I didn't remember walking.
One moment, I was kneeling on the cold dirt, breath frozen in my lungs as the whispers of those children circled me like a tightening rope.
The next, I was standing in front of the gas station again—
but something was different.
The sign above the roof flickered like a heartbeat.
Not electricity.
Not neon.
A pulse.
I swallowed hard.
"...No, no, no. This place was dead. I saw it. I swear I saw it."
But now the windows glowed faintly from the inside.
The door—broken and hanging on one hinge earlier—now stood perfectly straight. Clean. Polished.
Almost inviting.
Like the station itself wanted me inside.
And God help me… something inside me wanted to answer.
I wiped sweat off my forehead.
I didn't remember sweating.
The air was cold enough to bite bone.
Behind me, gravel crunched.
I froze.
A soft, slow tapping.
Not footsteps.
Fingers.
Dragging across the pavement.
I knew better than to turn around—every instinct screamed at me not to. But instinct lost to fear, and I turned my head.
The twins stood there.
Same height.
Same pale skin.
Same pitch-black eyes reflecting no light.
But something had changed.
They looked hungry.
"Why… why won't you leave me alone?" I whispered.
The boy tilted his head like a broken doll.
"You looked at us."
"And you heard us," the girl added.
My throat tightened painfully. "I didn't let you in."
They smiled.
"You will."
My legs refused to move.
The air around us thickened—like invisible hands were pressing against my ribs, squeezing slow but hard.
My heartbeat sounded too loud.
Then—
The gas station door clicked open by itself.
Light—warm, yellow, impossibly normal—spilled out onto the ground.
And I heard it.
A voice.
Not a child's.
Not a whisper.
A grown man.
Tired, worn down, but undeniably human.
"Kid," the voice called out softly, "Get inside. Now."
My body reacted faster than my brain.
I stumbled forward.
Ran.
The children didn't move, but I felt their eyes tracking me—
burning holes into my back.
I reached the door.
The moment my hand touched the handle, the ground trembled ever so slightly.
And the lights inside the station brightened, humming like a living thing awakening.
I slipped in and slammed the door—
But no sound came.
No slam.
No vibration.
It was like the world swallowed the noise.
I turned around.
The twins still stood outside.
Smiling.
Not trying to enter.
But watching.
Always watching.
---
The inside of the gas station was… wrong.
The shelves were fully stocked.
Snacks, bottles, lighters, dusty magazines.
Everything arranged too neatly.
Too perfect.
Like a photo staged in a catalogue rather than a place humans actually used.
And the smell—
Warm bread.
Coffee.
Fresh coffee.
I hadn't smelled anything normal in hours.
It nearly sent tears down my face.
Then the voice spoke again.
"You look like you've been chewed up by the desert, kid."
I turned.
A man sat behind the counter.
Middle-aged.
Thick beard.
Eyes sunken but alert.
He didn't look ghostly or monstrous.
He looked… human.
Somehow, that made him even more terrifying.
"H-How are you here?" I stammered.
He didn't answer, not at first.
Instead, he slid a cup of coffee forward.
"Drink. Your hands are shaking."
"I—I don't want anything," I whispered. "I just want answers."
He grunted.
"You won't survive that long without something warm in your system. Go on."
My hands moved on their own.
The cup was warm—real, solid.
I took a sip.
It was bitter.
Normal.
Grounded.
A shock tore through me like lightning.
It meant the world outside wasn't completely consumed yet.
The man watched me over steepled fingers.
"So," he said quietly, "you saw them."
I stopped breathing.
He knew.
He knew about the children.
"You're… you're the first human I've met tonight," I whispered. "What the hell is happening? Why are they following me?"
The man exhaled slow.
"Because once they choose someone, they don't stop."
I almost dropped the cup.
"They're not human," he continued. "And they're not ghosts. They're something in-between. They mimic what they think children sound like, act like. But they don't understand people. Not really."
"What do they want?"
He leaned forward.
"They want permission."
My blood froze.
"Permission… to hurt me?"
"To enter," he corrected. "Your car. Your home. Your life. Your mind."
I gripped the counter until my knuckles burned white.
"You're saying they can't get inside unless I let them?"
"Correct."
"But—but they already chased me. They touched my car—"
"They can approach," he said.
"They can watch."
"Heck, they can even claw at the walls all night long."
He lowered his voice.
"But they can't break in. They need you to say yes. Even a little yes."
I remembered the twins' words.
"You heard us."
