u/Karma314

The next few weeks passed in a haze of doctors appointments and mandatory leave. Everyone insisted I needed time to recover. Apparently dying wasn’t something you were expected to bounce back from overnight. The muscles in my abdomen pulled every time I moved too quickly, a constant reminder of the knife that should’ve put me down. While I sat at home, the city kept turning. The murders didn’t stop. Three more bodies were found before I was cleared to return, each one matching the others. Cut open, nailed to the wall and crowned with their entrails. 

Stepping beneath the yellow crime tape again felt strangely familiar, like I'd never left. Officers greeted me with awkward smiles, though few looked at me a little too long. I guess news travels fast when a detective wakes up in the morgue. I ignored the stares and stepped inside the victim’s house, letting my eyes wander over another living room frozen in time. CSI worked quietly around the body while I searched around for anything we missed. 

She was already there, standing silently in the corner of the dining room, half hidden in darkness. The pale dress and red insides. The long black curtain of hair. She hadn’t changed. Somewhere over the past few weeks I’d stopped reacting every time I saw her. She appeared almost everywhere now. Crime scenes, empty sidewalks, reflections in store windows, and always disappeared when I stopped looking. She never spoke. Not even a sound. The scary part wasn’t seeing her. It was how normal she’d become. 

As I glanced toward her this time though, something caught my attention. Her hands were hanging at her sides instead of hidden underneath her sleeves. In the center of each palm was a perfectly round hole, large enough that I’d be able to look right through it. Instead, there was only darkness. Not a shadow, but an endless void that swallowed the light around it. I stared for a moment before forcing my eyes back to the victim. When I looked up again, she hadn’t moved an inch. 

By the time I got home, the sun had already disappeared behind the skyline. My apartment was quiet, the only sound was coming from the small clock mounted above my desk. I shrugged off my jacket, brewed another cup of coffee I didn’t need, and spread every crime scene photograph across the scarred wood. Victim after Victim stared back at me. All in the same horrific scene. I sat there for what felt like hours, rearranging photographs, comparing notes, and retracing timelines until they blurred together. There was something I was missing. I had this tingle in my chest, like the endless ocean I was in was calling to me, telling me there’s something I didn’t know. Some detail that was sitting right in front of me, refusing to be seen. 

The room felt heavier. I didn’t need to look up anymore to know she was there. When I finally lifted my eyes, she was standing on the opposite side of my desk, closer then she’d ever been before. Her long black hair spilled over the photographs like a sheet. Her dress hanging motionless around her, and her hands rested at her sides, each palm bearing that impossible black hole from the crime scene. I stared at her for a moment before letting out a tired sigh. 

“I’m busy” I muttered, trying to ignore her. For several seconds, nothing happened. Then out of the corner of my eye, I saw her arm begin to move. It rose slowly towards my face. Instinct took over and I leaned back in my chair, trying to put distance between us, but it didn’t matter. Her hand kept coming at the same slow, deliberate pace until her palm pressed gently over my right eye. The darkness inside the hole wasn’t empty. It was the same endless ocean I’d seen when I died. The instant it touched me, another hand covered my left eye, suddenly I was looking through both impossible voids. The room disappeared for only a heartbeat before returning different. 

I blinked, my heart pounding, and looked back at the photographs. I nearly fell out of my chair. Every scene had changed. Standing around each victim were figures that hadn’t been there before. Some crouched beside bodies with impossible limbs. Others stood in corners with twisted skeletal frames wrapped in skin that looked more like wet bark or heat wrap. One had no face at all, only a mouth filled with hundreds of eyes that reached from the top of its head down to the center of its abdomen. Every photograph contained them, each creature lingering just outside of where everyone stood. They just watched. 

For the first time ever, I was staring into a world that hid in plain sight. 

The next morning, I did my best to pretend everything was normal. The precinct hadn’t changed. Phones rang, officers laughed over old coffe, detectives shuffled through papers, and dispatchers barked through calls. I settled into my chair and buried myself in reports, trying to focus on something grounded after what I witnessed the night before. It didn’t help. Every now and then I’d catch her standing somewhere in my periphery. Near evidence lockers, by the break room, at the end of halls. She followed me everywhere I went, silently watching while everyone passed through her. 

I was halfway through writing up notes on the latest homicide when an odd sensation tingled in my chest. I froze, trying not to make it obvious as I casually looked around the bullpen. Nobody else seemed out of the ordinary. Then I felt her behind me. Before I could turn around, her hands gently covered my eyes, and the precinct changed. The room was washed in that familiar ocean blue. The corners writhed with movement. Horrific figures stood throughout the office, lingering behind people, perched on filing cabinets, and crawling on the ceiling. My eyes drifted across the room until they settled on detective Harris. He was an older investigator, pushing sixty, known for surviving two bypass surgeries and carrying heart medication everywhere he goes. 

Standing directly behind him, was one of the creatures. It towered over him by several feet, impossibly thin, its skin stretched tightly over a crooked skeleton. Its head hung unnaturally and dozens of bulging eyes stared down at him. A second later, Harris suddenly clutched his chest. His chair slammed backwards as he collapsed onto the floor, gasping for air. Papers scattered everywhere and officers rushed toward him, shouting for someone to call an ambulance. I stood frozen, unable to look away. As Harris finally went limp, something translucent pulled itself from his body, slowly being pulled away by an invisible current. Immediately, the creature moved, snatching it with its long arms, its torso splitting into a mouth of thousands of teeth. It scooped the translucent figure into its mouth before snapping shut. Its eyes drifted to the lifeless body as officers tried desperately to apply cpr. 

