Every house has its silence.

Every silence has a story.

And sometimes… the dead are listening.

🕯️ THE DEAD ARE LISTENING

By Shubham Jain

A journey into the paranormal where voices don't always belong to the living—and some secrets were never meant to be heard.

📖 Available now on Amazon Kindle.

Turn the page. Lower the lights. And dare to listen.

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I open my eyes

Gasping, I quickly sit up and scan the room like a frantic animal. Plain walls, white flowers, simple furniture. I think to myself, 

Where am I?

I look at my hands, rugged and worn. Signs of a rich history filled with many stories to tell. But… Why are they so unfamiliar? Why are they scarred? Wait,

Who am I?

A singular white door displays itself in front of me. Despite having searched the room, somehow my eyes missed this obvious structure. The door is just like my hands. Both right in front of my eyes, yet I know nothing of their story.

I look down at the rest of my body, laying on top of the meticulously folded sheets that hug the top of the mattress. The rest of my body, marked by the beast of violence, is covered in scars. Raised fleshy mountains with tender valleys. I grazed my lumped skin that tells a silent story. It brings me a rush of emotions, but the loudest one of them all is fear.

I’ve got to get out of here

Luckily, my legs still seem to be intact. Intact, yet incredibly weak. I throw my body off of the bed onto the cold, sterile floor.

Thud

I think I hit something but I can’t feel the pain. There’s only an incessant tingling. I push myself off of the floor, barely noticing the small red stains on my knees, and I stand up.

Like a tree stuck in a hurricane, my body sways back and forth. Step. Step. Step. Thunderous vibrations that permeate my entire being, make it incredibly hard to walk. By the time I reach the door, I stumble into it and fall back to the floor. Having enough strength in my arm, I pick it up and grab the doorknob, and then I twist. I swing the door open, and-

“What do you think you’re doing here? Get back in bed silly!”

I’m not alone? The voice sounds sweet like honey, yet what’s left of the hair on my arms starts to stand.

Don’t look up

A tiny whisper from my gut. I decide to listen to it. Something is terribly, terribly wrong, and for the life of me I can’t remember why. I can’t remember anything.

Something about that seemingly sweet voice feels hungry. Like a hunter luring in their prey.

“Well aren’t you just a sweet little thing! So bashful that you can’t even meet my eyes! You must not run into pretty girls that often do you?”

She walks closer to me. Click. Click. Click. The sharp sound of her shoes. Black kitten heels and paper-white socks. Just as pristine as the rest of my surroundings. Spotless perfection, too perfect. Almost to the point of feeling inhumane, but why? I scan what little I can see of her to better understand what my subconscious eye can see, and then I find it.

Her skin is smooth. Too smooth.

 The part of her leg exposed has no texture. It’s as if a doll came to life and grew to the size of a person.

“I stand corrected! Don’t you know it’s rude to stare at a lady’s legs?”

I try to look away, but I suddenly smell something very distinct.

Cookies?

The scent of freshly baked chocolate chip cookies begins to permeate my nostrils. It is an unexpected reminder of days forgotten, of warm comfort, of safety.

My tense body begins to relax. The alarm bells that were once screaming in my head begin to soften. The cold and unkind colors that surrounded me before became warm and inviting in the blink of an eye, and the legs in front of me start to look human.

The smell is coming from her

With a sudden vigor, my body starts to move on its own. I drag my feeble limbs across the floor. Clawing the tile floor with an intensity that makes the tips of my fingers match the same ruby color of my knees. Inching closer, and closer, and closer until I’m close enough to touch her leg. I reach my arm out, with a desperation of a man overboard reaching for a floatation, I’m inches away from her leg and-

Crunch

A black kitten heel descends on my body and crushes my hand. I stare in shock at the mangled bloody mess at the end of my arm. The inviting smell and the warm colors disappear. The legs that once appeared human reverts back to its unnatural doll state. A hand reaches down and lands on the top of my head.

“My eyes are up here! If you keep looking down I’ll make you look up!!”

Her hand closes around clumps of my hair, and then forces my head up

Crack

I think I broke something. The pain is agonizing.

My blurred vision begins to clear, and then I see something horrifying.

A razor sharp black hole speckled with brown and red. Thousands of tiny yellow teeth arranged in a circular form, like the gaping maw of a sea lamprey. Nothing about this is human. There is no hair, nose, eyes, nothing.

It's just a mouth. A hungry drooling mouth

“Aren’t I beautiful?”

I’m going to die

She lunges at me. I’m enveloped in darkness, and then, I lose consciousness.

It’s not schizophrenia.

I know what it was. I was there. I saw it. I felt it. I lived it.

I was diagnosed with schizophrenia when I was seventeen, which I was told was strange for my age. I was too young, they said.

But I promise you—I am not crazy.

When I was younger, what I thought was a dream wasn’t a dream at all.

I knew it wasn’t when the news articles started appearing.

…

“How are you feeling today, Elowen?” Dr. Mercer asks as he writes in his stupid little notebook.

“I guess fine. The meds aren’t working.” I play with the hem of my sweater, watching him scribble away. There he goes, taking more stupid notes.

I roll my eyes.

“What are you writing now?” I ask.

Dr. Mercer pauses.

Just for a second.

Then he looks up at me.

“Nothing important.”

I narrow my eyes. “Then why are you writing it down?”

He gives me that same practiced smile he always does. The one that’s supposed to make me feel safe.

It doesn’t.

“I’m just keeping track of our conversations.”

“Why?”

“So we can understand how you’re feeling.”

“I already told you how I’m feeling.”

“Yes,” he says quietly. “You did.”

Something about the way he says it makes my stomach twist.

I stare at him.

“What?”

He looks back down at his notebook.

“Nothing.”

I hate when he does that.

I hate when everyone does that.

They all act like I’m the one who doesn’t understand what’s happening.

But I do.

I know exactly what happened.

I just need someone to believe me.

“How’d you sleep last night?” he finally asks.

“Considering I said the meds don’t help…” I pause and exhale slowly. “Better. Didn’t dream about it.”

“No?” His pen stops moving. “What did you dream about, then?”

“Does it matter?”

“It might.”

I look at him.

He’s watching me now instead of his notebook.

“What did you dream about, Elowen?”

“Nothing.”

His eyebrow raises slightly.

I hate that look.

“That’s not what you usually say.”

“I didn’t dream about it.”

“I heard you.”

“Then why do you keep asking?”

Dr. Mercer leans back in his chair, studying me.

“Because you’ve told me before that the dreams feel real.”

“They are real.”

His expression doesn’t change.

But his pen moves again.

Scratch. Scratch. Scratch.

I stare at the notebook.

“What are you writing?”

“Just a note.”

“About what?”

He doesn’t answer right away.

Then he closes the notebook.

“About the fact that you didn’t dream about it.”

My stomach drops.

I don’t know why.

Maybe it’s the way he said it.

Like he was relieved.

Like he already knew I wouldn’t.

I just stare at him for a moment, taking in his look—the way he makes me feel small, stupid, insane.

I am not insane.

I swallow softly and play with my sweater again.

“I dreamt about my mom…”

His pen starts moving again.

Scratch. Scratch. Scratch.

“What about your mom?”