"You looked at us."
"What does that mean?" I asked.
He didn't answer.
Not yet.
Instead, he stood up slowly and walked toward me.
Each step creaked—wood not meant to hold weight anymore.
"Look around, kid," he said. "Does this place seem real to you?"
I scanned the room.
Fluorescent lights buzzing gently above.
Coffee machine steaming.
Posters advertising snacks from years ago.
Too normal.
Too clean.
Too alive.
Like it was rebuilt solely for me.
My voice shook.
"What… is this place?"
The man stared at me for a long moment.
Then he whispered:
"A buffer. A crack between their world and yours. They use this place to lure people. But sometimes—sometimes—it fights back."
I swallowed thickly.
"It's alive?"
"Alive enough to want you safe."
I stepped back instinctively.
The door behind me clicked.
Locked.
"Why?" I choked out. "Why me?"
He looked at me with the saddest eyes I'd ever seen.
"Because you were supposed to die tonight."
The lights flickered.
Something drummed on the window.
Two small shadows leaned against the glass.
Black eyes watching.
Smiling.
Waiting.
The man's voice dropped to a whisper.
"And the children? They're getting impatient."
---
The tapping grew louder.
Not one rhythm.
Not one hand.
But many.
TAP.
tap-tap-tap.
TAP-TAP.
tap.
Like restless fingers trying to memorize the shape of the window.
Nathan didn't flinch.
I did.
He just watched them through the glass, arms crossed, jaw tight as if he'd spent a thousand nights listening to this sound.
"Stop staring," Nathan muttered. "They like it when you stare."
"I can't help it," I whispered. "They won't stop looking at me."
"They're not looking at you."
His voice dropped to a low growl.
"They're looking through you."
Cold slid down my spine like a blade of ice.
Outside, the twins pressed their hands to the window.
Their palms were too still—no smudges, no breath fog, nothing that suggested warmth or life.
Just imprints.
Dark.
Wrong.
Nathan walked toward the door.
My heart stopped.
"What are you doing?" I hissed.
"Keeping them busy," he said flatly. "They're already interested in you more than usual. I need to draw their attention away before they start circling the building."
He grabbed a flashlight from under the counter—the beam flickered with a sickly yellow hue.
He took one step toward the door.
The children stepped back in perfect unison.
I hadn't seen them move.
They were just… suddenly standing several feet farther away. Like the tape had skipped.
Nathan opened the door.
Not wide.
Just a crack.
Enough cold wind to slip in.
Enough darkness to breathe inside.
He leaned out.
"Evening," he said.
They tilted their heads, mirroring each other with unnatural symmetry.
The boy smiled first.
"You're still here."
Nathan didn't return the smile. "Unfortunately."
"You haven't let us in," the girl said.
"You know I won't."
Their smiles widened at the exact same moment.
Like a rehearsed performance.
"So we'll wait."
Nathan sighed.
"A decade hasn't changed you brats one bit."
My breath caught.
A decade?
The girl pressed her face near the crack in the door—still smiling, still wrong.
"We like your new friend," she whispered.
"He hears us better than most."
Nathan slammed the door shut.
Not violently.
Not out of fear.
More like someone shutting an annoying window draft.
He locked the deadbolt, then turned to me.
"You want answers?" he said. "Here's your first one."
He pointed at the door.
"They're older than they look. Much older."
I swallowed painfully.
The coffee I drank earlier churned in my stomach.
"How old?"
Nathan didn't blink.
"Some of them pre-date this town."
I stared at him, waiting for sarcasm. A smirk. A joke.
Nothing.
Only the hum of the lights above us.
Nathan rubbed his temples.
"I've dealt with four types of them," he said. "Lost ones, quiet ones, knockers—"
"And those two?" I whispered.
"The ones out there?"
Nathan exhaled sharply.
"Their kind is called The Watchers."
Outside, as if hearing their name, the twins pressed their faces to the glass again—
but their eyes weren't on Nathan.
Only me.
Always me.
"What do they watch?" I asked.
"You," Nathan said simply. "Your reactions. Your fear. Your breaking point. They study you until you slip."
"Slip?"
Nathan nodded grimly.
"Say yes without realizing you said it. Even a whisper counts. Even a single breath that sounds like permission."
My chest tightened.
The boy's voice echoed in my head:
You looked at us.
You heard us.
The girl's voice followed:
You will let us in.
I gripped the counter to ground myself.
Nathan leaned closer.
