilmente umana. “Grazie,” sussurrò la voce del Dr. Carter attraverso gli altoparlanti. “Mi hai salvato.” E, in un istante, lo schermo si spense. I macchinari si fermarono. Alex si lasciò cadere sulla sedia, sopraffatto dalla consapevolezza di ciò che era appena successo.

Quella sera, tornando a casa, Alex notò subito che il lampione era stato riparato. La sua luce stabile brillava silenziosa, una presenza discreta che sembrava quasi normale, dopo tutto quello che era successo. Ma Alex non riusciva a smettere di pensare al Dr. Carter. Aveva davvero salvato una vita? O forse aveva liberato qualcosa di sconosciuto, qualcosa che non riusciva ancora a comprendere? Per giorni, Alex cercò di dimenticare. Cercò di riprendere la propria routine: le serate tranquille con una tazza di camomilla, il lavoro al mattino, le passeggiate nei pomeriggi ventosi. Eppure, il pensiero del laboratorio abbandonato e del volto sfocato di Carter sullo schermo non lo lasciava in pace. Era come se una parte di lui fosse rimasta in quella rete, intrappolata insieme a lui. Poi, una notte, successe di nuovo. Il lampione iniziò a lampeggiare. Non era un guasto. Alex lo capì subito. Si precipitò alla finestra, il cuore che batteva forte, fissando la sequenza. Era più complessa, più urgente. Afferrare il ritmo del codice richiese uno sforzo, ma alla fine riuscì a tradurre il messaggio. “NON È FINITA.” Alex indietreggiò, la pelle d’oca che si arrampicava lungo le braccia. Non era finita? Cosa significava? Un senso di inquietudine lo invase. Si rimise al lavoro, decifrando il resto della sequenza. “C'È QUALCOS’ALTRO NELLA RETE. QUALCOSA DI PERICOLOSO.” Il messaggio si interrompeva lì. Alex si sedette, incapace di distogliere lo sguardo dalla luce lampeggiante. Era possibile che Dr. Carter non fosse l’unica cosa intrappolata nella rete? E se ci fosse qualcos'altro, qualcosa che non avrebbe mai dovuto essere liberato? Le settimane seguenti furono un incubo. Alex cominciò a notare strani fenomeni in città: lampioni che lampeggiavano con ritmi simili, semafori che si spegnevano all’improvviso, dispositivi elettronici che si accendevano e si spegnevano senza motivo. Era come se qualcosa stesse cercando di emergere. Una sera, mentre camminavano verso casa, il telefono di Alex vibrò. Un messaggio anonimo apparve sullo schermo. “Torna al laboratorio. Trova il secondo protocollo.” Alex si fermò di colpo, il cuore che batteva forte. Guardò intorno, ma la strada era deserta. Chiunque avesse mandato quel messaggio, sapeva cosa stava succedendo. E sapeva che Alex era l’unico che poteva fare qualcosa. Il giorno dopo, Alex si armò di coraggio e tornò al laboratorio di Hawthorne Lane. Questa volta, però, l’edificio sembrava diverso. Era più silenzioso, più inquietante. Le macchine che avevano usato per salvare Carter erano spente, ma la sensazione di essere osservato era palpabile. Mentre cercava tra i file del computer, trovò ciò che il messaggio anonimo aveva indicato: “Protocollo di Contenimento.” Era un file diverso, più complicato, protetto da una rete intricata di password. Ogni strato di protezione superato sembrava attivare un nuovo allarme. Alex si rese conto che il laboratorio non era stato semplicemente abbandonato—era stato sigillato per una ragione. Finalmente, riuscirono ad accedere al file. Sullo schermo apparve un messaggio: “Entità sconosciuta rilevata. Avviare contenimento immediato.” La sequenza iniziò, e le macchine tornarono in vita con un ronzio assordante. Ma qualcosa non andava. Una delle console emise un allarme acuto, e sullo schermo apparve una nuova scritta: “Errore: Contenimento fallito.” Alex si girò di scatto quando un lampo di luce esplose dalla macchina principale. Una figura indistinta, fatta di ombre e pixel instabili, iniziò a prendere forma. Non era Dr. Carter. Era qualcosa di diverso. Qualcosa di più grande, più antico, e infinitamente più pericoloso. La figura si mosse, instabile, e una voce profonda e risonante riempì il laboratorio. “Grazie per avermi liberato.” Alex restò immobile, paralizzato dalla paura. Aveva pensato di fare la cosa giusta, di salvare qualcuno. Ma ora si rendeva conto che la rete non era solo un luogo di connessione. Era una prigione. E qualcosa—qualcosa che non apparteneva al loro mondo—era appena fuggito. Il lampione, fuori casa da quel momento, non lampeggiò mai più.