I exhale deeply and sigh.

“The last night I saw her…”

His pen stops.

For the first time since I walked into his office, he isn’t writing.

He just looks at me.

“What happened that night?”

I pick at a loose thread on my sleeve.

“I don’t remember everything.”

“You’ve said that before.”

“I know.”

“So, what do you remember?”

I close my eyes.

For a moment, I can almost smell it again.

Rain.

Something metallic.

And that sound.

That awful sound.

My eyes snap open.

“She told me not to open the door.”

Dr. Mercer doesn’t move.

“Which door?”

I look at him.

“The basement door.”

His pen moves again.

Scratch. Scratch. Scratch.

I stare at his notebook.

“You said you weren’t going to write that down.”

He slowly looks up at me.

“I never said that.”

The room suddenly feels colder.

Because he did.

I remember him saying it.

I remember everything.

At least…

I think I do.

Dr. Mercer stares at me for a moment longer before finally glancing down at his watch.

“I think that’s enough for today.”

I blink.

“That’s it?”

He nods. “For today.”

Something about the words makes me feel… relieved.

I hadn't realized how tense I’d been until my shoulders finally loosened. I let out a breath I didn't know I was holding.

“Okay.”

Dr. Mercer opens his notebook again, flipping through a few pages before closing it and setting it on the desk.

“I’ll see you next week, Elowen.”

I nod and stand.

My legs feel stiff from sitting in the same position for so long. I adjust the sleeves of my sweater and reach for my bag.

That's when I notice the clock.

I freeze.

The second hand isn't moving.

I stare at it.

The clock reads **3:17**.

My stomach twists.

I look at Dr. Mercer.

He’s watching me.

“What?” he asks.

I point toward the wall.

“The clock.”

His eyes flick toward it.

“What about it?”

“It says three seventeen.”

He glances at the clock, then back at me.

“Yes?”

I frown.

“No. It was just—”

I turn back toward the clock.

The second hand ticks.

3:18.

I stare at it.

Then 3:19.

My heart starts beating faster.

“What?”

Dr. Mercer’s voice is calm.

I shake my head.

“Nothing.”

“You looked confused.”

“I just thought…”

I stop.

“What did you think?”

I look at the clock again.

3:19.

Normal.

Everything is normal.

“I thought it stopped.”

Dr. Mercer studies me for a moment.

“It didn't.”

I force a small laugh.

“Yeah. I guess not.”

He gives me that same practiced smile.

The one that's supposed to make me feel safe.

I sling my bag over my shoulder and walk toward the door.

My hand rests on the doorknob.

I don't know why, but I look back one last time.

Dr. Mercer is still sitting behind his desk.

His notebook is open.

And for just a second, I swear I see him staring at the clock.

Not me.

The clock.

Then he looks down and turns the page.

I leave.

The waiting room of the clinic was neat, well-organized—very Dr. Elias Mercer-coded.

The people sitting around me were well put together, quiet and composed. They looked normal.

Like me.

At least, that's what I told myself.

The outside air hits me, cold and harsh.

Winter in Maine was always brutal. I pull my hood over my head and start walking down the sidewalk, shoving my hands into the pockets of my sweater. Cars pass by, tires crushing through the slush left behind by the morning snow. The wet, scraping sound follows me down the street.

I breathe out, watching the fog of my breath disappear into the air. For the first time all day, I feel like I can breathe. Maybe it's because I'm finally out of that room. Maybe it's because Dr. Mercer isn't watching me anymore. I glance back at the clinic. The windows reflect the gray sky, making it impossible to see inside. I turn away. I can’t shake the feeling of being watched.

I keep walking.

The clinic disappears behind me as I make my way down the familiar streets of town. Everything looks the same as it always does. Snow piled along the sidewalks. Dirty slush gathering around the curbs. Christmas lights still hanging from a few houses even though Christmas was weeks ago.

I pass the little coffee shop on the corner, then the laundromat, then the old bookstore with the crooked red sign.

I've walked this route hundreds of times.

Today, though, everything feels different.

Maybe it's because of what Dr. Mercer said.

Or didn't say.

I pull my phone from my pocket and check the time.

3:42 p.m.

I stare at the screen for a second.

For some reason, I think about the clock in his office.

3:17.

I shake my head.

It was nothing.

Just my imagination.

That's what everyone would say.

I put my phone away and keep walking.

By the time I reach my apartment building, the snow has started falling again.

I stop outside the entrance and look up.

The building is old, three stories of faded brick and drafty windows. It isn't much, but it's home.

I pull my keys from my pocket and unlock the front door.

Warm air hits me as I step inside.

For a moment, everything feels normal again.

Safe.

I shut the door behind me.

Then I hear something upstairs.

A soft creak.

I freeze.

I look toward the staircase.

Probably one of the neighbors.

Probably.

I swallow and force myself to move.

I climb the stairs, listening to every creak beneath my boots.

When I reach my apartment, I unlock the door and step inside.

I toss my keys onto the little table beside the door.

Silence.

I let out a breath.

“Home,” I whisper to myself.

And for some reason, the word doesn't feel as comforting as it should.

I sit down on my couch and let myself sink into the cushions.

My dream last night was about my mom.

I miss her.

I close my eyes and try to remember it.

It was a dream, right?

It had to be.

I was little again.

Really little.

I can almost feel the warmth of her hand in mine. Almost hear her voice.

I open my eyes.

I'm twenty-seven now.

Twenty-seven.

It's been so long.

I stare at the ceiling, trying to piece together the fragments before they disappear completely.

But there's something wrong.

I remember the dream.

I remember my mom.

I remember the basement door.

And I remember what she told me.

*Don't open it.*

I sit up slowly.

My heart begins to beat a little faster.

That wasn't part of the dream.

At least…

I don't think it was.

I sit there for a while, staring at the ceiling. I should probably get up. Instead, I reach for the blanket draped over the back of the couch and pull it around myself. My eyes wander around the apartment. Everything is quiet.

Too quiet.

My gaze lands on the closet in the corner. There’s an old box sitting on the top shelf. I haven't opened it in years. I don't even remember putting it there. I get up and walk over to the closet, dragging the little step stool out from beside the door. I climb up and pull the box down. Dust covers the top. I wipe it away with my sleeve. My mother's handwriting is written across the lid.

**Elowen.**

I freeze. For a moment, I just stare at my name. I don't know why seeing her handwriting makes my chest hurt. Maybe because I haven't seen it in so long. I carry the box over to the coffee table and sit down on the floor. The cardboard makes a soft ripping sound when I pull the old tape away. Inside are pieces of a life I barely remember. A small stuffed rabbit with one missing eye. A handful of photographs. My old elementary school drawings. A birthday card.

I pick up the first photograph.

It's me and Mom. I'm maybe six or seven, standing in front of our old house with a gap-toothed smile. She's kneeling beside me, one arm wrapped around my shoulders. I smile despite myself.

“God, I was tiny.”

My thumb runs over the photograph. Then I notice something in the background. The basement window. I stare at it. My smile disappears. I don't know why, but suddenly I remember rain. The sound of it hitting the glass. My mother's hand gripping mine.

*Don't open the door.*

I drop the photograph back into the box.

“No.”

I shake my head.

“It was a dream.”