The world snapped back to normal as the woman slowly pulled her hands from my eyes. Paramedics rushed to the scene, doing their best before pronouncing Harris dead at the scene. Did it kill him? Or did all of these beings know he was going to die? 

I knew I’d have to figure it out myself.

Pt. 1

https://www.reddit.com/r/TheMidnightArchives/s/YEyoqpQBQw

Rain always made crime scenes heavier. Not because it washed away evidence and soaked my clothes, but because it muted everything. Lights blurred across wet pavement and the drumming muffled everyone’s chatter inside the house. I’d been to enough murder scenes that the sight should’ve stopped bothering me forever ago, but every new victim settled in the back of my head, adding another face to a growing list I couldn’t forget. This one made four in two weeks. Different people, different neighborhoods, different lives. The only thing connecting them was the way they died. Cut open, their hands nailed to their walls, their small intestines wrapped around their heads like a sick crown.

The house was eerily untouched outside of the body. A television still murmured to itself in the living room. Dinner sat cold on the kitchen table, abandoned half way through. Family photos lined the hallway, smiling faces sealed inside dusty glass as if the walls refused to recognize what just happened inside them. I wandered from room to room with a notebook tucked under my arm, letting my eyes drift over details I’d probably end up writing off later. A muddy footprint near the back door, a cracked picture frame, a child’s drawing stuck to the fridge with a faded magnet. Nothing jumped out. Nothing explained why another life was taken. It was just another quiet house with another loud secret. 

As I stepped back into the hallway, something caught my eye. At the far end, tucked into the darkness where the overhead light couldn’t reach, stood a woman. She was completely still, dressed in what looked like a tattered white dress. A color in direct contrast to the deep red that stained a hole in her abdomen, entrails hanging out and curling around her feet. Long black hair covered her features except for the faint outline of her chin. She wasn’t moving. She just stared at me. My hand instinctively found my holster as I called out through the empty house. 

“Hey! You shouldn’t be here!” 

I closed the distance in a few quick strides, never taking my eyes off her. The moment I reached the end of the hall, she was gone. I searched every room twice before finally stopping, breathing harder than I’d like to admit. There were no open windows, no back exits, nowhere anyone could slip out of without getting passed me. One of the officers outside came in to check on me after hearing me shout. I hesitated before telling him what I thought I saw. 

“There hasn’t been anyone else inside this house besides us for the past hour.”

I looked back into the corner where she had been standing. It was empty. Even so.. I couldn’t shake the feeling that she had seen me, far before I had seen her.

I told myself it had been exhaustion. The next few days blurred together into a cycle of paperwork, interviews, and dead ends. I buried myself in the investigation, hoping the work would push that woman from the back of my mind. Every victim led to another unanswered question. Security footage from home cams would conveniently fail. Supposed witnesses either saw nothing or gave contradictory information from one another. It was trying to ask kindergartners who broke a vase. I stopped sleeping as much as I should have, surviving mostly on stale coffee and whatever food I could grab between interviews.

One evening, after combing through old case files at a coffee shop I’d practically adopted as my second office, I finally called it a night. The place was one of those old neighborhood cafes that looked like it hadn’t changed in fifty years. The owner gave me a sympathetic nod as I left, probably noticing the dark circles under my eyes. Outside, the rain hadn’t stopped all day, leaving the streets damp beneath the glow of flickering streetlights. People shuffled passed on their way home, umbrellas shielding them from the downpour, paying little attention to the world around them. I was halfway down the block, lost in thought, when I heard splashing footsteps closing in behind me. 

I barely had time to turn around when something slammed into me. A sharp burning pain erupted through my abdomen, stealing the air from my lungs. I looked down just in time to see the handle pressed into my stomach before it was ripped back out. The hooded figure didn’t hesitate for a second. They drove the blade back into me again, then a third time before I managed to shove them away. My hand flew to my holster, but my fingers felt clumsy, slick with my own blood. By the time I got my pistol free, the attacker had already backed away. 

For a second we just stood there. I couldn’t make out the face beneath the hood, only darkness where it should have been. Then screams erupted as people scattered across the sidewalk. The hooded figure turned and vanished into the fumbling crowd of people and was simply gone. I tried to chase after them. I made it a whole three steps before my legs gave out. I hit the pavement hard, blood spreading beneath me as strangers rushed to my side, their voices growing distant. My vision blurred, the world narrowing into a tunnel of flashing lights and muffled shouting. 

Across the street, standing beneath a flicker street lamp was the woman. The same dress. The same black curtain of hair. She just watched. Then everything went dark. 

Darkness didn’t come the way I thought it would. I expected darkness. Nothing but that. Instead, I opened my eyes beneath an endless ocean. At least that’s the closest thing I ever found to describe it. The water stretched forever in every direction, impossibly clear, illuminated by a blue light that had no source. There was no surface above me and now floor below me. I wasn’t swimming, and I wasn’t sinking. I didn’t need to breathe. I couldn’t feel the knife wounds anymore. The cold never came. Time stopped having meaning. Seconds could have been years passing. There was only the quiet, deep hum of water. 