The first fall of snow was on October 29th at precisely 6:31 AM. Fiore Calligaris happened to be sitting on his porch at that very moment. He figured it was far too early for snow, but honestly, he didn’t care at all.

He was more annoyed—no, scratch that—infuriated by the streetlight across from his house. It had been broken for over a month, incessantly flickering. To make it worse, it wasn’t just one type of flicker; it seemed to get faster and slower at random times. Fiore once counted ten flickers in less than thirty seconds. He was certain it was a safety hazard and was just one sleepless night away from contacting Walsford’s public works department

He chuckled slightly at the thought of him angrily yelling at some apologetic worker on the other end of the call. It reminded him of his father, who is—was a philanthropist. His father had loved helping people and had been loved by everyone. His funeral had been a sad one. So many people came that there weren’t enough seats, and they had to stand.

Fiore shivered at the memory. He felt so alone, despite being surrounded by people drowning him in affection. He had left the funeral early, before the burial. He was ashamed of that, but he knew his dad would understand. All his dad ever did was understand.

Feeling inspired by memories of his dad, Fiore decided to finally do something about the streetlight. But as he stood up, something caught his eye. He had seen that flickering pattern before.

Flash. Pause. Flash. Pause. Flash. Pause. Flash.
Flash.
Flash, long flash, flash, flash.
Flash, long flash, long flash, flash.

It seemed familiar, but not just because he’d seen it before. It felt like those flashes meant something.

He quickly ran into the house and came back out with a book: Morse Code for Beginners. His dad had bought it for him in high school when Fiore had briefly considered becoming a telegrapher. That idea hadn’t lasted long.

He flipped to the first page, which showed the alphabet translated into Morse code. Then, he waited. Sure enough, there were the flashes again.

H
E
L
P

“Help…” Fiore muttered aloud, his gaze fixed on the streetlight with a worried expression.

It was very possible that he was just sleep-deprived and hallucinating. He hadn’t slept in three days. He blamed the streetlight, but really, it wasn’t just that. Things hadn’t been going well for him since his dad’s death. He had dropped out of college and moved home to help his mom and little siblings grieve, but he couldn’t even help himself. His partner had broken up with him, saying they were going down different paths.

He couldn’t cry, though he really wanted to. It was as though the streetlight was the source of all his problems. Or maybe he just made it seem that way.

He closed the book and took a deep breath. Snow was falling onto his shoulders, and he hadn’t realized how cold he was, only wearing pajamas.

I’m just going to ignore it, he thought. Just… ignore it.

But his body and his brain had different plans. He found himself being pulled toward the light by some strange, strong force. He kept walking closer, and closer, until he was right under it.

He slowly reached out, his hand trembling.

Then, he touched it. And nothing happened.

He let out a sigh of relief. “Great.”

Boom!

A sudden flash blinded him. It was so bright, so white, that he thought he might be going to heaven. His body ached, and he felt himself levitating.

It felt almost relaxing, like he could finally sleep. He didn’t want that moment to end. But, of course, it did. When he opened his eyes, he was somewhere else.

Literally somewhere else. On the wall in front of him, words were poorly written: The Somewhere Else.

Fiore blinked, unsure if he was seeing correctly. Then, he turned around and nearly fell backward in surprise.

“Oh my God!” The boy in front of him exclaimed, falling to his knees. “Finally, finally someone saw my calls!”