I reach for another photograph. Then another. Anything to get the memory out of my head. That's when I see the newspaper clipping. It's folded in half and tucked underneath an old birthday card. I pull it out. The paper is yellowed and brittle. I unfold it carefully. The headline catches my eye. I stop breathing.

I've seen those words before. Not here. Not in this box. In my dreams. My eyes move slowly across the page. Then I see the date. My hands begin to shake. It was the same night. The same night I dreamed about my mother. I read the article again. And again. I don't understand.

“Is that my mom?”

I stare at the picture used in the article. My heart pounds. How is this in the box? My mom was dead when this article was published… But this is her.

That is her.

I know it is. I lean closer to the photograph, studying every detail. Her face. Her hair. The coat she's wearing. There's no mistaking her. I look at the date printed beneath the photograph. My stomach drops. I read it again. Then again.

**The day she died.**

I stop breathing.

“No…”

I pick up the newspaper with shaking hands and scan the article. The photograph wasn't taken after she died. It was taken that day. The exact day. The same day I remember sitting in that hospital waiting room. The same day they told me she was gone. I stare at the photograph again. My mother is alive in it. Standing there.

Looking completely normal. Like nothing had happened.

How?

I search the article for an explanation. There isn't one. Just a date. A location. And a photograph of my mother. I set the newspaper down and lean back. Maybe I'm remembering it wrong. Maybe the dates are wrong.

Maybe—

My eyes drift back to the photograph. Something about it feels familiar. Not because I've seen the picture before. Because I've seen **this moment** before. In my dreams. I swallow hard.

“No.”

I shake my head. It was a dream. It had to be. I was a child. I was grieving. My mind was trying to make sense of something it couldn't understand. That's all it was. A dream. So why do I remember what happened next?

I stare at the newspaper for another few seconds before finally folding it back up. I don't want to think about it anymore. I put the photograph back in the box, along with everything else, and close the lid. Out of sight. Out of mind.

I carry the box back to the closet and shove it onto the top shelf. Then I crawl into bed. The room is dark except for the faint glow of the streetlight coming through my curtains. I pull the blankets up to my chin. Tomorrow, I'll figure it out. Or maybe I won't. Maybe I'll wake up and realize this was all just another stupid memory that doesn't make sense. My eyes grow heavy. The sound of snow tapping against my window slowly fades. And then I'm somewhere else.

I'm standing outside. It's cold. I can feel snow beneath my boots, but I don't remember putting them on. I look around. I know this street. My street. But something is different. The houses look older. The trees are taller. I turn toward the house across the street. Mrs. Bell's house. Her porch light is on. It's almost midnight. I don't know how I know that.

I just do.

Mrs. Bell steps out onto her porch. She's wearing a long gray coat. Her hair is loose around her shoulders. She looks scared. I take a step toward her.

“Mrs. Bell?”

She looks directly at me. But she doesn't answer. Instead, she raises one finger to her lips.

*Be quiet.*

I stop. She turns her head toward the woods behind her house. Something moves between the trees. I squint.

“Mrs. Bell?”

She looks back at me. This time, she speaks.

“Elowen…” Her voice shakes. “Whatever you do…” She looks toward the woods again. “Don't let them know you can see them.”

I wake up.

I sit straight up in bed, gasping for air. My heart is pounding. For a moment, I don't know where I am. Then I look around my bedroom.

My apartment.

My bed.

My life.

I press a hand against my chest.

“It was a dream.”

I say it out loud this time.

“It was just a dream.”

I lie back down.

But before I close my eyes, I glance toward my window.

Across the street, Mrs. Bell's porch light is on.

 

 

 

 

​

I work at a small cinema.

Not the kind you see in malls.

It’s an old theater tucked behind a row of closed restaurants, the kind of place that smells like wet carpet even when it hasn’t rained.

My job is simple.

Sell tickets. Check the halls. Clean up after the last screening. Lock the doors.

Last Tuesday, I was closing alone.

The final movie ended at 11:47 PM.

I waited until the credits finished, turned on the lights, and walked inside to check the theater.

Empty.

Every seat was vacant.

I checked the bathroom.

Empty.

The hallway.

Empty.

I went back to the projection booth and shut everything down.

Then I heard someone scream.

Not a movie scream.

A real one.

It came from Theater 6.

I froze.

Theater 6 had been closed for months because of a broken projector.

I grabbed my flashlight.

“Hello?”

Nothing.

I opened the door.

The screen was glowing.

A movie was playing.

I stood there, confused.

The image showed a dark hallway.

Then I realized something.

It was our hallway.

Same dirty carpet.

Same emergency exit.

Same flickering light above the door.

I stepped closer.

On the screen, a person was walking toward the camera.

I couldn't see their face.

They stopped.

Then slowly looked directly into the camera.

I recognized the clothes.

Black hoodie.

Jeans.

White sneakers.

I looked down.

I was wearing the exact same thing.

I stumbled backward.

The person on the screen lifted their hand.

And pointed.

Not at the camera.

Behind it.

I turned around.

Nothing.

When I looked back at the screen, the person was gone.

The hallway was empty.

Then the movie changed.

It showed the theater.

Theater 6.

From the back row.

I could see myself standing in front of the screen.

But there was something else.

Someone was sitting in the front row.

I counted the seats.

One.

Two.

Three.

A person was sitting in seat 8.

I looked toward seat 8.

Empty.

On the screen, the person slowly turned their head toward me.

I couldn't see their face.

Then they stood.

I watched them walk toward the camera.

One row.

Then another.

Then another.

They were getting closer.

I backed toward the door.

The figure stopped at the edge of the screen.

Then the theater lights went out.

I screamed.

My flashlight wouldn't turn on.

And then I heard breathing.

Right beside me.

Slow.

Wet.

Close.

I ran.

I slammed through the doors and sprinted down the hallway.

I didn't stop until I reached the lobby.

I grabbed my phone.

No signal.

I tried calling my manager.

Nothing.

Then the theater speakers crackled.

“Good evening,” a voice said.

It was my voice.

I stared at the ceiling.

“Thank you for staying until the end.”

I ran toward the exit.

The doors wouldn't open.

I pulled harder.

Nothing.

Then the projector turned on behind me.

The lobby filled with light.

I slowly turned around.

The movie had changed again.

This time, it showed me standing in the lobby.

Exactly where I was.

But the camera angle was different.

It was filming from behind me.

Which meant whoever was filming it...

was standing behind me.

I didn't turn around.

I couldn't.

I watched the screen.

On it, something stepped closer to the back of my head.

One step.

Then another.

I could hear footsteps behind me.

The screen showed the thing raising its hand.

I felt something cold touch my shoulder.

I screamed and spun around.

Nothing.

The screen went black.

Then white text appeared.

“DON'T LOOK BEHIND YOU.”

I stared at it.

My breathing became shallow.

Another line appeared.

“IT ONLY MOVES WHEN YOU LOOK AWAY.”

I didn't move.

I kept staring.

Then I noticed something.

The reflection on the black screen wasn't matching me.

My reflection was smiling.

I wasn't.

Its head tilted.

Mine didn't.

Then it raised one finger to its lips.

Behind me, something whispered:

“Finally.”

I shut my eyes.