"You didn't say yes… yet. That's why they can't touch you. Not until you give something."
"Then why do they keep watching me?" my voice cracked.
Nathan went silent.
Too silent.
"Because," he finally said, "you made them curious."
"About what?"
He sighed heavily, eyes avoiding mine.
"How long you'll last."
The tapping resumed—harder, impatient.
Nathan clenched his jaw.
"I need to distract them."
He grabbed the flashlight again and walked toward the back door.
"This place has cracks—spots where they can poke through. I patch them up so they don't slip inside."
He stopped, turned back to look at me.
"You stay in here. You don't look out the windows. You don't answer if they call your name. And for the love of God—don't try to leave."
Then he slipped into the back hallway, the light flickering behind him.
I was alone.
Except I wasn't.
The tapping moved from one window to the next.
Slow at first—
tap.
tap-tap.
Then faster.
TAP-TAP-TAP-TAP—
I backed away, covering my ears.
It didn't help.
The tapping turned into knocking.
Knocking into pounding.
Pounding into—
"Ethan…"
My stomach dropped.
The girl's voice pressed through the thick glass like a whisper sliding under a door.
"Ethan… you're cold… let us warm you."
I squeezed my eyes shut, shaking.
Then the boy's voice followed, soft and melodic:
"Ethan… we know your name now…"
My heart froze.
Nathan had never said it.
I never introduced myself.
"How—" I whispered.
And then—
A second voice. Older. Male. Human.
"Ethan? Is that you? Please… open the door…"
My blood turned to ice.
It was my father's voice.
But my father was in California.
He wasn't here.
He couldn't be here.
"I'm lost, son… I can't see anything… please…"
I bit my lip so hard I tasted blood.
"That's not real," I whispered. "That's not real."
A soft chuckle drifted through the window.
And the boy repeated my own voice back at me—
perfectly.
"That's not real."
I stumbled back into a shelf, knocking over a row of snacks.
My chest heaved.
My vision blurred.
Then—
A hand tapped the glass once.
Just once.
I forced myself to look.
The twins stood side by side.
But their smiles were gone.
Their faces were blank.
Empty.
Expressionless.
As if they'd dropped the act.
And then the boy spoke, voice flat as dead air:
"Nathan is lying to you."
The girl nodded slowly, black eyes swallowing the light.
"He didn't survive this long by helping people."
My skin crawled.
"He survived," the boy said, "because someone let him in."
The girl pressed her palm to the glass.
"And now… he wants you."
My breath hitched.
"Don't trust him," they whispered in perfect harmony.
"Don't trust the man who lives in the gas station."
My heart pounded so loud it hurt.
Because the moment they said it—
I realized something.
Nathan never told me his last name.
Never explained how long he'd been here.
Never explained why the gas station acted alive around him.
And worst of all—
When he opened the door earlier…
the children didn't step back from him.
They stepped back from something else.
My stomach twisted.
Nathan wasn't afraid of the children.
The children were afraid of him.
And that was the most terrifying thing I'd learned all night.
---
Nathan didn't return for a long time.
Too long.
The hallway he'd entered swallowed sound like a throat made of shadows. No footsteps. No hum of lights. Nothing. It was as if he walked into another world entirely.
And I was trapped in this one.
Outside, the children had stopped tapping.
Stopped whispering.
Which was somehow worse.
I pressed my back to the counter, sliding down onto the cold tile.
I forced myself to breathe slowly, counting the seconds to calm my racing heart.
Five seconds.
Breathe in.
Hold.
Release.
But each time my breath left my chest, the silence outside grew heavier—like the children were listening to the rhythm of my lungs.
Then—
A faint, soft sound.
A scrape.
Like a fingernail dragging along the wall inside the hallway.
Inside.
I snapped my head up.
"Nathan?" I whispered.
No reply.
I stood slowly, knees trembling. The hallway felt darker now. Like the building dimmed itself instinctively, protecting me—or warning me.
I took one step toward it.
The scrape came again.
Longer.
Closer.
No… not nails.
Claws.
I froze.
The gas station lights flickered.
Once.
Twice.
Then the entire room dimmed into a yellow haze, as if someone was gently squeezing its life away.
The scraping stopped.
A breath—long, controlled—slid through the darkness.
Then a voice.
But not Nathan's.
"Ethaaan…"
It was a mix of tones layered over one another.
A child's pitch.
A low growl.
A warped echo.
Like several throats speaking through the same mouth.
I stumbled back, hitting the counter.