Fiore backed up against the wall. “Who are you?” he asked.

“Orion.” the boy said, walking up to Fiore and extending his hand. “Orion Gray.”

Fiore hesitated but shook his hand. “Fiore.”

Orion smiled wildly, revealing the blue and black braces on his teeth. “I’ve been stuck here for…” He paused, counting on his fingers. “Two weeks.”

“...You were the one doing the flickering?” Fiore asked.

“Yes!” Orion turned his head and pointed at the wall to the left, where there was a light switch in the middle.

The Somewhere Else consisted of four white walls in a 4x4 room. On one wall was the name, the other had the light switch, and on another was the alphabet written in Morse code.

“I didn’t know where the light went to, but I prayed and hoped someone would notice… and help me.”

Fiore paused, trying to process everything. “But—I’ve seen the light flickering for a month. Are you sure you’ve only been here for two weeks?”

Orion thought for a moment, then answered, “Well, maybe it’s been longer. I don’t know. I don’t know anything anymore. I’m losing my mind.”

“How did you get here?” Fiore asked. He was calmer than anyone would be in this situation, calmer than Orion.

“That’s the thing. I can’t remember. It’s like I know, but my brain won’t let me understand it. Won’t let me process it.” Orion paced back and forth. “It’s insane. This whole thing is insane. But you—you’re going to save me.” Orion suddenly stopped, walked up to Fiore, and grabbed his hands. “Please, you have to save me.”

Fiore shook his head and pulled away. “I don’t know how I’d even do that. I’m nobody’s savior. Anyway, it looks like we’re both stuck here now, so how can I do anything you can’t?”

Orion sighed. “But you deciphered my Morse code. You’re smart, clearly, you’ll figure out a way.”

Fiore was getting irritated by the whole situation. He wasn’t in the mood for this anymore. He was tired. He wanted to go back to that moment of passing, right before he ended up here.

Suddenly, while Fiore was lost in thought, Orion began to cry. He sat down against the wall and wiped his teary eyes. “This really sucks.”

Fiore nodded emphatically and sat down beside him. “I’m sorry.”

“I miss my cat,” Orion said. “His name is Arnold. After the actor.”

Fiore laughed. “You know, you seem like a good person, Orion.”

Orion looked over at him, their eyes locking. He smiled. “You’re the only person who’s ever told me that.”

“Surprising.”

They sat there in silence for a long moment. Fiore felt his eyelids getting heavy. He was falling asleep. He could hear Orion’s voice in the background.

“Fiore—Fiore…”

Fiore opened his eyes. “Huh?”

His mom and little brother were standing over him.

“You fell asleep outside.” his brother said.

Fiore looked around. He was lying on his porch steps, buried in snow. He glanced up at the streetlight. It was out. No flickering, no flashes.

“Where’s Orion?”

“Who?” his mom asked. “Sweetie, let’s go inside. You need to get some sleep. We’re all really worried about you.”

She helped him to his feet, and they walked inside.

Fiore wasn’t sure what had happened, but he knew he wasn’t dreaming. He wasn’t, right? That was real. The streetlight. The Somewhere Else. Orion.

That was all real.

He was sure of it.

I don’t know Morse code, but I know enough that it is. This flickering streetlight was on my last nerve, but this could mean the end of the world to someone.

Dot, Dot, Dot, Dot - H

Dot - E

A bunch of dots? What could that mean to me? The dots were quick flickers, annoying you see. HE could mean many things. But HE wasn’t the end of the flickering.

Dot, Dash, Dot, Dot - L

Dot, Dash, Dash, Dot - P

A bunch of dots and dashes? What could that mean to me? The dashes were long flickers. Not as annoying, but pissing me off.

HELP was the silent cry of a hostage. Praying that someone would see.

Dot, Dot, Dot, Dot - H

**Dot - E **

Dot, Dash, Dot, Dot - L

Dot, Dash, Dash, Dot - P

It turned off for a second, cold and dark as night. Then it flickered once more.

Dash, Dash - M

Dot - E

HELP ME was the silent scream of the hostage. Praying that someone would see.