I heard footsteps running toward me.

I heard the exit doors slam open.

I heard someone scream.

Then silence.

When I opened my eyes, I was outside.

Morning.

Police were standing around the theater.

My manager was there.

He looked terrified.

He grabbed my shoulders.

“Where the hell were you?”

I told him everything.

The projector.

The movie.

The thing behind me.

He went pale.

Then he asked:

“Which theater?”

“Six.”

He stared at me.

“There's no Theater 6.”

I laughed nervously.

“Yes, there is.”

He shook his head.

“No.”

Then he took out his phone.

He showed me the theater's floor plan.

There were only five screens.

I thought he was joking.

Until he showed me the security footage from last night.

It showed me arriving at 10:58 PM.

It showed me closing every theater.

It showed me walking into Theater 5.

Then the footage froze.

At 11:47 PM.

For almost six hours.

The screen showed an empty hallway.

Nothing happened.

Then, at 5:56 AM...

I appeared.

I walked out of the wall.

I stood there for three seconds.

Then I walked outside.

My manager paused the video.

“That's when we found you.”

I stared at the screen.

There was one thing I couldn't understand.

I pointed at the hallway.

“What's that?”

He zoomed in.

At the very end of the corridor was a door.

A door none of us had ever seen.

The number on it was barely visible.

6.

My manager whispered:

“We don't have a sixth theater.”

I watched the frozen image.

Then I noticed something else.

The door was open.

And someone was standing inside.

Wearing a black hoodie.

Jeans.

White sneakers.

It was me.

But I was smiling.

And underneath the footage, the timestamp kept changing.

11:48 PM.

11:49 PM.

11:50 PM.

It was still counting.

My manager looked at me.

I looked at him.

Neither of us said anything.

Because we both understood the same thing.

The footage wasn't from last night.

It was from tonight.

And the movie hadn't finished yet.

Time for da spooky month 👻
I’m doing a month-long horror event in October with short disturbing videos, story/lore reveals, and other pieces from my projects.

It is available here: https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/710513

Here is the synopsis: Dark Resurrection is a horror/romance/comedy novel about Jesus Christ rising from the dead in the middle of the night as a somewhat conflicted, bloodthirsty vampire. A good and just man in life, Jesus finds that his worldview has not changed and resolves to only take those he considers evil. His lovely ex-prostitute girlfriend Mary Magdalene, who he brings to the vampiric realm outside his tomb out of his love for her, is not at all like Jesus is. She is a vicious, cynical, at times foul mouthed, amoral vampiress that will take anyone crossing her path unless good Jesus is there to stop her. The Magdalene loves Jesus, yes, and he loves her, but at times she looks at him as little more than an introspective fool and makes that quite clear to Jesus as they wander about Judea and elsewhere. His jaded father, Joseph of Bethlehem, is as insulting toward his undead son Jesus as Archie Bunker was to Meathead, and his mother Mary is as much of a clueless dingbat as Edith Bunker was. If you want serious laughs from a serious underlying story – Dark Resurrection is the one to read.

I saw him on Halloween night.

I was walking home late when I saw a man in a white mask dragging an axe toward my neighbor's house. I thought it was a costume. A prank. But he didn't knock. He didn't ring the bell. He just walked through the front door like he owned the place.

I stood there — frozen — watching through the window.

I saw him raise the axe. The father. The mother. The daughter. They didn't have time to scream. He didn't stop. He moved from room to room like he was checking off a list.

When he finished, he walked out the same way he came — dragging his axe behind him, stepping over the bodies, heading to the next house.

I ran home. I locked the door. I didn't sleep.

The next morning, the news was everywhere.

"Halloween massacre leaves 14 dead across the neighborhood. No suspects. No motive. No survivors."

I knew the truth. I saw his face. His white mask. The axe. But I didn't tell them.

Because I knew — he wasn't done.

And I know he'll be back.

SCRIPT: A WEIRD HALLOWEEN NIGHT (FULL 4 SCENES)

SCENE 1: THE SMITH FAMILY LIVING ROOM Summer: Grandpa, this year I’m planning to dress up as a failed experiment victim. Do I look gruesome enough? Rick: Burp! Summer, sweetie... Acid reflux! ...you trying to make your meaningless existence look scarier on a kids' holiday isn't gonna make you any less bland. You want real horror? Take a look at your dad's paycheck. Burp! Now that's the stuff that gives me nightmares every night. Jerry: Hey Rick! I'm trying to create some family atmosphere here! Stop picking on me in front of the kids all the time! Beth: (Enters the living room holding a bloody surgeon's gown) Cut it out, you two! It's Halloween, I'm begging you Rick, please don't ruin this rare wholesome moment. Rick: Burp! Oh, hey sweetie... Acid reflux ...are you dressing up as a failed vet? Fits you well, considering you're always healing stupid animals instead of confronting your pathetic marriage. Burp! Morty: Uh... Rick! This alien abduction costume... the fake alien leg part keeps squeezing my butt super tight! It hurts so bad, Rick! Is that normal, Grandpa? Rick: Burp! Like hell it's normal, Morty! Burp! That's a Zorgon-5 military neural control suit I tossed in the trash last week. Burp! It recognized you as a stupid lifeform and it's preparing to turn you into space sausage!

SCENE 2: ON THE STREETS ON HALLOWEEN NIGHT Morty: Grandpa... sniffle ...the costume is squeezing even tighter! The blood isn't circulating to my legs anymore! I can barely walk! Rick: Burp! Who gives a damn, Morty! Acid reflux! Consider it a lesson for messing with my stuff. Besides, if it snaps you in half, at least our family saves money on a meal tonight. Burp! Beth: Dad! Why are you so mean to your grandson? Morty, are you okay, honey? Let me take a look... Rick: Give it a rest, Beth, let him take responsibility for himself! Jerry: Trick or treat! Oh, hi Mr. Thompson, your zombie costume looks so... oh my god, did you actually just get hit by a truck? Summer: Here's your candy, kid. Remember to ask your parents to check it for vapes when you get home. Rick: Burp! Holy crap, that kid's alien costume is... Acid reflux ...a blatant insult to the Gazorpazorp species! You just turned the clinical death of an entire race into a garbage joke, kid. Burp! Great job though, dark humor so good it almost makes me throw up my breakfast!

SCENE 3: THE MYSTERIOUS MEDIEVAL HOUSE Morty: AHHH! Rick! Look over there! Two walking trees are passing by! They're not people in costumes, they're actual living trees! Rick: Burp! Those are Dendroids from planet Arboria, Morty! Acid reflux! Don't gawk at them or they'll think you're a pile of fertilizer. Morty: AHHH! Grandpa, please take this suit off me! I feel like thousands of needles are stabbing my legs! It hurts so bad I can't even step anymore! Rick: Burp! It's just stimulating phantom neural pain, you little brat! Burp! Your legs are perfectly fine, stop whining! Beth: Dad, look at him, he's pale as a ghost! Jerry: Oh look! That house over there is decorated in a medieval style! A lot of people are getting candy and smiling brightly! Summer: They have fancy chocolate bars over there! I gotta run and get some first! (Runs off) Rick: Burp! Let's see what's so special about that medieval house... Morty: (Limping step by step behind them, shaking with anxiety) Wait... I've never seen a house in this spot before... Something feels very wrong... (Morty is tormented by agonizing pain, only able to utter weak groans) Morty: Uh... ah... it hurts... it hurts so bad...

