u/Lilia_Briganda

Three months passed in a blur after the agency promoted Beth to Group Account Director. The new role doubled her workload, burying her under late nights, endless reports, and constant client travel-- but the payoff and salary would make it all worth it. She wore the turquoise locket every single day like a lucky charm.

At first, she barely paid attention to how worn out she was getting. She was skipping meals and surviving on way too much coffee. Almost every morning, she woke up with a strange metallic taste in her mouth.

By six months, the constant exhaustion dragged her down, and the brain fog was getting harder to ignore. Reports that should have been simple took three readings to make sense of. It took her more time to create presentations as well. She started losing her train of thought mid-sentence during client calls. She blamed it all on burnout. She tried to handle it logically--forcing down real meals, swapping afternoon coffee for water, and promising herself eight hours of sleep. For a little while, she actually felt better.

Then came the morning she stood in the mirror adjusting her turquoise necklace, her packed bags on the floor, readying to leave for a presentation in Philly. Greg walked up behind her, pressing a kiss against her cheek. "Beth darling," he said softly, wrapping his arms around her waist. "I love you, but I'm worried-- the travel, the late nights...this job is wearing you down. You look exhausted and I hate eating alone. I miss having you around more in the evenings. Maybe it's time to see a doctor?"

Beth placed her hands lovingly over his, "Don't worry honey," she said, squeezing his fingers. "I know the hours are brutal right now, but it'll all be worth it. We can finally put that down payment on a house by the end of the year and get out of this cramped apartment. Things will ease up once the quarter ends, and I'll take some time off for us to spend together. I promise."

He let it go with a quiet sigh, but as she grabbed her bags, she knew he was right--a checkup wouldn't hurt. But there was no time now, Philly was calling. She got on the plane and landed, finally making it to her hotel room exhausted. The next morning while she was standing offstage in the hall, her pulse hammered in her ears. As her name was called, she stepped up to the podium and gripped its wooden edges. The room took a sickening tilt, the lights blurred, and she felt suddenly weak as if her legs would collapse underneath her. A cold sweat broke out on her forehead.

Just get through it, she told herself. She skipped the elaborate opening she had prepared and instead stripped the presentation down to its bare bones, talking fast, and keeping her eyes fixed on a single spot to stop the floor from spinning. The moment she finished, she barely waited for the applause before slipping off the stage and heading straight back to her hotel room.

The flight home from Philly was a blur of exhaustion and worry. She finally made that phone call to her doctor and underwent a battery of tests. She wanted an answer--a simple diagnosis, a prescription, anything to prove that the terrifying dizzy spell she had on stage and the suffocating fatigue and nausea weren't just in her head. She had to stop ignoring the way she was feeling--it wasn't just work stress, something was wrong, terribly wrong.

She went into the bedroom and stood in front of the full-length mirror, looking at a reflection that barely felt like hers anymore. No amount of concealer could hide the dark circles under her eyes. She looked washed out, visibly thinner, and her brush was catching way more hair than usual. Even her clothes were telling her the truth; her blouses draped off her shoulders, and her skirts were suddenly loose at the waistband.

Now, sitting at her kitchen table, she stared at the phone resting beside her untouched coffee. When it finally rang, her heart leaped into her throat. She snatched the phone up on the second ring. "Hello?"

"Beth, it's Dr. Miller," the voice on the line was calm. "I'm calling with the results of the tests we did. "Honestly, everything came back completely normal," he said. "Your blood work, thyroid, iron levels--they're all within normal limits. On paper, you're the picture of health."

A heavy silence settled in her. His words offered her no relief, only a creeping dread.

"Back when I was growin' up, it was taters and beans one night, and beans and taters the next night!"

"Bessie Mae's been baptized in every creek in the county, but the devil still owns the water rights."

Ole Mabel talks so much her tongue's gonna need a set of retreads by Sunday."

"Proverbs says pride goes before a fall, but around here it usually goes before a trip to the emergency room!"

"He's got a heart of gold, but it's buried under six feet of hard clay."

"Well, as the scripture almost says: The Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away, but the local rumor mill in my neck of the woods fills everything else in!"

The bell over the door at Gladys’s Diner didn't ring-- Mossy never used a door. She just materialized beside the corner booth, smelling of damp earth and river moss. Muddy footprints tracked behind her as she sat down at the counter and clicked her dry, bony fingers on the Formica.

​"Coffee," she rasped, her eyes like two burnt holes in an old quilt. "Black enough to hide in."

​Gladys didn't even blink, just reached for the pot.

"You're charging me a nickel more, honey," the old woman scowled.

