Nights are longer now.
At least for me.
I tell myself they are just nights like any other, hours passing, clocks ticking, stars coldly blinking across the roof of the sky. Yet when the lights are off and I am alone, my body is no longer mine. My mind does not rest—it drags me into the black theater of memory, a cinema I cannot walk out of.
That night began like many others: in my pajamas, curled beneath sheets that should have been safe, warm, ordinary. I had hoped that exhaustion might betray the storm in my chest and push me into dreamless sleep. But dreams never come clean anymore.
They arrive with him.
The hooded figure.
I twist and turn, the sheets tangling like ropes around me. In the theater of my mind he appears again, faceless, cloaked, his presence staining the air. Beneath his hood, a grin too white to be human stretches, floating teeth without flesh. He stands before Marlene—my mother—bound to a chair, her eyes wide, her cheeks streaked with tears that shine in the unreal darkness.
He doesn't speak at first. Only raises a gloved hand and makes that slashing gesture, over and over, across his own throat, across the air between them, until my lungs seize. Then his voice pours out—except it isn't just his voice.
Sometimes it's the brittle sing-song of a little girl, words drawn out like lullabies warped by rot. Sometimes it plunges deep, rumbling, cavernous, masculine, scraping the edges of my sanity. Both voices say the same thing:
"Watch her bleed."
I try to scream. To stop him. To call out. But my mouth won't open. My throat feels sewn shut, stitched by invisible hands. I lunge forward in my dream and nothing moves. Only my tears fall, useless.
Then the blade arcs. My mother gasps. And I—
Wake.
I bolt upright, sweat clinging to my pajama collar, dampening the sheets. My chest heaves like I've been drowning. The room is quiet, only the faint hum of the air vent, the distant car outside. But the nightmare lingers, stuck in my muscles, caught in my throat.
I stumble to the bathroom and flick on the light.
The mirror is merciless. Red-rimmed eyes, trembling lips. The face of someone unraveling.
I undress mechanically and step into the shower. The water runs hot, pelting my skin, and for a few seconds the hiss is soothing—like static drowning out thought. I close my eyes, tilt my face upward.
Then it happens.
When I glance down, the water is no longer clear. It's red. Thick. Streaming down my arms, swirling at my feet, painting the tiles in deep, impossible crimson.
Blood.
My breath snags. My stomach lurches. I stumble back against the slick wall, my palms slapping wet tile. The steam tastes metallic. The world tilts.
"No—no—" I whisper, but the sound is swallowed.
I rub my eyes, hard. Once. Twice.
When I open them again, it's gone. Just water. Perfectly clear. Gurgling at the drain.
I stand there shaking, every nerve raw.
I tell myself: hallucination. Trauma, stress, whatever clinical term they'd want to pin on me. But knowing the word doesn't make it less real when I see it. When I feel it.
Days blur. Mornings fold into afternoons. Nights claw back too soon.
I try to go about life. Grocery shopping, the smallest fragments of normality. It's supposed to help, right? Routine?
The supermarket's fluorescent lighting hums overhead. I push the cart slowly, my list trembling in my hand. Bread. Milk. Vegetables. Things my mother used to remind me to buy when I was younger.
Halfway down the aisle, I freeze.
She's there.
Not my mother—someone else. A young woman, maybe mid-twenties. But her dress is drenched, her skin streaked, her hair matted with blood. Blood that drips in trails across the tiles as she stumbles toward me, hand outstretched. Her lips quiver like she's begging me for something.
My vision tunnels. The hum of the lights disappears. Only her.
"No…" I whisper, my hand flying to my mouth. I back away, the cart squealing as its wheels catch. My heartbeat throbs in my throat, a cage.
"Miss? Are you okay?"
The voice pulls me back. I blink.
The bloody woman is gone. The aisle is empty except for stacked cans and an older clerk frowning at me.
"You look pale," the clerk says, worried.
I shake my head quickly. "I—I'm fine. Just… dizzy."
When I glance back at where the woman stood, there's nothing. No blood, no footsteps, just linoleum gleaming under harsh light.
I manage to smile, brittle and awkward. But inside, something in me is caving.
I am breaking. I am seeing things that aren't there. My mind is cracked glass, reflecting monsters that might not exist—or might, waiting in some corner I cannot see. Trauma is supposed to scar, not haunt, yet I am haunted by shapes, by sounds, by faces that won't fade. How do you escape a mind that builds prisons of its own?
---
The therapist's office smells faintly of leather and coffee. Bookshelves line the walls, clinical texts mingled with a few framed photographs of landscapes—mountains, rivers, places that probably soothe other patients.
I sit on the couch, my knees pressed close together, fingers knotted in my lap.
Across from me, Dr. Phillips Mathew adjusts his spectacles, his white coat falling neatly around him. His voice is calm, almost melodic.
"So, Aubrey," he begins. "You said you've been experiencing… hallucinations?"