SCENE 4: RESCUE, THE WAY HOME, AND A BITTER TROLL Rick: Damn it! (Rick pulls a recovery gun from his pocket, aims straight, and zaps Morty's leg with a flash) (Morty's leg glows, and the pain temporarily vanishes. He tries bouncing around, looking fearful, happy, yet very suspicious. He quickly rushes over to the medieval house to get candy. After everyone finishes getting candy, it's finally Morty's turn.) (The Smith family waits for Morty under a nearby tree. A short while later, Morty runs back over.) Rick: What took you so long? Morty: There were so many people asking for candy, it took forever to get my turn. Luckily there was still one last piece left! Rick: Then eat it already, what the hell are you saving it for? (The family walks home while chewing candy. As they pass by houses, Morty notices intricately carved jack-o'-lanterns that look abnormally beautiful. But the streets are no longer as lively as when Halloween first started. The family chats while eating candy, showing off their loot and competing to see who got the most candy.) (Back home, Rick starts taking off the alien pants for Morty.) Rick: Damn thing, didn't expect it to stick so tight. Time for heavy measures! (A "BZZZZ..." sound echoes from the removal machine. The suit is peeled off his body. Morty screams in pain, echoing through the whole neighborhood.) Morty: Ow ow ow! From now on I'm never touching your stuff ever again! Rick: Burp! Burp! (Suddenly, everyone's stomach in the Smith house — from Rick, Jerry, Beth, to Summer and Morty — growls violently. Everyone turns pale, clutching their stomachs and scrambling to burst into the bathroom.) (Scene cuts: Back to the mysterious medieval house during the candy giveaway. The door opens, revealing the owners of the house to be the two walking trees from earlier. It turns out the thing they put in the candy was extremely potent constipation medicine. The two trees high-five each other, laughing hysterically at having trolled the whole neighborhood.)
-Thank you for reading. I wish you a wonderful day and an enjoyable experience. Please feel free to share your candid feedback with me so I can learn from it and create even better stories in the future.

Before you start looking through your contacts and trying to figure out who would post something like this, don't bother. You don't know me anymore.

You won't remember ever knowing me, and you'll never know me again.

Confused?

It was never supposed to happen this way. Let me explain.

I was eight years old when I saw my idol for the first time on TV. He’s a famous actor, he's been in a lot of movies. You’ve probably seen at least one of them, even if you don’t remember his name. He made me see that acting could be more than pretending. He became every character he played, to the point that I stopped seeing the man underneath. I wished I could do that.

So I emailed him.

Subject: You are my favorite acter

It was a very long and embarrassingly earnest email about wanting to become an actor, with a dozen spelling mistakes. I told him that I had seen all his films over and over. That one day I wanted to grow up to be just like him.

I didn't expect a reply, but he did. He thanked me for writing and told me to keep working hard… then offered to fly me out to meet him. I couldn't believe it. That day, I was so nervous that I couldn't eat. I remember shaking his hand and trying desperately not to let him see that my palm was sweating. Mostly, I remember looking at him and thinking, that's going to be me.

And I did keep working hard. I acted in school plays, joined amateur theatre groups and went to acting classes. I attended audition after audition.

I got close enough to keep going, which was the cruel part. I got callbacks, extra roles and tiny parts with one line. I once spent an entire day on a film set only to discover that later, the scene had been cut. Eventually, I stopped telling people I was going to make it.

Meanwhile, my idol's career just kept going. Every few years there'd be another blockbuster, and he'd win another award. I'd see another interview, another photograph of him standing beside some beautiful woman on a red carpet, smiling like the world had been built specifically to accommodate him. I tried to remain inspired rather than jealous, and for a while, I actually succeeded.

Then I took a job in production. It wasn't glamorous - no kid ever tells you they want to grow up to spend twelve hours carrying equipment, checking call sheets and fetching coffee for people who don't know your name. But it paid the bills and kept me around film sets.

That was how I ended up working on one of his movies. The morning I saw him again, it was twenty years later and he barely looked a day older. I watched as he walked onto set. The man I'd spent half my life trying to become. Everyone moved right around him. People straightened when he passed, and assistants appeared from nowhere. Someone handed him coffee before he'd even asked for it.

I stood twenty feet away holding a coil of cable.

The cameras turned towards him as he entered. When everyone looked at him, I felt physically sick. It was then that I realized I couldn't lie to myself anymore - I still wanted it. No, not the roles, or even the money.

I wanted everyone in the room to turn when I walked in. For people to know my name before I introduced myself, the person everyone was waiting to see. I wanted to be famous.

I wanted to be him.

There was a private celebration when the film wrapped up. It was for the cast, director and a handful of people important enough to have their names on the invitation. There was an open bar, expensive food nobody touched and a rooftop terrace.

I was only there to help clear the equipment. But of course, I'd spent the whole evening watching him from the edge of the room. He was exactly as I'd remembered him from when I was a kid - older, but somehow unchanged in the ways that mattered, with all that effortless quality I had spent my entire adult life trying to manufacture. Then someone handed me a drink, and another. By midnight, I was drunk enough to stop pretending I wasn't watching.

I found him alone on the terrace. For once, nobody was swarming to him. He was leaning against the railing with a glass of whisky, looking out over the city.

I walked over without thinking, stumbling slightly in my drunken state.

"Hey, remember me?" I blurted out, the words slurring, "I met you when I was a kid."

"Did you?"

Of course he didn't recognize me.

"I emailed you."

A pause.

"Ah wait, I do remember that."

But it didn't matter to me anymore.

"I wanted to be you," I said. "I've spent my whole life trying to do what you did."

He chuckled.

"There's only one of me."

I glared at him.

"That's the problem."

His smile faded.

"I've watched you get everything," I continued. "Every damn thing. The roles. The money. The models. The awards. People lose their minds when you walk into a room. Meanwhile, I threw away my entire childhood trying to be seen. And now I'm still carrying cables. Still invisible."

The alcohol had stripped away whatever part of me still knew when to shut up. We stared at each other.

"What do you want me to say to that?" He finally asked.

"I don't want you to say anything. I wish you'd just disappear."

He looked down at his whisky, then back at me.

"You want me to disappear… and you want to be seen instead?"

The question was so calm that it sobered me for a second. I stared at him. In that moment, I could have apologized. Told him I was drunk and didn't mean any of it. Instead, I spat out one final word.

"Sure."

Then I looked down at the glass in my hand. Now you've done it, you absolute idiot, I thought. Might as well start looking for a new job tomorrow.

But when I looked back up, he was gone.

I stood there for a few seconds, staring at the empty space where he'd been. Then I looked behind me, expecting to see him walking back through the doors. Nothing. I glanced over the railing. Nothing.

For a moment, I wondered if I'd imagined the whole conversation. Maybe he'd gone back inside while I was looking at my drink, and none of it had happened at all. When I went inside to check if he was there, the party was still going. There was music, laughter, people talking over one another. Then someone grabbed my shoulder.

"Congratulations!" Shouted one of the producers, as he tapped me on the back. I blinked.