"The pour is a nickel extra if you want it scalding," ​Gladys said, setting the pot down with a clunk and giving the old woman a long, flat look. "And like it or not, you're wiping your feet next time, Mossy Mae."

Mossy Mae, though folks around town mostly called her the Silt Woman, just grinned, a dark, gap-toothed slit. She reached into her shawl and pulled out a single black coin, tossing it onto the Formica with a clack!

When Gladys turned around to grab the creamer, Mossy Mae vanished, leaving only her muddy prints and the smell of wet dirt behind.

"He's so broke he can't afford to pay attention."

"He doesn't have the sense God gave a turnip!"

"You can't put feathers on a dog and call it a chicken!"

"Even Balaam's donkey knew when to speak up against his abuser." (Numbers 22:28)

"Some folks only read the Bible when they're looking for a loop-hole."

"He's so crooked, when he dies, they'll have to screw him into the ground!"

"Even a blind hog finds an acorn every once in a while."

He arrived every evening at 6:00 PM sharp, sliding into the corner booth at the Sunrise Diner with the precision of a clock gear.

He always ordered black coffee and a slice of cherry pie— food for a man who didn't want to be noticed, yet everything about him caught Gladys’s eye. He never looked at the menu and always kept a worn, leather-bound notebook open, but he never seemed to write in it.

He wore a sharp, saturated charcoal suit, his tie a deep crimson red, and his hair was slicked back with nary a single strand out of place despite the wind outside. Every Sunday, tucked under the rim of his coffee cup, was a pristine silver coin.

Gladys watched Mr. Weaver from behind the diner counter, her rag circling the same spot on the Formica. He always sat in booth four, looking like he'd stepped right off a 1920s Hollywood silent movie set.

As she walked over to refill his cup, he looked up. She glanced down at the open notebook and saw faint, handwritten ledgers- -receipts for fruits, grain, and yeast.

"Excuse me," he said, "Could you tell me if Ida's Hideaway is still down by the Old Mill Creek road?"

Gladys paused. "Ida's? Never heard of it, and I've been here 20 years now, Mr. Weaver," she said, leaning over his table.

He offered a smile, slid a 1921 silver dollar on the Formica, and tipped his hat.

"Shame," he whispered. "I was supposed to meet someone there."

As he walked back towards the Hells Bells Motel, Gladys realized he wasn't looking for directions—he was looking for a way back to a world that no longer existed.

​It was 4:00 AM at the Hells Bells Motel, and Sterling needed a cup of black coffee to finish out his night shift. ​He left Scurf--the resident terminator--in charge of the lobby for a few as he headed off to the Sunrise Diner.

Seeing faint lights in the distance and hearing the faint low rumble of an 18-wheeler he thought he had plenty of time to cross. But two steps onto the asphalt, broad headlights crested the drip in the road, trapping him in their blinding glare.

The massive chrome grill filled his vision, before a violent, ice-cold wall of air slammed into his chest, knocking the breath right out of him as the phantom engine roared straight through his body.

Then it vanished.

Behind him, the dark tore open with the screech of twisting metal, shattering glass, and the frantic screams of unseen victims. The phantom 18-wheeler had dragged the memory of a long-ago wreck behind it.

Sterling stood in the road, doubled over and gasping for air, as the screams faded into the quiet night.

Shaking, he straightened his jacket, swallowed hard, and forced his legs to move.

​By the time he pushed through the diner door, he was white as a sheet.

​It was 4:00 AM at the Hells Bells Motel, and Sterling needed a cup of black coffee to finish out his night shift. ​He left Scurf--the resident terminator-- in charge of the lobby for a few as he headed off to the Sunrise Diner.

Seeing faint lights in the distance and hearing the faint low rumble of an 18-wheeler he thought he had plenty of time to cross. But two steps onto the asphalt, broad headlights crested the drip in the road, trapping him in their blinding glare.

The massive chrome grill filled his vision, before a violent, ice-cold wall of air slammed into his chest, knocking the breath right out of him as the phantom engine roared straight through his body.

Then it vanished.

Behind him, the dark tore open with the screech of twisting metal, shattering glass, and the frantic screams of unseen victims. The phantom 18-wheeler had dragged the memory of a long-ago wreck behind it.

Sterling stood in the road, doubled over and gasping for air, as the screams faded into the quiet night. Shaking, he straightened his jacket, swallowed hard, and forced his legs to move.

​By the time he pushed through the diner door, he was white as a sheet.

​The wedding ceremony at the village church was over, and the reception at Hedingham Manor was in full swing in the rolling hills of the English countryside. Rain had settled heavy over the cottage gardens outside, leaving the roses dripping and the air thick with the damp, earthy scent of moss and ancient English stone. Inside the manor’s reception room, a fire crackled in the massive hearth, casting a warm amber glow across the dark oak wainscoting as guests toasted the new couple.

