The grocery store smelled like cheap soap and rotting bananas.
Simon trailed behind his mom with his hood up, his eyes sunken and face pale. The moment they stepped in, he already didn't feel right — everything looked normal. But that doesn't mean it was normal.
His mom tossed a few things into the cart.
"Simon, you okay?" she asked, glancing back.
He rubbed his eyes and muttered, "Can I go to the bathroom?"
She paused. "You sure you're good?"
"I just… need a second."
She nodded. "Alright. Front of the store, by the manager's office."
Simon walked off, each step heavier than the last. His stomach twisted, like something inside him knew what was coming.
The bathroom was empty when he entered.
Quiet.
It was slightly cold—colder than it should've been. The kind of cold that touches your bones. He sat down on the toilet, elbows on his knees, face buried in his hands.
Just breathe. You're okay. Nothing's here. You're okay—
Flicker.
He looked up.
The lights above began to shake violently.
The toilet beneath him began to rattle and shake.
He shot to his feet, heart pounding. Running out he saw it.
Two long, pale hands began pushing out of the tiled wall. Fingers long and stretched like rubber. The wall stretching with it.
Simon screamed and stumbled back, knocking over the trash can.
He sprinted out of the bathroom, gasping for air, his chest seizing in panic. His vision blurred with tears. His legs barely worked. He collapsed just outside the doors, crying, hands shaking uncontrollably.
"Make it stop," he whispered, almost choking. "Please make it stop…"
It was only getting worse.
"Simon!"
His mom dropped her basket and ran to him.
He was curled on the floor outside the restroom, arms wrapped tight around his knees, rocking back and forth. His face was pale, tears streaking down his cheeks, breath was rapid.
"Hey—hey, it's okay," she said, kneeling beside him, hands trembling as she cupped his face. "Baby, what happened?"
"I-It was there," Simon gasped. "I swear it was there—hands—it moved—it was alive!"
People were staring now. A few whispered. The store clerk stepped cautiously from behind a shelf.
"Get back," she snapped at them without
looking.
"Call someone! Please!"
Simon clung to her shirt, fists tight. "I'm not crazy, Mom—I'm not—"
"No, no, of course not," she said, holding him tighter. "You're not crazy. Just breathe, baby. Breathe with me. In and out. Come on."
He tried.
But he couldn't.
His body shook like he was freezing.
Soon enough
red and blue lights flashed outside the grocery.
I sat in the back of the ambulance, a silver blanket clinging to my shoulders. I couldn't stop bouncing my knee. Couldn't stop staring at the floor. If I blinked, I might see it again.
My mom was talking to one of the paramedics just outside the doors. I could hear every word.
"I don't know what happened," she said. "He's been... different. He hasn't slept. And now this? He said he saw hands coming out of the wall."
She sounded scared. But she didn't believe him. Not really.
The paramedic nodded, scribbling something down. "Could be stress-induced hallucinations. Maybe a panic attack. We'll get him to County General, let a crisis nurse evaluate him."
"He's not crazy," his mom snapped. Then quieter. "He's... scared. That's all."
She didn't get it. None of them did.
I shivered, but it wasn't from the cold.
God.
They were real.