Carla would walk home from work everyday, always after dark. The sun set early in Arizona, and rose even earlier. When she would get home, the cozy homes on her street would be quiet. The only light was a flickering street lamp. This upset Carla, for many reasons. The street light would turn off and on rapidly, wait, then flicker again. It made the walk home much darker, more annoying, and, most of all, scary. The worst part - it was directly in front of her house. One dull day in September, Carla caught a cold. She lived alone, with no pets, siblings, or children. This gave her plenty of time to think. Carla stared out the window, watching the street light flicker. A movie was on in the background. “What’s that flicker, in the lightbulb?” Carla turned around, staring at the television screen. There were two men, one staring at a light and the other looking at a notebook. “It looks like morse code.” Carla turned off the television. She turned and looked outside at the still flickering light. It stopped blinking. Carla ran and grabbed a piece of paper as well as a morse code guide. She waited for it to start blinking again. -.-. .- -. / -.— —- ..- / … . . / — . / -. —- .— ..—.. Can you see me now?

She took a step back, reading it. Her hands started shaking, her knees buckled. What does it mean? She asked aloud. _What does it mean? _Her head was spinning. The world wouldn’t stop shaking. “You found me.”

_Part 2 soon! _

It’s been two hours since my wife left home for the grocery store. Her perfume no longer lingers around me. The television is paused to the latest episode of Breaking Bad. As the sun sets, my body sinks into the couch, trapped in boredom. I’ve texted and called to no avail. Only one option is available for me, and that is to wait.

Across my street, flickers of light from a failing street lamp keep me awake. Each time the bulb revives from the dead, I roll my eyes. Do I have to walk out there and do something about it myself?

When the full moon makes itself known in the black above, it doesn’t distract me. For many minutes, I forget it exists. The stars blink to grab my attention, then dim when they realize their attempts are futile. The brightness closest to me is what I watch despite my frustrations with it. My wife remains absent, and I begin to wish for her warmth.

That’s when I notice the pattern.

Certain moments of light last longer than others. The dark it leaves behind can sometimes be quick like a startled critter.

Just like morse code.

I grab a slip of paper and pen and write what I see. The message comes to me one letter at a time like ice slowly melting until it releases what’s inside.

S…H…E

I…S

D…E…A…D

My heart stops, and so does the flickering. The palms of my hands press against the window, damp with condensation. Questions whisper in my mind as I put my coat and boots on. Is this coincidence? If not, who is sending this message? Is this a prank? The load of confusion makes my head heavy. With each step in the snow I feel as if I might explode.

Then, I see her.

At the food of the street lamp, my wife lay without movement. Blood from the crown of her head gathers in a puddle.

“Roxanne!”

Before I could reach my beloved, the street light awakens. It must have sensed me, must have prepared to mock me as I mourn. Instead, its last words put me at a halt.

H…E

I…S

B…E…H…I…N…D

Y…O…U

In doing so, he is informed of confidential information regarding the United States presidential election. Secrets from both parties are starting to surface, someone is plotting to take the source out! The protagonist has a great deal of history in the US army, a particular set of skills, and must protect this source at all costs!

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.

What is the pack’s goal? How does technology intertwine? What other magic exists in the world?

—— Part of a larger work —- Maeve lay in bed cursing her luck; shit had been going sideways for a while now and the last thing she wanted was to cost both bodies the opportunity for any sleep and any productivity. That damn light was just too much; constantly flickering and blaring. If she had the funds, she’d buy those swanky dark curtains but with her mother’s departure and no other walkers in the pack; it was impossible to spend on a personal need so frivolously. Especially when the point of her bed’s location was to get fresh air while she slept, and feel as if she ran with her wolf body and the pack even in sleep.

