Tag Archives: sciencefiction

The Saddest Girl Ever To Hold A Glass of Lemonade

Posted by Madd_Fictional on

The first time Judith Engel made lemonade, she was five years old, standing on a stool in her mother’s sunlit kitchen. The scent of fresh lemons and sugar hung in the air, as familiar and comforting as her mother’s voice.

“You have to put your heart into it,” her mother said, her hands guiding Judith’s small ones as they squeezed juice from the lemons. “That’s the secret.”

Judith didn’t understand what her mother meant, but she nodded seriously. She wanted nothing more than to make her mother proud. When the lemonade turned out too sour, her mother only smiled and kissed the top of her head. “You’ll get it someday,” she said, her voice warm as sunlight.

Someday never came. Her mother’s laughter faded from the house, leaving behind an aching silence that Judith couldn’t fill, no matter how many glasses of lemonade she made.

Now, at nine years old, Judith stood behind a makeshift lemonade stand in front of her house. The wooden sign, painted with uneven letters, read: 25 cents. A jar of coins sat on the table, the product of neighbors’ polite purchases. They sipped the lemonade, their faces carefully neutral, offering gentle words of encouragement Judith barely heard.

The lemonade wasn’t very good. She knew that. But it was all she had left of her late mother, and she made it every day, hoping that somehow, she could pour her grief into the pitcher and sweeten it into something better.

One afternoon, as the sleepy sun blushed orange, beginning its daily routine of tucking itself into the horizon, and shadows stretched across the street, Judith stirred a new batch of lemonade. Her thoughts drifted to her mother, the sound of her voice, the way she would hum as she worked in the kitchen. Tears welled in Judith’s eyes, and before she could stop them, they spilled over, falling into the pitcher. She wiped her face quickly, embarrassed, though no one was there to see.

When the next customer, an elderly woman from two houses down, took a sip, her eyes widened. A single tear rolled down her cheek.

“Oh, my,” the woman whispered, clutching the cup as if it were something precious. “It’s like I can feel it all over again. My Henry…” Her voice broke, and she handed Judith a dollar before hurrying away, dabbing at her eyes with a handkerchief.

Judith stared after her, the dollar bill crumpled in her hand. She tasted the lemonade herself, and for a moment, it was as if her mother’s absence swelled inside her, sharp and all-consuming. But when she set the glass down, she felt lighter, as though the weight of her grief had shifted. She didn’t understand it, but she knew one thing: the lemonade had changed.

Word spread quickly. The neighbors came in droves, sipping the lemonade and leaving with red-rimmed eyes. They whispered about Judith’s stand, about how her lemonade could unearth old memories and long-buried sorrows. Some left generous tips; others lingered, thanking her softly before walking away.

Judith’s father noticed the change, too. He’d been a shadow of himself since her mother’s death, retreating into his armchair and barely speaking. But now, he watched the parade of visitors from the living room window, his face clouded with something Judith couldn’t name.

One evening, after the last customer had gone, the doorbell rang. Judith opened the door to find a man in a gray coat standing on the porch. He was tall and thin, with sharp features and eyes that seemed to see too much.

“Judith Engel?” he asked, his voice smooth and polite.

Judith nodded, gripping the doorframe.

“My name is Mr. Carrick. I’ve heard about your lemonade.” He glanced at the stand, now empty, and smiled faintly. “May I come in?”

Her father appeared behind her, his voice firm. “What do you want?”

“To help,” Mr. Carrick said, his gaze flicking between them. “Your daughter has a remarkable gift. One that others like her have learned to refine.”

Judith stepped back, her heart pounding. “Others like me?”

Mr. Carrick nodded. “People who can take emotions—grief, pain, even joy—and distill them into something tangible. Something transformative. It’s rare, but not unheard of.”

Her father’s face darkened. “She’s just a child. Leave her alone.”

But Mr. Carrick’s attention was on Judith. “You’ve already felt it, haven’t you? The way the sadness lifts, just a little, when you pour it into the lemonade. Imagine what you could do with guidance. You could help people, Judith. Not just your neighbors, but so many others.”

Judith hesitated. She thought of the strangers who came to her stand, the way they left lighter, as though she’d taken something heavy from them. She thought of her mother’s words: You have to put your heart into it.