Eventually I realized I wasn’t alone. People drifted through the water around me as if a current I couldn’t feel was pulling them. There were hundreds of them. Maybe thousands. Some floated peacefully with their eyes closed, while others swam slowly into the endless blue, never looking at me as they passed. Young faces, old faces, men, women. Every life imaginable slipping through the silent abyss. I tried to call out but couldn’t find myself to speak. 

For the first time in years, my mind was completely empty. No murder investigations, no paperwork. No memories of blood soaked floors or flashing lights. Just.. peace. It was unsettling how easy it became to accept it. I remember wondering if this was all there was. Floating forever in an endless sea, watching souls drift by until I became one of them.

Then, something seemed to grab my heart. It wasn’t a hand exactly, but it felt like one. An immense pressure closing around my chest from somewhere deep inside me before squeezing hard enough to make every muscle in my body tense. Once. The pain was blinding, sending ripples through the water around me. Then it released, leaving me gasping for air despite not needing to breathe. Before I could recover, it squeezed again. Harder this time. Hard enough that the ocean around me seemed to crack apart. 

I shot upright with a scream. Metal instruments clattered across the floor as a man in a white coat stumbled backwards so violently he nearly knocked himself over. His face had gone completely white, his eyes locked onto me in absolute horror. I blinked against harsh fluorescent lights, my chest heaving as I looked down. I was lying on a steel table beneath a white sheet, my torso exposed. Someone had already drawn a thick black line down the center of my chest. A scalpel rested on a trey beside me, only inches from my arm. 

The mortician. He’d been seconds away from cutting me open. By the time the screaming stopped, the room had filled with people. Doctors, nurses and officers. Questions came faster than I could answer them. According to every report, I’d died on the street. No heartbeat, no wounds. They tried cpr but it didn’t work. They’d pronounced me dead, tagged my body and wheeled me downstairs. As far as anyone was concerned, I was a corpse. 

A few hours later, I sat wrapped in a gray blanket inside one of the precinct’s offices, wearing borrowed sweatpants and a hoodie that hung a size too big. A cup of coffee sat untouched between my hands, more for the warmth. Across me, another detective leaned against his desk, arms crossed, studying me like some kind of puzzle. 

“You’ve been declared dead for almost five hours.” He finally said, breaking the silence “you mind explaining how I’m having a conversation with you right now?” 

I stared at the coffee, watching the surface tremble from the slight shake of my hands. “I wish I could” because the truth was, I had a feeling that whatever brought me back, hadn’t been done with me yet. 

Pt2!!

https://www.reddit.com/r/TheMidnightArchives/s/zwai0NzJ8X

Rain fell in a thin, constant drizzle, turning the streets into ribbons of black stone and lamp light. The city always seemed darker after sunset. Thick fog filling alleyways and wrapping around iron fences and crumbling homes. Above it all, the spires of the church of briars loomed over the rooftops like jagged thorns pricking at the skies. The bells rang in the distance, low and mournful. 

I walked alone through the gloom. My boots splashing through shallow puddles, a damp parchment with a crudely written address on it in my gloved fingers. Water dripped from the wide, tattered brim of my hat and rolled down my coat. Before turning onto the street with the name listed on the parchment, I stopped under an awning, checking my gear. My old silver pistol hung on my hip, loaded. Opposite that, my hatchet. An old hunk of serrated iron, the crudely wrapped handle rustling against my glove. The address belonged to a modest family home tucked between two larger buildings, both long empty. The windows of the house glowed with a warm candlelight. A peaceful sight. They usually were. 

The woman who answered the door looked exhausted. Her eyes red and swollen from lack of sleep, and there was a tension in her shoulders that must have built up over time, if I had to guess. She stepped aside after seeing the insignia underneath my coat. The smell of cooked food and fire smoke greeted me as I entered. But beneath, lingered sweat, thick and sour. 

The man sat on the couch facing the hearth. At first glance, he looked normal enough. A little tired, maybe. A little pale. But the more I looked, the more cracks began to appear. His legs bounced relentlessly against the floor board. His fingers picked at his pants, fraying the cotton. The whites of his eyes were so bloodshot they looked pink. When he noticed me studying him, he forced a smile that never reached the rest of his face. 

“Evening”, he said. 

I grabbed a stray wooden chair, dragged across the floorboards, setting it across from him. I sat down, the chair groaning under my weight. “Evening”. 

The room felt tense enough to snap. His wife remained standing, her hands clasped together at her abdomen, her knuckles white. A little girl peeked around the the kitchen doorway. The moment her father glanced her way, she shrunk back out of sight. Fear was common when the church arrived. Fear of me. Fear of what I might find. This was different. neither of them were afraid of me.

“Your neighbors are worried about you. Said you’ve been irritable lately.”, I said keeping my voice soft. 

His response came immediately. “Neighbors gossip, that’s all”

I nodded, leaning forward, resting my elbows on my knees, my hands clasped together making the leather groan softly “sleeping alright?”