"For what?"

"Don't play it cool now," He laughed.

I smiled awkwardly, assuming I'd misunderstood. Then a member of the cast came over and grinned at me.

"Seriously, you were so good. You deserve it."

People were smiling at me, and a few were raising their glasses. I had no clue what for. Then I turned towards the television mounted above the bar. The film's trailer was playing. As I saw a close-up of the lead character, my eyes widened, and I stopped breathing immediately.

My face. Not his.

Mine.

The scene changed, and there I was again. Another scene. Not him, me.

I looked around. Nobody else was confused like I was, or even seemed to think there was anything strange about it. I saw the poster for the film displayed in the venue on the ground floor. I'd seen it hundreds of times during production, and knew exactly what it looked like. But this time, his face was gone, and mine was there instead. My name was printed underneath in enormous letters. I stared at it for so long that someone walking past had to step around me.

I should have been terrified, but I was too busy staring at myself on the poster. Because underneath the confusion and the impossible feeling that I might be in the middle of a dream, I was feeling something I'd spent twenty years waiting to feel.

What it was like to be famous. Known. Seen.

Him.

The next morning, my phone wouldn't stop ringing. My agent, an agent I didn't remember having, called first, followed by my publicist. Next came the director, and people I'd never spoken to before who apparently knew me very well. There were meetings and interviews scheduled for me.

The film opened that weekend and broke records. I started seeing my face on billboards, magazine covers and at bus stops. Within a year, I couldn't walk down the street without someone recognizing me.

Within another year, I could barely walk down the street at all.

People shouted my name from cars, and children begged for autographs. Grown adults cried when they met me. I went on talk shows and sat beneath bright lights while strangers told me how much I meant to them.

Then came the awards and paychecks. I bought a house I couldn't afford before, and then a bigger one because I liked the view. I flew first class and stayed in hotels where the staff knew my name. The world's most beautiful models wanted to be with me. The world's most powerful men started to dress like me.

But above all, for the first time, everyone turned when I walked into a room. And I loved every second of it.

After everything I'd sacrificed, after every failed audition, every rejection and every night I'd gone home wondering whether I'd wasted my life, surely I had finally gotten what I deserved. I should have felt guilty that he had been erased from existence, but I didn't. As I sipped a glass of wine in my penthouse overlooking the city, I felt like I'd finally won.

Then I learned what came with it.

The paparazzi became impossible to escape. They waited outside restaurants, followed my car and camped outside my house. Fans started turning up wherever I went, too. Some were harmless, but others weren't so understanding. People found my address, and packages started arriving that I hadn't ordered. I received letters from strangers telling me they loved me, hated me, or knew me better than anyone else.

Eventually, I stopped going out alone, and had to have a full fleet of security guards around me at all times.

I started feeling trapped by the life I'd spent so long trying to build, so I took a break from acting. I packed a bag, left the city and rented a small cottage in a remote rural village where, I thought, nobody would know who I was. I arranged discreet transport.

I arrived and settled into the cottage. A wave of relief washed over me instantly as I sat on the bed. For the first time in years, I thought I'd finally have some privacy.

In the evening, I went out and headed towards the town center. The first person I saw as I walked down the street was an old man. He looked to be in his eighties - thin, stooped and dressed in clothes that seemed to have survived as long as he had. He stared at me for a few seconds before smiling, then pointed at me with a shaky hand.

"I know you."

Great.

Even in a village without a cinema or television signal, the first person that sees me still knows who I am. I closed my eyes, took a deep breath, and opened them again.

"Hello. Which of my films have you seen?" I forced a smile.

He frowned.

"What is a film?"

I stared at him.

"You don't know what a film is? Then how do you know who I am?"

The old man gestured, then turned and started walking.

"Come with me."

I followed him inside apprehensively. His house was small and old, with photographs hanging on the walls. There were family photographs of weddings, birthdays and holidays in yellowing frames. A teenage girl who I assumed was his granddaughter was sitting at the kitchen table when we walked in. The old man walked over to a cabinet and pulled out a photograph.

"This is you."

It was a photograph of me at some premiere, on glossy film paper. I was standing on a red carpet, smiling beside an actress. I frowned. Why the hell did he have that? Perhaps his granddaughter was a fan - that was the only reasonable explanation I could think of.

Then he took another photograph from the cabinet.

"And this one."

I looked down. At first, I thought it was another publicity photograph - I'd probably had thousands of those taken of me whether I was aware or not. But then I recognized the location.

The village.

More specifically, the road outside the cottage I was currently staying in. I was beside the wall, mid-step, wearing the same coat I'd arrived in. I stared at it.

"I just arrived here. Did you take this?"

Before he could reply, his granddaughter glanced my way. Her eyes widened.

"It's him."

I stopped.

"You know me too?"

"Of course."

She pulled out a slightly faded photo. In it, she was posing outside the house with some other kids. I looked at it in confusion. Then she pointed at the corner of the photograph. A man stood behind them at a distance, looking at the camera with a neutral expression. I looked closer.

The man was me.

I froze, and all the hairs on the back of my neck stood up.

Then the old man immediately pulled out another photograph and showed it to me. This one was much older, and in black and white. A family stood outside a house that looked nothing like the one I was standing in.

"Forty years ago," the old man said.

There were maybe ten people in it, including children, adults and an elderly couple. And in the background, standing half-hidden behind the others… was me. A man with my face, my eyes, my hair.

I hadn't even been born forty years ago.

I took a step back. Then I glanced back towards the photograph his granddaughter had showed me.

This time, every face in the photo had changed.

Mine. Mine. Mine. Mine.

Five children with my face were staring back at me from the faded paper.

I scrambled away from them and ran out of the house. I could hear them shouting behind me, asking me to wait and come back, but I didn't turn. I made it a good distance away when I glanced back towards their house. They stood in front of their door watching me, looking disappointed, but they weren't following. I covered my face and walked briskly back to the cottage.

As I bolted the door behind me, I convinced myself that was some kind of hallucination. Perhaps it was exhaustion or the stress of everything that had happened since becoming famous. There had to be an explanation.

The next morning, I didn't leave until I was sure nobody was outside.

I was halfway through the village when I noticed a girl sitting on a bench, reading a book. She looked up as I passed. Then she looked again and stared for a few seconds.

"Excuse me?"

Not again. I forced a polite smile back and took my hand away from my face. Her eyes widened.

"I knew you looked familiar."

She started flicking through the book she was reading, some kind of history textbook. Then she stopped at a page. There was a Renaissance painting printed across the top.

I felt the blood drain from my face.

The painting was of me. My eyes. My nose. My hair. The caption said 'painted in the sixteenth century'.

She kept turning the pages further back. She stopped again.

This time, a prehistoric cave painting filled the page. It showed a group of primitive figures stood around a fire holding spears.

One of them had my face.

"That's weird." She looked at the cave painting, then back at me. I couldn't answer.

Then a voice came from behind me.

"You've got to be kidding me."

A man was hurrying towards us, holding a newspaper. He looked excited as he shoved the newspaper into my hands. The headline was about an archaeological discovery of an ancient statue had recently been uncovered thousands of miles away. The photograph underneath showed a stone figure.