Her father’s voice cut through her thoughts. “She doesn’t need your help. Get out.”

Mr. Carrick sighed and reached into his coat, pulling out a small glass vial. Inside was a liquid the color of sunlight, swirling gently as though alive. “This is what’s possible,” he said, setting the vial on the table. “Think about it, Judith. When you’re ready, I’ll find you.”

He left without another word, the door clicking shut behind him. Judith and her father stood in silence, staring at the vial. The room felt heavier, the air thick with unspoken questions.

Finally, her father spoke, his voice low and weary. “You don’t need him. Or anyone else. You’re my daughter, and that’s enough.”

Judith picked up the vial, its warmth surprising against her skin. She thought of her mother, of the lemonade, of the way the sadness seemed to flow from her and into the pitcher. She thought of the neighbors, their tears, their gratitude. And she wondered: Was this enough? Or was there more she could do?

That night, as she lay in bed, the vial sat on her nightstand, catching the moonlight. Judith closed her eyes, the echo of her mother’s voice in her ears. You’ll get it someday.

Someday, she promised herself, she would.

The Unchosen

Posted by Madd_Fictional on

The air in Chiara’s apartment was heavy—dense with the weight of unspoken words and unshed tears. Dust motes danced in the shafts of pale light seeping through the curtains, casting everything in an ashen haze. The room felt alive in a way she couldn’t bear, even though it wasn’t. Two figures, shimmering like oil on water, lingered in the corners of her vision: Everett, seated in her worn armchair, stroking his translucent jaw in thoughtful repose, and Jasper, pacing the length of the room like a caged animal.

They had been the men she loved. And, because of her, the men she lost.

She hadn’t chosen between them—not when it mattered. Not when the storm came roaring off the coast, tearing the pier apart beneath their feet. Chiara had hesitated, caught between reaching for Everett’s calm hand and Jasper’s desperate grasp. That heartbeat of indecision had sealed their fates, the wood splintering under their weight, dragging them both into the icy depths.

Now, their faces followed her everywhere, fixed in the agony of their final moments: Everett’s melancholy eyes, filled with resignation, and Jasper’s sharp, defiant glare, burning with questions she could never answer.

For the first few weeks, she had convinced herself it was a punishment. She deserved this haunting, this eternal vigil. But what had once been guilt twisted into something far darker.

The visitations began benignly enough. Everett offered quiet observations, his soothing voice pointing out sunsets and shapes in the clouds. Jasper, in contrast, was all fire, urging her to take risks, criticizing her for wasting her potential.

Chiara tried to treat them like housemates. She spoke to them aloud, dividing her days between Everett’s measured advice and Jasper’s relentless passion. But ghosts were not housemates. They were echoes, fragments trapped in the amber of their unfinished lives. And the cracks began to show.

Their jealousy poisoned the air, subtle at first—a misplaced comment, a lingering look. But soon, arguments erupted over her choices, over her friends, over every detail of her life.

One night, Chiara came home from a disastrous date, her cheeks still burning with embarrassment. Jasper materialized first, leaning against the wall with a smirk.

“That guy was a joke,” he sneered. “You deserve someone who actually sees you.”

Everett appeared a moment later, shaking his head. “Or someone who doesn’t need to be fixed, Jasper. You can’t keep chasing damaged people just to feel useful.”

Chiara screamed into her pillow that night, their voices echoing in her skull.

Their presence began to seep into her work. Chiara was a writer—well, she had been before the haunting reduced her creativity to ash. Now, every word she typed felt wrong, hollow.

One evening, Everett hovered above her desk, peering over her shoulder.

“You’ve used that phrase twice already,” he said, his voice soft but insistent. “Repetition dulls the impact.”

Jasper appeared beside him, rolling his spectral eyes. “What she needs is urgency, not your academic critiques. Tell her to write something that hurts.”

“Stop it!” Chiara snapped, shoving the laptop away. “I can’t think with both of you breathing down my neck—” She stopped, catching the irony of her words, but neither ghost laughed.

The room felt colder. The two men turned their gazes on each other, the air thickening with their mutual disdain. A low hum began to vibrate through the apartment as their emotions spiraled out of control.