“Fine” he responded far too quickly again. A practiced response.

“Rather twitchy. Feeling sick?” I asked, my eyes flicking to his hands. The way the veins in his hands seemed to pulse. The excessive hair that threatened to burst from under his sleeves

His jaw tightened, his eyes never leaving the hearth. “I’m fine.”

The wife lowered her head, never leaving the doorway. The daughter did the same. I leaned back, the chair groaning and rested my hand on my pistol. His eyes locked onto the movement instantly. Something flashed behind his gaze for a split second. Anger. I watched as he snuffed it out almost immediately. I’ve seen it before. I’ve seen it a dozen times. The disease always reached the mind before it claimed the body. The mood swings. The impulses. The beast was already scratching at the inside of his skull. 

He watched every movement I made. Every shift in posture. Every glance towards his wife and daughter. He was trying to appear calm.

“Neighbors said there has been shouting at night. Primarily a males voice” I mentioned, pulling a small journal from my coat pocket, slipping a thin pencil from another pocket.

His jaw flexed. “Family argument. Work has been stressing me out lately”

I nodded and jotted notes down. It usually didn’t matter what I wrote down. It simply made him nervous. “Work? What do you do for a living? Carpenter? Miner?”

his eyes watched the pencil scribble over my paper, jumping from my face to the paper “tailor..” he muttered, holding back a snarl. 

“Tailor..” I repeated out loud. “Business been short?” I asked softly, glancing up at him periodically. 

“Something like that” he muttered again, his gaze flicking from me to his family, and then back to me.

Finally, I snapped shut my notebook, returning it to my coat pocket with the pencil. “Have you struck your wife recently?” The room froze. The air so thick you could swim through it. His wife stiffened and his expression darkened. 

“No.. I have not” I looked toward the woman. She hesitated just for a second before she nodded. 

“He has never hurt me” the response came out careful. Rehearsed. I let out a soft “hm”. The man’s nostrils flared. 

“What does that mean?”

“Nothing”

“Bullshit!” He shouted, jerking forward for a second before leaning back into his seat. His daughter shrank further behind the doorway. He noticed immediately and looked away from her. Shame flickered across his face. The disease was eating him, but he was fighting it. For now. The disease twists whatever is inside a person. Some become violent, others possessive. It was one of the reasons families noticed before anyone else.

“Im tired. That’s all” he muttered, his breathing growing heavy, the muscles in his forehead twitching. I remained silent, watching him as he looked back towards the flame of the hearth. For the first time since I arrived, the anger faded from him. Only exhaustion remained.

“I haven’t hurt them” his voice quieter now. Taking a soft, tired tone.

“I know”

“I wouldn’t” he continued, red tears forming in his eyes

“I know”

He swallowed hard. His hands were shaking badly now that he wasn’t hiding it. Dark hair sprouted from the back of his fingers. Far too much. Far too thick. The room felt heavier with every passing second. I remained neutral. My hands away from my weapons. Because the moment a man realized he had been judged, he usually stops pretending. 

The fight left him all at once. Not the disease that ate at his mind. Just the fight. His shoulders sagged. The tension drained from his face, leaving behind a tired man ten years older then when I first walked in. His eyes found his wife, then his daughter. The fear in their faces hurt more than anything I could have told him. “I don’t want them to see what happens”

Neither did I. No hunter ever does. The room was silent except for the crackling fire place. Finally, he looked at me. “Is there still time?” He asked. I held his gaze for a moment before nodding. 

“There is”

The man closed his eyes, a shaky breath escaping his lips. “Then could you pray with me?” He asked. I rose from my chair, the wood groaning one last time as I circled behind him

“Of course” his wife began to cry, pulling their daughter from the doorway and away from the scene, out of sight. I pulled my pistol from my hip. It was heavy. It was always heavy. For a moment, I looked at the photos on the walls. A happier man smiled back from every frame. Then, I lowered my eyes, clicking the hammer back and began to pray. 

He bowed his head, clasping his thin fingers together, lowering his head and closing his eyes.

“May the briar cradle what is left of you. May their thorns drag your sorrows into the soil.” His shaking lessened “may their thorns tear away your fear, pain and hunger. May they guide your soul beyond flesh and beyond suffering” 

He remained silent. Trusting. “May the path open before you. May the witch know your name.” The barrel rested against the back of his skull “may her thorns bleed you clean”

“Amen” he muttered. I pulled the trigger. The gunshot shattered the houses silence. He slumped forward. Silent. Lifeless. 

“Amen”

Rain fell in a thin, constant drizzle, turning the streets into ribbons of black stone and lamp light. The city always seemed darker after sunset. Thick fog filling alleyways and wrapping around iron fences and crumbling homes. Above it all, the spires of the church of briars loomed over the rooftops like jagged thorns pricking at the skies. The bells rang in the distance, low and mournful. 

I walked alone through the gloom. My boots splashing through shallow puddles, a damp parchment with a crudely written address on it in my gloved fingers. Water dripped from the wide, tattered brim of my hat and rolled down my coat. Before turning onto the street with the name listed on the parchment, I stopped under an awning, checking my gear. My old silver pistol hung on my hip, loaded. Opposite that, my hatchet. An old hunk of serrated iron, the crudely wrapped handle rustling against my glove. The address belonged to a modest family home tucked between two larger buildings, both long empty. The windows of the house glowed with a warm candlelight. A peaceful sight. They usually were. 