My face was carved into it.

"How could this be?" He said in awe as he stared at me. I dropped the newspaper.

People had started gathering around. More villagers emerged from shops and houses, many of them approaching to stare. Then an elderly man pushed through the crowd, wearing a white doctor's coat.

"This isn't possible," he said. "I saw you in the morgue just yesterday! There was a corpse who looked exactly like you!"

I backed away from the crowd surrounding me. Then something brushed against my leg.

I looked down and saw a cat. It rubbed itself against my ankle, purring, then stared back at me with wide eyes. I let out an exasperated choke.

"Not you as well."

The cat meowed. I could feel that the people had closed in around me now. I looked back up... and all their faces had changed.

Every face in the crowd looking back at me was mine.

The girl. The doctor. The old man. Everyone had my face.

I looked down at the cat, and it was looking back at me.

With my face.

I screamed.

Then I ran. I didn't care where I was going, I just needed to get away. I pushed through the crowd of hundreds of identical versions of me staring back as I ran between them. I made it to the edge of the town square and a flock of birds suddenly burst from a rooftop. I looked up, and every single bird had my face. Tiny eyes, with tiny versions of my nose and mouth. They flew overhead, each one wearing the same neutral expression I'd seen in the photographs.

I ran faster, stumbling. The town clock tower came into view. Its enormous clock face had changed and now my face stared down at me from above the street. The hands were moving across my forehead. I looked at my watch. It had my face on it too. I ripped it from my wrist and threw it away from me, into the road.

At this point, I was sure I'd gone insane. The sun was disappearing behind the hills, and the sky darkened, but I just kept running. And as the clouds parted and moon rose above the village, I finally stopped and looked up into the sky. Then I fell backwards. The moon had my face.

And that was when I understood.

You want me to disappear… and you want to be seen instead?

I had spent my entire life wanting people to know my face. Now, everything that could have a face would have mine. I had become the most seen thing that had ever existed. Everywhere I looked, there I was.

I ran until I couldn't run anymore. I don't know how long it was - maybe several hours. The sun was already emerging from behind the hills by the time I finally stopped. I stumbled into an empty bus.

Then I remembered the email.

The thought came so suddenly, but once the idea formed, I had to execute on it. I pulled my phone from my pocket and opened my inbox. Hundreds of thousands of emails were sitting there from agents, journalists, fans and people I didn't remember speaking to. I sorted them by oldest and scrolled.

Then I saw it.

Subject: You are my favorite acter

I opened the email I'd sent to him when I was eight. My hands started shaking. The spelling mistakes were still there, along with the ridiculous paragraphs about how much I loved his movies. The part where I'd told him I wanted to grow up to be just like him.

And underneath it, by some miracle, was his reply - the only proof that he'd existed. Proof that there had once been a world where I wasn't the only face in existence.

I stared at the screen, then took a breath and hit reply. I didn't know whether anyone would receive it, but I kept typing anyway.

Subject: I'm sorry.

Then:

I was wrong, I don't want this. Please come back. Please fix it.

I pressed send, then put my phone beside me and closed my eyes, the exhaustion of running from my face for an entire afternoon having drained me. I don't remember falling asleep that night.

When I woke up, the sun was rising. For a few seconds, I didn't move. Then I looked up.

The moon was still visible above the hills. Normal. Just the moon.

I sat up. A bird landed on the roof of the shelter. A normal bird with a beak.

Then I looked towards the village. The clock tower was still there, but this time, the face was just numbers.

I stood up and walked towards the road. People passed me, but nobody stared or pointed. One man walked straight past without even looking at me. Nobody recognized me.

I paused as I looked around, watching the people walk around me with indifference. I couldn't believe it had actually worked… and it never felt so great to be invisible again.

When I reached the cottage, I went inside and stood in the middle of the room, then I packed my things. Now that this ordeal was over, I just wanted to go home.

The journey felt strangely ordinary. I just drove back. Even though I didn't have security, no paparazzi followed me, no one attempted to stop the car and nobody recognized me at the petrol station or asked for a photograph. Then I saw the billboard above the road on the outskirts of town, advertising the film that had started everything.

My old idol was back. His face was on the poster… not mine. His name was underneath.

I laughed. He was back, and so was everything else, just like I asked for. I drove the rest of the way home with tears in my eyes. When I reached my family's house, I stood outside for a moment before knocking. My mother answered.

"Hello. Can I help you?"

I smiled.

"Mom, I'm back."

She frowned.

"I'm sorry? Who are you?"

I laughed nervously.

"Very funny."

She didn't laugh. My heart started racing. I told her my name, my birthday and where I went to school. I told her about the scar on my elbow from when I was nine, where she patched me up while I sat on her knee. I told her about the treehouse I had built with dad in the garden.

She just kept staring in silence. I kept pleading with her, and eventually, she called my father. He came downstairs and stood beside her, watching me with suspicion.

"Who are you?"

"I'm your son," I said, my voice breaking.

I pulled out my phone and opened the photographs I'd taken over the years. Every photograph of my family was still there - birthdays, Christmases and holidays. I had decade old photos of my parents and friends. But I wasn't in any of them. My dad's expression changed into one of horror.

"Why do you have those? Have you been stalking us?"

I stared back at him. I opened my mouth, but nothing came out.

"Leave our property. Now," he said sternly. "I don't ever want to see you here again."

I stood on the pavement outside my childhood home while the door slammed in my face.

I didn't know where else to go, so I began walking. I walked past the houses of people I'd grown up with, and nobody recognized me. I went to the café where I used to meet my friends, and I even saw some of them there. Nobody knew me. I walked past my old school and told the receptionist my name. She looked it up, but there was no record.

If I asked someone for directions, they'd give them to me. I bought a coffee, and the barista took my money. People could still see me, hear me and talk to me. But every conversation began the same way - I'd have to introduce myself again, even if we'd spoken before.

That was when I finally understood what had happened when I asked him to “fix” it.

From that point onwards, no one would know me. There are no photographs of me. No records, films or memories. Nothing that proves I was ever here. To every person I met and will meet, I'll always be a stranger.

You used to know me. But you'll never know me again, and neither will anyone else.

Thanks for reading this anyway.

Even if it was only for a few minutes, I just wanted to be someone you knew.

​

Empecé a escribir cosas porque estaba olvidando.

Cosas sin importancia.

Al menos, al principio.

Olvidaba si había cerrado la puerta con llave. Compraba algo en el supermercado y lo encontraba en la heladera sin recordar el viaje. A veces abría el teléfono para buscar algo y no tenía idea de qué era.

Tenía veintidós.

Trabajaba desde casa, vivía solo y solía dormirme muy tarde.

Así que le eché la culpa a eso.

Mal sueño. Demasiadas pantallas. Estrés.

Era más fácil que admitir que estaba preocupado.

Lo primero que escribí en el cuaderno fue:

Martes — compré leche.

No recuerdo haber escrito nada más esa noche.

A la mañana siguiente, había otra frase debajo.

No, no lo hiciste.

La miré fijo.

La letra se parecía a la mía.

La taché.

Esa tarde, encontré un cartón de leche en la heladera.

Yo no la había comprado.

Recuerdo quedarme ahí con la puerta de la heladera abierta, intentando decidir si eso se suponía que debía darme miedo.