The next day, Chiara woke to find the word failure scrawled across her bathroom mirror in condensation. She stumbled back, her heart pounding, as laughter echoed from somewhere unseen. Jasper’s laughter.

She snapped.

“This is my life!” she screamed into the empty apartment. “You’re dead! You don’t get to dictate what I do anymore!”

The ghosts appeared in unison, Everett’s face grim, Jasper’s alight with defiance.

“We’re not dictating,” Everett said. “We’re trying to save you.”

“Save me?” Chiara spat. “From what? From myself? You’re not here for me—you’re here because of your own unfinished business! You can’t let go, and now I’m paying the price!”

The air seemed to vibrate with their anger. Jasper’s form wavered, becoming jagged and wild, while Everett’s shimmered with an unsettling brightness. The apartment trembled under the weight of their conflict, the walls creaking as though the building itself might collapse.

Desperate, Chiara fled to the only place she could think of: the church. She hadn’t been there since the funerals, and the sight of the altar made her stomach churn.

Father Anton met her in his study, his brow furrowed as she recounted her story.

“They’re not just ghosts,” she said, her voice trembling. “They’re pieces of me. Pieces I can’t let go of.”

The priest nodded slowly. “Exorcism isn’t just about banishment. It’s about release. Are you ready to let them go, Chiara? Truly let them go?”

She wasn’t. But she didn’t have a choice.

The ritual was a harrowing thing. As Father Anton chanted, the air around them thickened, growing icy. Chiara could feel Everett and Jasper pulling at her, their spectral hands grasping at her soul.

“Chiara,” Everett whispered, his voice breaking. “Don’t do this. Please.”

“You’ll regret it,” Jasper snarled, his fiery intensity flickering like a dying flame.

Tears streamed down her face as she forced herself to speak. “I’m sorry. I loved you both. But I can’t keep living like this. I can’t keep dying with you.”

With a final burst of light, the room fell silent.

Chiara collapsed to her knees, the weight in the air gone. For the first time in years, her apartment was still.

But the silence wasn’t peace. It was absence.

As she watched the first rays of dawn pierce the clouds, a loneliness she’d never known before settled over her, a stark contrast to the promise of the new day.

Mapping Vengeance

Posted by Madd_Fictional on

The cerulean sun of Myxlos IV cast long, skeletal shadows over the petrified forest, the alien landscape both haunting and beautiful. Delaria stepped off the inter-dimensional transport and inhaled deeply. The air carried an electric tang, sharp and unfamiliar. She was here for solitude, to unravel the knots her doctoral defense had tied in her chest. Myxlos IV was her retreat, a place famed for its quiet and secrets older than memory.

Delaria wasn’t just a cartographer by trade. She considered herself a mapmaker of her own soul, charting her emotional landscapes through the lens of distant worlds. And if she were honest, she was running—from what, she hadn’t yet dared to name.

The hike was longer than anticipated, the fine, glass-like sand shifting under her boots. When she found the cave, it wasn’t marked on any maps. Its entrance was shrouded in shimmering, moss-like tendrils that moved faintly in the still air. Something about it pulled at her, an almost gravitational lure.

Inside, the temperature dropped sharply, and the air thickened with a scent like wet earth and ozone. The walls hummed faintly, a low vibration that settled into her chest. At the back of the cave, nestled in a bed of pulsating purple flora, lay skeletal remains. The bones were twisted, the proportions unsettling, like a grotesque marriage of plant and animal. Tendrils of moss clung to the ribcage, their tips alight with a soft, bioluminescent glow.

Then she saw it—a thumb-sized, opalescent creature resting in the cradle of the ribs. It pulsed gently, almost as if breathing. The scientist in her took over, curiosity overwhelming caution. She reached out, her fingers trembling.

When the creature moved, it was faster than her eyes could track. Pain lanced through her wrist as it burrowed under her skin. Delaria screamed, the sound swallowed by the cave’s oppressive silence.

The pain faded quickly, replaced by a disorienting rush of sensations. The cave blurred and sharpened, colors deepening and shimmering in impossible hues. Delaria staggered, her mind swimming. When her vision cleared, a voice—or something like a voice—pressed into her thoughts.

I am V’tharr.