The woman who answered the door looked exhausted. Her eyes red and swollen from lack of sleep, and there was a tension in her shoulders that must have built up over time, if I had to guess. She stepped aside after seeing the insignia underneath my coat. The smell of cooked food and fire smoke greeted me as I entered. But beneath, lingered sweat, thick and sour. 

The man sat on the couch facing the hearth. At first glance, he looked normal enough. A little tired, maybe. A little pale. But the more I looked, the more cracks began to appear. His legs bounced relentlessly against the floor board. His fingers picked at his pants, fraying the cotton. The whites of his eyes were so bloodshot they looked pink. When he noticed me studying him, he forced a smile that never reached the rest of his face. 

“Evening”, he said. 

I grabbed a stray wooden chair, dragged across the floorboards, setting it across from him. I sat down, the chair groaning under my weight. “Evening”. 

The room felt tense enough to snap. His wife remained standing, her hands clasped together at her abdomen, her knuckles white. A little girl peeked around the the kitchen doorway. The moment her father glanced her way, she shrunk back out of sight. Fear was common when the church arrived. Fear of me. Fear of what I might find. This was different. neither of them were afraid of me.

“Your neighbors are worried about you. Said you’ve been irritable lately.”, I said keeping my voice soft. 

His response came immediately. “Neighbors gossip, that’s all”

I nodded, leaning forward, resting my elbows on my knees, my hands clasped together making the leather groan softly “sleeping alright?”

“Fine” he responded far too quickly again. A practiced response.

“Rather twitchy. Feeling sick?” I asked, my eyes flicking to his hands. The way the veins in his hands seemed to pulse. The excessive hair that threatened to burst from under his sleeves

His jaw tightened, his eyes never leaving the hearth. “I’m fine.”

The wife lowered her head, never leaving the doorway. The daughter did the same. I leaned back, the chair groaning and rested my hand on my pistol. His eyes locked onto the movement instantly. Something flashed behind his gaze for a split second. Anger. I watched as he snuffed it out almost immediately. I’ve seen it before. I’ve seen it a dozen times. The disease always reached the mind before it claimed the body. The mood swings. The impulses. The beast was already scratching at the inside of his skull. 

He watched every movement I made. Every shift in posture. Every glance towards his wife and daughter. He was trying to appear calm.

“Neighbors said there has been shouting at night. Primarily a males voice” I mentioned, pulling a small journal from my coat pocket, slipping a thin pencil from another pocket.

His jaw flexed. “Family argument. Work has been stressing me out lately”

I nodded and jotted notes down. It usually didn’t matter what I wrote down. It simply made him nervous. “Work? What do you do for a living? Carpenter? Miner?”

his eyes watched the pencil scribble over my paper, jumping from my face to the paper “tailor..” he muttered, holding back a snarl. 

“Tailor..” I repeated out loud. “Business been short?” I asked softly, glancing up at him periodically. 

“Something like that” he muttered again, his gaze flicking from me to his family, and then back to me.

Finally, I snapped shut my notebook, returning it to my coat pocket with the pencil. “Have you struck your wife recently?” The room froze. The air so thick you could swim through it. His wife stiffened and his expression darkened. 

“No.. I have not” I looked toward the woman. She hesitated just for a second before she nodded. 

“He has never hurt me” the response came out careful. Rehearsed. I let out a soft “hm”. The man’s nostrils flared. 

“What does that mean?”

“Nothing”

“Bullshit!” He shouted, jerking forward for a second before leaning back into his seat. His daughter shrank further behind the doorway. He noticed immediately and looked away from her. Shame flickered across his face. The disease was eating him, but he was fighting it. For now. The disease twists whatever is inside a person. Some become violent, others possessive. It was one of the reasons families noticed before anyone else.

“Im tired. That’s all” he muttered, his breathing growing heavy, the muscles in his forehead twitching. I remained silent, watching him as he looked back towards the flame of the hearth. For the first time since I arrived, the anger faded from him. Only exhaustion remained.

“I haven’t hurt them” his voice quieter now. Taking a soft, tired tone.

“I know”

“I wouldn’t” he continued, red tears forming in his eyes

“I know”

He swallowed hard. His hands were shaking badly now that he wasn’t hiding it. Dark hair sprouted from the back of his fingers. Far too much. Far too thick. The room felt heavier with every passing second. I remained neutral. My hands away from my weapons. Because the moment a man realized he had been judged, he usually stops pretending. 

The fight left him all at once. Not the disease that ate at his mind. Just the fight. His shoulders sagged. The tension drained from his face, leaving behind a tired man ten years older then when I first walked in. His eyes found his wife, then his daughter. The fear in their faces hurt more than anything I could have told him. “I don’t want them to see what happens”

Neither did I. No hunter ever does. The room was silent except for the crackling fire place. Finally, he looked at me. “Is there still time?” He asked. I held his gaze for a moment before nodding. 