​Beth sat at a low carved table near the fire, surrounded by the quiet murmur of family and a mountain of unwrapped gifts. Her new husband, Greg, stood behind her chair, his hand resting warm on her shoulder as she reached for the next gift.

​Tucked behind a set of silver spoons was a small wooden box tied with a faded ribbon. Inside, rested against snow-white velvet was a delicate locket no bigger than a silver dollar.

The bright white fabric made the fine silver filigree and the deep, robin's-egg turquoise cabochon practically glow under the hearth fire. She fell in love with it right away.

​Beth opened the folded cardstock tucked inside:

​"For Beth, on her wedding day. This locket has belonged to the women of our family for over a century. Inside is a portrait of your great-great-grandmother, Eleanor. You hold her jaw, her eyes, and her spirit. Wear it close to your heart, as she did, and carry our past into your new life."

​Beth’s thumb clicked the tiny side latch open.

​Staring down at the hand-painted portrait inside, the woman in the brass oval was Beth's double—the same sharp chin, wide dark eyes, and dark hair swept back from her forehead.

Eleanor was staring right back at her from a hundred years ago, wearing that exact same turquoise locket against her throat.

​"Wow," Greg said, leaning down to look closely at the picture in the locket. "Beth, that picture looks just like you."

​"It's uncanny, isn't it?" Beth said, her fingers running over the cold filigree. She looked up at him, her eyes bright. "Oh, it's so beautiful... here, can you fasten it for me?"

​"Sure," Greg smiled, taking the delicate silver chain from her hands.

​He brushed her hair aside and clipped the clasp behind her neck, letting the pendant drop into the hollow of her collarbone. It was so light she barely noticed it against her skin-- a stunning heirloom that she wore all night.

When they finally got back to their cottage long after midnight, Beth stood in front of the bedroom mirror, completely exhausted but smiling, admired how lovely it looked against her skin. She carefully unclipped the silver chain and laid it carefully as not to kink it inside her velvet jewelry tray on the nightstand, before slipping into bed.

​She woke up the next morning feeling the normal, heavy slump of a post-wedding wind-down—thirsty, a little stiff in the legs from dancing, and completely ready for a quiet week off.

​After a peaceful week of resting at home and settling into married life, Monday morning arrived. As Beth got dressed for her first day back at the agency, the choice of jewelry was a no-brainer. She reached for the turquoise locket, fastening it around her neck over her cream sweater. She couldn't wait to show it off.

​Walking into the office, the locket was an instant hit with the office girls.

​"Oh, Beth, look at you! You look so beautiful and rested....and look at that!" her coworker Sarah gasped, leaning over the breakroom counter to get a closer look at the stone. "That turquoise stone is gorgeous. Is it antique?"

​"Yes--It's a family heirloom," Beth said proudly, holding the silver-dollar-sized pendant up so the light hit the filigree. "It belonged to my great-great-grandmother. There’s a tiny portrait of her inside, and I swear we look like twins."

​She spent the whole day soaking up the compliments from morning meetings to team lunch. She felt polished, poised, yet relieved the wedding had gone smoothy and glad to be back in her routine.

​It wasn't until around 4 p.m. while putting the finishing touch on a report that a slight twinge of nausea hit alongside a wave a fatigue. ​Just getting back into the work groove, she thought, rubbing the back of her neck and sipping some water.

Once home she tucked the locket back into her jewelry box, feeling fine again by dinner.

(to be continued...)

The stone walls of St. Jude’s Convent always kept the cold in, but the draft in the chapel felt like breath against the back of Sister Agnes's neck.

​It was long past midnight, the hour of silent prayer, when the faint sound started.

Scratch. Scratch. Scratch. A steel nib dragging across thick parchment echoed off the high arches above the altar.

​Sister Agnes held her breath and stepped toward the massive, brass-bound lectern in the center of the nave.

The dark leather cover of the great Latin Bible was already propped open to the blank ledger at the back. The room smelled of old incense and fresh, copper-heavy ink.

​She reached out with a trembling hand, her lantern casting long shadows across the page.

There, beneath the names of dead bishops and forgotten abbesses, a new line had just been carved into the paper. The ink was so fresh it glistened in the flickering light.

*​Sister Agnes. August 16th.*

​Three days. Exactly seventy-two hours.

As she stared down at her own name, petrified, the heavy iron chapel doors shut behind her with a deafening thud. A sudden icy draft swept through the dark, snuffing out her lantern flame, leaving her trapped with the horrifying reality that she had exactly 72 hours to live.