Something stepped out of the hallway.
Not fully.
Just enough.
A silhouette.
Tall.
Lean.
Wrong.
It stood still for several seconds before leaning its head forward, slowly, like a predator studying prey through tall grass.
My throat tightened.
It wasn't the children.
But it wasn't Nathan either.
Unless…
"Nathan?" I whispered, barely able to breathe.
The silhouette twitched.
Fast.
Like a glitch.
Then—
Nathan stepped into the light.
My knees almost buckled with relief, but something stopped me.
Nathan looked normal—sweaty, annoyed, holding the same flashlight—
But his shadow didn't match him.
His body was straight.
His shadow was tilted.
Tilted at an angle no human joint could form.
"N-Nathan," I said shakily, "something was just there—something in the hallway—"
"I know," he cut me off.
He set the flashlight on the counter.
His hands shook slightly.
"They're trying to get creative," he muttered. "They always do that when they want a quick yes."
I blinked. "They can… mimic? Inside the building?"
Nathan wiped sweat off his brow.
"Only where the station is weakest. Dark corners. Empty rooms. Unlit spaces."
He looked up at me then.
And for the first time—
I saw fear in his eyes.
Real fear.
It lasted only a moment, but it was there.
"Ethan," he said slowly, "you need to listen to me very carefully."
He stepped closer.
Too close.
Close enough that I could smell the scent on him.
But it wasn't sweat.
Or coffee.
It was dirt.
Old dirt.
The smell of graves.
He placed a hand on my shoulder. His grip was strong. Too strong.
"Tonight isn't about surviving," he said. "It's about enduring. If you endure long enough, dawn will drive them off. Daylight burns them."
I stared at him. "Burns them?"
Nathan nodded.
But his shadow didn't nod.
It twitched again.
Jagged.
Desperate.
"Nathan…" My voice trembled. "Your shadow—"
Before I could finish, something slammed into the window behind us.
BANG.
I jumped.
Nathan didn't.
He calmly turned his head.
Outside, the twins were no longer smiling.
Their faces were pressed flat against the glass—
distorted.
Stretched.
Almost melting into the window.
Their black eyes widened unnaturally.
A thin crack formed across the pane.
Nathan swore under his breath.
"That shouldn't be possible."
"What does that mean?" I cried.
"It means," he muttered, "you've been marked harder than I thought."
He walked toward the window.
The children pressed harder, their eyes widening until the whites were gone entirely. Their smiles stretched too far.
The girl's voice slid through the crack:
"He's not one of you."
The boy's voice followed, cold as ice:
"He's ours."
Nathan slammed his palm on the glass.
A shockwave rippled across it—
the children stumbled back, their smiles collapsing into snarls.
Nathan didn't look back at me.
His voice deepened.
A little too deep.
"Don't listen to them."
But I was already trembling.
"Nathan," I whispered. "What are you?"
He turned toward me slowly.
Too slowly.
Neck turning a fraction too far before the shoulders followed.
His eyes—dark brown moments ago—
looked darker now.
Like they were draining color from his face.
"I'm the only one keeping you alive," he said calmly.
"And that's all that matters."
I stepped back.
His shadow stretched across the floor toward me—
longer than it should be.
Moving a little too smoothly.
I swallowed.
"You said the station protects people."
"It does."
"You said they can't come inside."
"They can't."
He smiled thinly.
"But I can."
The lights flickered.
Nathan's teeth looked sharper for a second.
Maybe a trick of the light.
Maybe not.
Outside, the children whispered urgently:
"He isn't human…"
"He doesn't leave because he can't…"
"He wants you…"
"Don't let him in…"
My chest tightened.
Nathan took another step toward me.
And the gas station reacted.
The lights dimmed.
The floor vibrated.
The shelves rattled.
Like the building itself was warning me.
"Ethan," Nathan said softly, "come here."
It sounded like a request.
But felt like a command.
"I'm the only thing standing between you and them."
Behind him, the twins placed their hands on the glass.
Their eyes locked onto mine.
And for the first time that night—
They looked terrified.
Of him.
Not me.
Him.
Nathan extended his hand.
"Come here," he repeated.
My breath hitched.
Because in the reflection on the fridge door beside him—
Nathan had no reflection.
None.
Just the gas station.
Just me.
Just the two children.
And darkness where he should've been.
My voice trembled.
"What… are you?"
Nathan smiled.
Finally.
A full smile.
Too wide.
Too sharp.
"Something that survived."
---