Grumbling and muttering profanities at her mother, the gods, whoever would listen she heaved herself out of bed and pondered rearranging the room; if all solutions took wind away she might as well pick the cheapest one. With the bed currently against the window, the opposite wall occupied by a fireplace with her wolf’s body in front of it, and the door in the middle, the remaining wall would have to be her goal. She started shoving her desk towards the fireplace to make room and knocked a box to the floor. “Rat bastards,” Maeve gathered the small objects, chuckling at the picture rom when her mom and she beat the record at an escape room. Glancing at their smiling faces frozen in time, the glow from the flickering light illuminated the printed gloss at a notably regular pattern. Gasping, Maeve threw the window shade fully open and began tapping her finger on the sill to the beat of the light turning on and off. Holy shit - it was morse code.

An old lady down the street used to take care of me when I was young. My parents used to tell me about how dangerous it was to leave me alone, but I always thought it odd. The lady, Mrs. Berry, always brought butterscotch candies, which is usual for those of her age, and I enjoyed her company.

Her family, opposite of my own, always seemed odder still, and though I never like to judge too much, her son was an odd duck. A mortician by trade. A bit older than myself, and he seemed of a mean temper, but she always defended him saying he’d never hurt anyone. I put up with him until his mother passed.

Her body was supposedly incinerated, but something about it always seemed odd. I let the feeling pass and went on.

I stayed home as my family always told me I was sick. They said I needed the assistance of others. They said I saw things. I saw nothing but what was before my eyes. The streetlight at the turn by our house always bothered me though they never seemed to bother anyone else. The lights blinked out of time. My father told me I imagined it, but no. It was clearly a message in timing. I wrote the message in morse code.

It read: hidden hidden blood hidden bone bark bite. I told my mother. She told my doctors. That’s when they upped my medications.

And my parents always worried for me despite my age. They said that I had a way about me. That I’d get myself hurt. I told them nothing could hurt me. Dinners were tense, especially around the holidays. I took to walks after dinner, one of the few times they let me out of their sight. And one particular night, the streets lay damp with darkness and covered in snow.

Passing Mrs. Berry’s house, I stopped to stare and remember the old lady. And that’s when a beast set upon me. A big gray dog with the body of a quarterback and face of a hound, it’s canine jaw jagged with curved daggers. It lunged. I back into the street, dodging the beast, my feet nearly slipping upon ice.

“Trunk doesn’t like strangers.” I saw Mrs. Berry’s son. “He doesn’t know you.”

“Call off your dog,” I said.

He whistled to call it back. “My mother’s dead, and I never liked you much. Stay away. Next time I won’t call him off.”

Going home, I remembered the light, and went to watch it again. This time, the Morse spelt: murder murder grind grind chomp.

And I felt the need to do something dangerous. Nothing chomps and grinds on bones but a dog. And dogs like nothing as much as meat. My parents sat in the living room, watching The creature of the Black Lagoon. I took bacon from the fridge. Outside, the tool shed held a crowbar. And I realized that I had the motive and means to see if I was right. I waited until 2 AM, then made my way to Mrs. Berry’s old house.

As my crowbar made shards of glass fly to the carpet as I cleared a window near the front door, I cleared a path to pass my body. The glass cracked underneath my boots. That’s when I heard the beast awaken, a horrid lurching behind it, as if the floor boards shrieked at his steps. The evil stood before me with his shotgun, cloaked by the shadows of night. “You’re in the wrong house.”

“Wrong indeed.” I threw the crowbar. It found a path to his head. He fell, and as he did, the gun fired into the nearby wall. His head bled out a red pool.

The dog growled as though hell commanded him, but then turned to his master. He began licking the blood. My God, what the hell!?

I rushed through the house, the dog at his master’s body—my mind telling me to search for another oddity, with no place more off than the bedroom. A gloomy mess of old newspapers amd coffee stains upon the bed. His wall poorly plastered. With the impulse still in my heart, I took my fist and beat the plastered wall. I beat the walls until my knuckles tore to bleed, and when the plaster started to come, I pulled chunks off the wall, one after another. The lady, Mrs. Berry—her body deceased from mangled tears—missing limbs in the wall frame.

I turned to puke, and as I did, I heard the clicking of a hand gun and a voice.

“Kneel and put your hands on your head.”

My head came and I took a breath. “I will, but first, know I claim his death, but not her’s.”