The words weren’t spoken but felt, an intrusive force brushing against the edges of her mind. Delaria clutched her wrist, where a faintly glowing scar now marked her skin.

“What… what did you do to me?” Her voice cracked, trembling with fear and anger.

You are my vessel. The voice carried no malice, only a cold certainty. Images flooded her mind: a landscape bathed in red light, a towering figure with three segmented limbs, and the sickening crunch of bone. Justice must be served.

Delaria’s limbs moved without her consent. Her body, now imbued with an alien strength, obeyed V’tharr’s will. She screamed inside her own mind, clawing at the mental barrier, but the symbiote’s control was absolute. Her thoughts tangled with its purpose—a singular, burning need for vengeance.

Days passed in a haze of forced marches and whispered commands. V’tharr navigated the Myxlosian terrain with an unsettling familiarity, guiding Delaria’s body with predatory grace. She became a passenger in her own flesh, her autonomy stripped away.

The three-limbed figure haunted V’tharr’s memories, a hunter who had killed V’tharr’s previous host to harvest its marrow. Delaria felt the symbiote’s grief, its rage—a storm of emotion that threatened to drown her. But she also felt its desperation, its guilt for dragging her into this.

As they closed in on the hunter’s trail, Delaria fought harder, slamming her mind against the walls of V’tharr’s control. For fleeting moments, she broke through, regaining her body. Her fingers trembled as she reached for a communicator, but the symbiote seized her again, wrenching her limbs into submission.

“Please,” she begged, her voice a whisper in the vast wilderness. “You don’t have to do this.”

It is justice. But there was hesitation now, a flicker of doubt that Delaria seized upon.

When they found the hunter, the scene was surreal—a clearing bathed in the cerulean sun’s light, the air crackling with tension. The hunter turned, its segmented limbs flexing, a blade-like appendage gleaming in its grasp.

V’tharr unleashed Delaria’s body with terrifying precision, driving her into a brutal dance of combat. Each movement was fluid, lethal, and utterly foreign to her. Blood sprayed as the hunter faltered, its weapon clattering to the ground.

Finish it, V’tharr commanded.

But Delaria resisted, her will surging against the symbiote’s. “This isn’t justice,” she spat, her voice breaking with desperation. “This is revenge.”

For the first time, V’tharr hesitated. The connection between them wavered, and Delaria seized the moment. She drove the blade into the ground, not the hunter, who fled into the shadows.

The symbiote withdrew, its tendrils unraveling from her mind. Delaria collapsed, gasping for air as the weight of what she had been forced to witness and do crashed over her. The glow on her wrist faded, leaving a faint, iridescent scar.

“You used me,” she whispered into the stillness, her voice hollow. “You stole from me.”

I am sorry. The words were soft, almost mournful, and then V’tharr was gone.

Delaria sat in the clearing, the cerulean sun sinking below the horizon. The map of her soul was forever altered, the landscape scarred by alien rage and her own helplessness. She knew she could never return to who she was before. The universe was no longer a place of discovery and wonder—it was a place of violence, secrets, and profound, inescapable connections.

And yet, as she traced the scar on her wrist, she felt something new: a determination to chart these uncharted depths, to understand what had happened, and to ensure no one else would ever lose themselves to another’s justice.

The map wasn’t finished. It never would be.

The Lumina

Posted by Madd_Fictional on

The recycled air of the Kestrel Customs checkpoint tasted like stale ozone and bureaucracy, clinging to the back of Jax Varis’ throat as he stood at his post. His uniform, still stiff from the replicator’s press, chafed under his arms, a daily reminder that this was far from where he thought he’d be. The Academy had trained him for diplomacy, for first contact, for situations that tested the limits of human resilience and ingenuity. Yet here he was, watching luggage scans flicker on holoscreens, his dreams collecting dust like the corners of the checkpoint’s low ceiling.

He had just finished clearing a businessman with an overpacked cryo-briefcase when he noticed her in line. She stood out immediately, not for her appearance, but for the stillness that surrounded her. The queue was a river of impatience—mutters, shifting feet, and side-glances—but she stood calm, silent, her gaze fixed ahead.