“There is”

The man closed his eyes, a shaky breath escaping his lips. “Then could you pray with me?” He asked. I rose from my chair, the wood groaning one last time as I circled behind him

“Of course” his wife began to cry, pulling their daughter from the doorway and away from the scene, out of sight. I pulled my pistol from my hip. It was heavy. It was always heavy. For a moment, I looked at the photos on the walls. A happier man smiled back from every frame. Then, I lowered my eyes, clicking the hammer back and began to pray. 

He bowed his head, clasping his thin fingers together, lowering his head and closing his eyes.

“May the briar cradle what is left of you. May their thorns drag your sorrows into the soil.” His shaking lessened “may their thorns tear away your fear, pain and hunger. May they guide your soul beyond flesh and beyond suffering” 

He remained silent. Trusting. “May the path open before you. May the witch know your name.” The barrel rested against the back of his skull “may her thorns bleed you clean”

“Amen” he muttered. I pulled the trigger. The gunshot shattered the houses silence. He slumped forward. Silent. Lifeless. 

“Amen”

The crash itself was nothing. A slick back road, a distracted glance at my GPS and a gentle kiss from the guardrail. No airbags, no blood. Just the sharp stench of burnt rubber and the officer’s disinterested reassurance: “you’re a lucky man, Mister Hale.” 

I didn’t feel lucky. Not at all. When I got home I had this unsettling feeling. Almost like a soft buzzing on the side of my head. Kind of like that numb buzzing you get just before the pins and needles of your leg when it falls asleep. I figured it was just my nerves settling from the accident earlier. I went to the bathroom and splashed cold water on my face, when I noticed it. My reflection blinked half a second after I did. A tiny lag, like a video buffering. I stared, waiting. My reflection stared back, perfectly still now. I forced a smile and it smiled right on time. 

“Stress” I muttered to myself, and turned away. But the next morning while I was brushing my teeth, the lag was worse. When I leaned down to spit out toothpaste, my reflection kept looking ahead for a heartbeat, like it was trying to decide if it wanted to follow or not. I shook it off and headed to work. The accident had rattled me more than I’d like to admit. By midday through, it followed me into the bathroom. For two whole seconds, I watched my reflection idle its hands under the running water. My hands had already been gripping the edge of the sink. When I moved again, it followed a bit late, almost reluctantly. I just stared into my own eyes for a moment, watching. My reflection stared back.

“You okay, Hale?” My coworker poked his head in. “You look like you seen a ghost”

I nearly shat myself but laughed it off “just tired. Long night. But I wasn’t tired. I was terrified. That evening I avoided mirrors entirely. I ate dinner in front of my laptop, the screens glossy surface reflecting my fave in miniature. The lag was there too, Faint but undeniable, like a bad video call. I tried recording myself with my phone. Played it back. Normal. No delay on the recording at all. Only when I looked at it live, in real time did my reflection hesitate. 

By the third day, the delay stretched to four seconds. I called in sick and sat in my apartment, testing it obsessively. Bathroom, phone screen, the full body mirror in my bedroom. Each time, my reflection grew.. looser. It’s movements weren’t lay anymore. Sometimes it held an expression a few seconds longer then I did. A small, private smile when my face was straight. I change in posture compared to mine.

I stopped sleeping much. Everytime I closed my eyes, I imagined it waiting behind my eyelids, practicing. On the fourth night, I woke up around 3am to the sound of running water in the bathroom. I hadn’t left it on. My heart slammed in my ribs like a bird in a cage. I crept down the hall to the bath, and when i pushed the door open, the water was running full blast. And there I was, standing at the sink in the mirror, splashing water in my face exactly how I did the night of the crash. Only I was still in the doorway. The reflections eyes shifted, staring at me in its periphery. Almost like it just noticed my presence. I slammed the door shut and stumbled backwards, fumbling over my own feet. When I worked up the courage to open the door again about five minutes later, the mirror only showed the empty bathroom, my reflection standing in th doorway where I actually was. Perfectly in sync, for now. 

I didn’t go back to work the next day. Or the day after. It had started copying my routines, sometimes completing them before I did. I’d take a drink from a glass, and in the reflection from the toaster, it was already finished with the drink. I’d think about shaving, and it would appear with fresh stubble already shaven. Once, while i sat motionless on my couch and stared into the black screen of my tv, i caught it standing up and walking out of frame. When I jumped up, it was right back on the couch before copying me a few seconds later, waiting for me to look away again. 

I’m typing this on my laptop with the brightness all the way up so I can’t see it in this screen. My hands are shaking so bad. I can see it in the tv infront of me, typing away. It’s moving smoothly, confident in itself. But I’m trembling.

I just heard a laugh from the other room. My laugh. But I haven’t laughed in a week.

I’m currently writing a story and need genuine critiques so I can make it better and compelling. It’s no where near done. But I’d like advice on what I have so far.

The truck shouldn’t still be running. Every time I turn the key, I expect it to finally give up, but it coughs, rattles, and settles into a rough idle. The dash lights flicker like they’re thinking about dying, then hold.

“Three, you’re on approach,” Mara says through the radio.

“I see the gate,” I tell her. The settlement wall drags itself out of the gray ahead of me. old poured concrete patched with sheet metal and welded scrap. It’s not pretty, but it stands. Two guards wait at the checkpoint with rifles slung low. They don’t wave. I roll to the barrier and kill the engine, and the silence that follows feels thick. Tomas steps forward, that familiar limp in his right leg.