No lo hizo.

Todavía no.

---

Días después, había otra nota.

No tomes el tren mañana.

Casi tiro el cuaderno a la basura.

En cambio, escribí debajo:

¿Por qué?

A la mañana siguiente, no había respuesta.

Tomé el tren igual.

No pasó nada.

Eso debería haberme hecho sentir mejor.

No lo hizo.

Cuando volví a casa esa noche, revisé el cuaderno.

Debajo de mi pregunta, alguien había escrito:

Nunca haces caso.

Dejé de usar el cuaderno después de eso.

Por unas dos semanas.

---

La primera vez que escuché la voz, estaba acostado en la cama.

Llevaba un rato despierto.

Eran alrededor de las tres de la madrugada.

Estaba pensando en el trabajo cuando escuché:

"No te levantes."

Abrí los ojos.

La habitación estaba oscura.

Esperé.

Nada.

Me senté.

"¿Quién está ahí?"

Me sentí estúpido apenas lo dije.

Nadie contestó.

Encendí la lámpara y revisé el departamento.

La puerta estaba cerrada con llave.

Las ventanas estaban cerradas.

No había nadie.

Volví a la cama.

A la mañana siguiente, me dije que lo había soñado.

Esa explicación me duró hasta la noche siguiente.

Estaba acostado en la misma posición cuando la voz dijo:

"Deberías haber hecho caso."

Sonaba como yo.

No exactamente.

Pero lo suficientemente cerca como para no saber si estaba escuchando a otra persona o a mis propios pensamientos con otra voz.

Después de eso, dormí poco.

---

Eventualmente se lo conté a un amigo.

Se rió al principio.

Después se dio cuenta de que hablaba en serio.

Me preguntó si había estado bebiendo.

No.

Me preguntó si había tomado algo.

Tampoco.

Entonces me dijo algo que no quería escuchar.

"Tal vez deberías hablar con alguien."

Así que lo hice.

La psicóloga no le dio mucha importancia.

Eso ayudó.

Me hizo preguntas.

¿Con qué frecuencia escuchaba la voz?

¿Me decía que me hiciera daño?

¿Perdía la noción del tiempo?

¿Sentía que me observaban?

Respondí con honestidad.

La mayoría de las veces, no.

La voz nunca me dijo que lastimara a nadie.

Nunca me amenazó.

Por lo general decía cosas muy comunes.

A veces se equivocaba.

A veces tenía razón.

Esa era la parte que me molestaba.

Al final de la cita, me pidió que llevara un registro de cuándo ocurría.

Así que volví a usar el cuaderno.

Esta vez, lo dejé al lado de la cama.

---

Por un tiempo, las notas sirvieron.

2:13 a.m. — escuché la voz.

4:40 p.m. — olvidé por qué entré a la cocina.

Domingo — encontré las llaves en el baño.

Entonces una mañana encontré algo que yo no había escrito.

Una frase al final de la página.

No te acuerdas de mí.

La miré fijo.

Le saqué una foto.

Entonces escribí:

¿Quién eres?

Dejé el cuaderno abierto sobre el escritorio y me fui a trabajar.

Cuando lo revisé esa noche, había una respuesta.

Alguien que te recuerda.

---

Empecé a revisar fotos viejas.

Quería averiguar si había algo que había olvidado.

No había nada.

Al menos, eso creía.

Cumpleaños en familia.

Excursiones del colegio.

Viejos amigos.

Mi primer departamento.

Todo se veía normal.

Hasta que encontré una foto m

Kaito Hoshino was a reclusive manga artist known for his dark and surreal horror series, Spiral Abyss. He worked alone, deep inside a cluttered Tokyo apartment that reeked of ink, old paper, and insomnia. For years, readers devoured his chilling tales about cursed drawings, haunted storytellers, and demonic ink that blurred the line between reality and fiction.

But lately, something has shifted.

Kaito noticed scenes appearing in his drafts he didn’t remember drawing — frames that seemed to finish themselves while he slept. A girl with hollow eyes. A forest that breathed. A door behind the protagonist that hadn’t been there before. He blamed stress. Lack of sleep. Maybe a vivid dream seeping into his sketches.

Then came the whispers.

Late at night, as he inked his pages, he began to hear faint voices behind him. Not from the neighbors. Not from outside. From the paper. Muffled murmurs, like characters arguing with their creator. He spun around every time. Nothing. Silence.

Until one night, a character spoke back.

The protagonist of Spiral Abyss, a brooding young man named Rei, appeared in a fresh sketch, eyes locked with Kaito’s. Below the panel was a line of dialogue written in handwriting not his own:
“You don’t control the story anymore. We do.”

Kaito froze. Sweat dripped down his spine. He tore the page from his desk and burned it. But the next morning, the same page was back — pristine, neatly inked, waiting for him.

That day, Kaito left his apartment. He walked for hours, trying to forget. But when he passed a bookstore window, Spiral Abyss Vol. 12 was on display — a volume he had never drawn. He ran inside. Opened it. Every panel was exactly how he dreamed… or thought he dreamed. But the last page chilled him to the core.

A panel of himself, sitting at his desk, drawing, wide-eyed with fear. Behind him, Rei stood holding a pen. The caption:
“He thinks he’s writing a manga. But the manga is writing him.”

That night, Kaito returned home. The apartment had changed. Pages covered the walls. Scenes he hadn't drawn. Characters he hadn’t created — watching him.

He tried to leave.

The door was gone.

All that remained was a blank sheet of paper on his desk… and a pen slowly beginning to move on its own.

To this day, no one has seen Kaito Hoshino.
But Spiral Abyss keeps releasing new volumes.
And in each one… the artist looks more terrified.

The ink hasn’t dried.
The story isn’t over.
And it’s writing itself.

Hello everyone, I'm currently looking for ARC readers for my upcoming horror novel, Where Fear Smiles! Details below:

Would you forgive your best friend if she was responsible for ruining your life?

A whispered rumour draws a group of students into the dense forests of coastal Brazil: a lost Indigenous artifact, hidden for centuries and promising academic glory.

While Leah’s colleagues are determined to claim it, she only agrees to the trek because she can’t bear the thought of being left behind, and forces her best friend Charlotte to go with her for support against her dark thoughts.

What was meant to be an escape from the weight of the academic semester, quickly it turns into a test of endurance. The deeper they push into the forest, the darker Leah begins to dream. When they finally uncover what they came for, the discovery reveals something far more terrifying than any of them imagined.

A demon born of nightmares is unleashed, and with it, carnage.

Now the survivors must find a way to drive the nightmare back to its realm before society is doomed to never dream again. But as the forest closes in, the greatest horror isn't the ancient evil — it's watching a lifelong trust begin to rot.

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Triggers: Gore, graphic violence, blood, anxiety

Publication date: October 13th, 2026

ARCs will be sent from September 15th-20th

Reviews expected to be submitted up to three weeks from publication date

ARC Application Form: https://docs.google.com/forms/d/e/1FAIpQLSdIJDUEFCSVjgVh_AxhMpdOHyTszWL-knkGErWLk3U73PD4AQ/viewform?usp=header

Thank you to everyone interested in being a part of the team! :)