I nod, throat tight. "Yes. Nightmares. And… visions. In the shower. At the store. They feel real. Too real."
He leans forward slightly. "These are signs of unresolved trauma. Your mother's death has left a scar deeper than you realize. But tell me—do you think it's only her murder that is troubling you? Or is it something older? Perhaps what you went through in college?"
For a moment, I can't speak. The silence stretches, taut.
"It isn't college," I manage finally. "At least… not exactly. The one who hurt me back then—he's behind bars now. But I feel…" I hesitate, swallowing hard. "…I feel like he cast a shadow over me. One that never lifted. And now… there's another. The man who killed my mother. He's out there. And it's like he knows me. Like he's wearing the shadow of the first, copying his ways. And I can't escape."
Dr. Mathew steeples his fingers. His expression is sympathetic, yet sharp. "That is a heavy burden, Aubrey. You must understand that the mind amplifies fear. Sometimes our brains trick us into thinking patterns repeat themselves. But it is also wise to take precautions. Ensure your state of mind remains stable. Do not focus too deeply on the negatives that haunt you. And," he adds, "I strongly suggest you seek police protection. Safety is not weakness."
I nod slowly, grateful and frustrated all at once. "Thank you. Really."
My eyes flick to his desk. A nameplate gleams there: Phillips Mathew. A reassurance, solid and official.
I rise, shake his hand, and gather my things.
As I leave, I hear his phone buzz.
I glance back. For a split second, his face shifts. The softness vanishes, replaced by something hard, almost… scheming. A predator peeking out from behind a mask. Then it's gone, replaced once again by his usual friendly expression as he answers the call.
I frown, unsettled. But I tell myself I imagined it.
---
The evening air is cool as I step toward my Polestar 2. Its electric hum greets me as I slide inside, finally exhaling.
But before I can start the engine, a voice cuts sharp from behind.
"Drive. Don't look back."
Cold metal presses the back of my head.
I freeze. My pulse spikes. My hands tremble against the wheel.
"Now," the voice orders.
I obey. My car glides forward, silent on the road. My eyes flick nervously to the rearview mirror.
A woman sits in the backseat. Dark hair pulled tightly, sharp cheekbones, brown skin, her gaze blazing with fury. In her hands, a pistol.
Her voice is angry, trembling at the edges. "Your mom dies under bizarre circumstances. Suddenly you're first in line for her property business. Then my dad—who was working with her—vanishes. And my uncle? Murdered by this Azaqor pretender. All of it points back to you."
I grip the wheel tighter, sweat slicking my palms. "I don't know what you're talking about—"
"Shut up." Her voice slices through me. "A little birdie told me you've got history with that Azaqor killer. In college, students hated you. Bullied you. And then—strangely—they all ended up dead. All victims of Lucian. And you had chemistry with him, didn't you?"
Her words strike like stones. My breath stutters. "Please… you don't understand—"
"Quiet!" She presses the pistol closer. "Maybe you were his accomplice. Maybe when he got caught, you found another one to do your dirty work. A social-climbing lunatic wanting a piece of Halvern's fortune."
Tears sting my eyes. "That's not true."
She leans forward, spitting venom. "Your mother was just a maid once. Working in the Halvern mansion. Maybe that's how she schemed her way into owning that salon. Maybe she was Theodore Halvern's whore. Maybe she caused his death too."
The words shred me. My throat burns. My grip shakes. "Stop—please, just stop…"
"What I want," she snarls, "is the truth. Where is my dad? Did you take him? Kill him? Where's the body?"
"I don't know!" I cry. "I swear I don't know anything!"
"Liar!" She racks the slide, the metallic click like thunder in my skull. "One more lie and I put a bullet in your brain."
The car feels smaller, suffocating. My chest heaves. I can barely see the road through the blur of tears.
Then her phone rings.
She answers it, pistol still poised. But after a few seconds, her grip loosens. She lowers the weapon, her face shifting with sudden calculation.
"Pull over," she orders.
Confused, I obey. The car slows to a stop near a dark driveway.
Without another word, she exits. Walks away. Vanishes into the shadows.
I sit frozen, heart still hammering, unsure if it even happened.
Then my phone buzzes.
A message.
I open it. A holographic projection flickers up—a face, red and hazy, unrecognizable, grinning, laughing in distorted bursts.
Below it, a riddle glows:
Man of riches held a key,
A secret chained to destiny.
The greedy feared what he could say,
So silence claimed his life one day.
Now truth is buried where he bled,
A final whisper with the dead.
Seek the place his breath was stilled,
What hides there shows who had him killed.
The projection fades. My phone falls silent.
I sit there, gripping the wheel, my face pale in the dashboard glow. My mind spins. Each word coils like smoke around me.
The riddle. The woman. The therapist's strange look. The visions.
All pieces of a puzzle that refuses to show me the picture.
I stare ahead, swallowed by thought, by fear, by the shadow that never leaves.