“You’re late.”

“The road washed out passed mile twelve. Had to make a detour through the orchards”. He nods like he already assumed that. I climb down, joints popping, and open the back. Water cartridges, Soil cultures, and a compact generator core wrapped in insulation. That’s the prize.

“You actually got one?” he asks.

“Pulled it from a clinic in Dry Vale. It’ll set you up with power for a long while”

He gives me a look. “If it works.”

“Optimism looks bad on you,” I say. He almost smiles. We unload fast. The sky above us has that dull, heavy tone that means trouble.

“Are you going to crash here for the night?” Tomas asks, grunting as we carry the generator over to a small cart.

“Can’t. Gotta be back at haven before sunrise”. I don’t add that I don’t sleep well anywhere but Haven, something inside me just can’t relax without proper elevation, and thicker walls. The gate shuts behind me and I’m back on the open road. About ten miles out, the air changes. I feel it in my chest first, like pressure building before a storm cracks.

“Cloud front accelerated,” Mara says, her voice crackling over the radio. “You’re not going to outrun it.”

“Any cover nearby? Need elevated land at the very least”. The sound of paper rustles over the mic before she speaks again.

“Got an over pass on a hill near marker forty-two.” She says in a practical tone. I see it and push the truck harder than I should. The engine whines but holds together long enough to get me under concrete just as the first drops start falling. The rain taps the concrete, light and steady. I shut the engine off and sit there listening. Beyond the edge of the overpass, the asphalt darkens fast. Black lines spread through the cracks, then join, then gloss over. The tar pools in the low spots like it always does. I step out onto dry concrete and lean against a pillar.

“You staying put?” Mara asks.

“For now.” The tar thickens in the dips and something moves under the surface. A shape pushes up slow and deliberate. A RainShade rises like it’s standing from underwater. shoulders, arms, head slightly bowed. Its body covered in a sheen. like a thin layer of parchment with black ooze rippling underneath it. Its face looks like someone pushed their thumb into a ball of clay. Just an empty dip where a face should be. Another forms farther down the road. They stay where the tar is deepest. They don’t charge. They don’t rush. They just exist in the rain.

“Any movement toward you?” Mara asks.

“No. They’re just standing.” The black surface spreads outward but stops at the edge of the overpass, a clean boundary between wet sheen and dry concrete. One of the RainShades tilts its head. Not at me. At the truck.

“Three?” Mara says, hearing the silence.

“Yeah.”

“Is there anything you have that’s irritating them? Tar signatures are heavy near you”. I glance at the truck.

“I drove my truck. It’s cooling. Making a soft ticking sound.” The Creature takes a slow step toward the shelter, its legs gliding slowly through the thick tar and stops where the tar thins. The others don’t follow. They remain farther back in the rain, still and waiting. The line of black creeps closer by inches as the water keeps falling, causing more tar to form in the rain. I stay under the overpass and don’t move. That’s the first rule: don’t be the most interesting thing in the area. Rain taps the truck’s hood, the only part sticking out from the overpass, in a soft, steady rhythm, echoing under the concrete. The Shade nearest the road edge leans slightly. Not dramatic. Just a shift. Its lower half stays submerged in tar, which thickens around its legs like it’s bracing itself.

“Mara? It’s.. watching.. I think.” I murmur.

“I’ve got distortion on that quadrant,” Mara says. “Describe it to me.”

“It’s really interested in the truck. Like.. abnormally so” The RainShade takes a slow step. The tar stretches with it and smooths out behind. It stops where the spread thins, the hollow in its face angled toward the grille. The engine ticks as it cools, and the rain patters against the hood. Too loud. The tar a few feet near the front tires begins to tremble. Not spreading, not rising, just vibrating in faint rings. I almost push off the pillar, then stop myself. Don’t move. The second shade turns too, slower, uncertain. They’re not charging. They’re measuring.

“Tar Mass is shifting toward you,” Mara says quietly.

“Yeah. I can tell.” The tar creeps closer to the shelter’s edge, only inches from dry concrete now. The first shade lifts an arm. The limb elongates slightly as it rises, a horrible mockery of a human appendage, stretching thin before settling again. It reaches toward the hood but never leaves the tar. A narrow extension of black slides along the asphalt toward the bumper, stopping at the concrete line like it’s testing glass. The arm lowers. I exhale.

“Still rule-bound,” I whisper. “For now.” Rain continues, steady and patient. The tar deepens in every low spot, rippling in warped lines wherever the hollows move. The RainShade shifts again, then steps sideways instead of forward, sort of shuffling while staying in the tar and keeping the truck in view. The second mirrors it at a distance.

“They’re mapping it,” I say.

“Mapping what?” Mara responds.

“Clear space. When the hell were they smart enough to do that?” I whisper, careful not to be too loud. It pauses diagonal of the driver side door. The tar near the threshold quivers. Inside the truck, my tablet beeps, a new notification for supplies needing transported from haven. The RainShades’ hollow head deepens. A soft whine being emitted from the hole. Another thin filament stretches toward the concrete, the tar beneath its paper thin skin ripples like a thousand rats underneath a bedsheet. It hesitates, then flattens uselessly against the dry surface. The tar that made up the appendage ripples and return to the mass of tar in the rain. There’s a faint sound from the tar. A low, wet pressure noise, like sucking air through your teeth.

“If it breaches the tar-” Mara whispers.

“It won’t,” I say, though I’m not sure I truly believe it. The Shade lowers its arm. The tar settles. The thin extensions retract into the larger pool. For a long moment, nothing happens. Then it turns away, stepping deeper into the pooled black, its upper body drooping before liquifying and emerging deeper into the tar. Within seconds they wander again in loose arcs, aimless, almost calm. The rippling near the truck stops. The tar stabilizes. The rain continues.

“Three?”

“They lost interest.”

“That’s good.” I keep watching. They don’t look back, they don’t test the edge again, but the tar line is closer to the truck’s front tire than before. Not because the RainShade got close. Because the rain hasn’t stopped.

“Rain fall just extended,” Mara says carefully.

“How long?”

“Unknown. Could be hours.” The sky beyond the overpass stays thick and gray. The road back to Haven is already half swallowed, hollows of all sizes wandering slowly. If the level rises a few more inches, the tires will be sitting in it. And if I try to start the engine while it’s touching, I picture both Hollows turning at once. Reacting to the sound. The tar line creeps forward another inch.

I sigh to myself, frustrated with the fact that I’ll have to sit out the rain and pray the tar doesn’t get too high. It would draw the Shades back over here if I sat in the truck. The creaky hunk of shit would make too much noise just from opening the door. So instead, I sit against the pillar, arms crossed over myself to keep warm from the cold, wet breeze. After a while, I’d slowly doze off, sitting just between REM sleep and being awake. Just as I got into the deeper end of my sleep, Mara would speak over the radio, startling me awake.

“Tar mass seems to be thinning in your area. Rain should die down enough for you to get back to Haven.”

I shift on the concrete, grunting as I stretch my legs, and slowly make my way back to the truck. The RainShades are still there in the tar, but they’re dull, slack now, almost lifeless as the black liquid swallows them. The surface quivers faintly, but nothing rises. I glance at the tarline, it’s receding slowly, inches at a time, like the world is inhaling.

The overpass above me drips relentlessly, the gray sky bleeding through gaps in the concrete. The road back to Haven is half swallowed in the black sheen, slick with residual tar. I climb into the drivers seat and insert the key. The engine shudders to life with a rattling groan. It’s loud enough that it makes me worry, but the Shades don’t react. For now, they don’t care.

I let the truck idle for a moment, listening to the settling rain, the distant hiss of tar flowing into the cracks. Mara’s voice is quiet now, a concentrated softness as she speaks over the radio. “You’ll want to move soon. The tar level’s stable, but not guaranteed to stay that way.”

“Got it” I’d respond, gripping the wheel. I’d stare out at the black road, Every instinct tells me to wait a bit longer, to make sure the Shades are fully gone, that the tar isn’t deep enough to cause a huge problem while I drive. But if it rains again, the tar will swallow my truck. Haven can’t wait though, people need their supplies and The tar doesn’t care who’s on the asphalt.

I exhale, feeling the cold bite at my lungs, and start inching the truck forward. The tires hiss against the wet surface, black veins parting beneath them, popping softly as air bubbles are pushed out from the tar. The overpass fades behind me.

As I drive, I keep my eyes on the patches of tar that haven’t fully sunk back into the soil and concrete yet, dark islands clinging to the asphalt in puddles. The Shades are dissolving back into the black pools, bodies melting into the surface like pouring a cup of water into a lake. Thankfully, if the rain isn’t falling, tar doesn’t stay and neither do the Shades

The road stretches ahead, gray and slick, scarred with veins of black that glint in the tiny bit of sun that peeks through the clouds. I push the truck forward, tires sliding over the wet asphalt, barely keeping traction with left over bits of tar on the treads. But I manage to keep the truck moving.

As the outskirts of Haven rise into view, the familiar silhouette of the city brings a strange weight off my chest. The elevated city. The city safest from the tar, built on a raised foundation of reinforced, anti-tar resin coated steel. The gates are still, guards are vigilant. I drive slowly in the delivery lane, glancing to the massive line of people trying to enter through the gates. People immigrating to feel safe from the rain. The checkpoint guards hold up their hands, signaling me to stop.

“Courier ID?” One of the guards would ask, rifle slung across his chest.

“Yeah.. here you go” *I say, handing him my ID after pulling it from my wallet. He’d inspect it, scanning it in before stepping aside. The gates slowly open with a loud blaring of an alarm, the trucks tires squeaking as it rolls through the gates.

The truck rolls up the incline of the city entrance, tires on dry, solid ground for the first time in hours. Once I get to the parking bay for delivery vehicles, I kill the engine and let out a deep sigh that pulls at least a hundred pounds from my shoulders

I glance over my shoulder at couriers of all kinds entering the city, their cargo packs full, some on foot, others in vehicles. Haven’s walls feel solid, safe. Away from tar. I hop out of the divers seat, heading around the courier facility and down the city streets, past the checkpoints, and finally into the heart of the elevated city. The quiet hum of generators and the distant chatter of survivors fills the air. The structured chaos of noise brings a serene calm to my heart.