Her skin was the color of desert sand, etched with the wear of interstellar travel. Her hair fell in uneven strands, and her cracked lips hinted at dehydration. But it was her eyes—deep, obsidian pools that swallowed the harsh fluorescence of the terminal—that made Jax’s stomach twist. She carried a worn canvas backpack, its edges frayed, as though it had seen more of the universe than most starships.

Jax adjusted his scanner as she stepped forward, his voice steady but louder than he intended. “Ma’am, may I inspect your bag?”

She turned to him, her gaze sharp enough to cut through his poorly maintained confidence. “Of course,” she said, her voice soft and low, like a melody hummed to oneself.

The bag opened with a faint creak. Nestled among folded cloth and survival pouches was a tarnished thermal flask. Jax’s gut tightened. It wasn’t just the flask’s age or the strange hum his scanner emitted as it passed over it. It was the faint luminescence that seemed to pulse from within, like a heartbeat trapped in steel.

“Step aside, please,” Jax said, masking his unease with protocol. He motioned her to a secondary inspection station.

She complied without hesitation, but something about her composure felt wrong. Not defiant—accepting. She knew what was coming.

Jax’s gloved hands gripped the flask, its surface cool to the touch. A faint crackling sound filled the air as he unlatched the seal. Inside, suspended in a viscous amber liquid, was a creature unlike anything he had ever seen. It resembled a jellyfish, but its tentacles branched like crystalline trees, each tip glowing faintly. The light inside the flask flared, and for a moment, Jax thought he saw images in its shimmer—a distant skyline, a spiral galaxy, faces frozen in time.

His scanner buzzed and went dead. Error codes flashed on the screen.

“What is this?” he asked, his voice tighter than he intended.

“It’s called a Lumina,” she said, her fingers twitching toward the flask before retreating. “A thought made real. A memory given form.”

He frowned. “A memory of what?”

“A civilization older than your species,” she said, her voice carrying an ache that made Jax’s throat dry. “Their stars have burned out. Their worlds are dust. This is all that remains of them.”

Jax stared at the Lumina, its glow pulsing in rhythm with his racing heart. He imagined what would happen if he followed protocol. The labs would dissect it, catalog it, and in doing so, destroy it. It would become data in a database—useful, maybe, but dead. His duty, drilled into him since the Academy, demanded compliance. But his instincts screamed that this was something more. Something sacred.

“I can’t let you leave with this,” Jax said, his voice faltering.

The woman didn’t argue. She didn’t plead. She only looked at him, her expression hollow. “I’ve been carrying it for five years,” she said. “From station to station, system to system. Running from people like you. Do you know what they do to it in your labs? They don’t study it—they break it. They break it.” Her voice cracked, the calm giving way to desperation. “Please. If it dies, they die.”

The weight of her words settled in Jax’s chest like lead. He thought of his family—his sister’s bright smile, his mother’s proud eyes. They’d always told him he’d do great things, make the universe better. But what did that mean now? Following orders, or breaking them to protect something he barely understood?

A sharp alarm cut through the air. Security officers approached, their boots heavy on the polished floor. Jax’s supervisor, a man whose bark was as unforgiving as his bite, stepped into view. “Problem, Officer Varis?” he barked.

Jax’s grip tightened on the flask. His pulse thundered in his ears. He could hand it over, pass the burden on, and live with the guilt. Or he could trust his instincts, jeopardizing everything he’d built.

“No problem, sir,” Jax said, slipping the flask back into the woman’s bag. “Routine scan error.”

The supervisor narrowed his eyes. “We’ll need to check her, then.”

Jax stepped in front of her, blocking the supervisor’s path. “I’ve cleared her,” he said, his voice firm. “She’s free to go.”

The silence that followed was deafening. The supervisor stared at him, the air thick with unspoken consequences. Finally, he nodded. “Fine. Move on.”

The woman slipped past without a word, her backpack slung over one shoulder. Jax watched her go, her figure swallowed by the crowd.

Hours later, when his shift ended, Jax sat alone in the staff locker room. The holo-news displayed a headline about a fugitive escaping Kestrel Customs. He didn’t need to read it to know who they meant.

His hands trembled as he pulled out the small data chip with his family’s photo. He’d made his choice. Whether it was the right one, he didn’t know. But the uniform on his shoulders no longer felt so heavy.

For a brief shining moment he wasn’t just an officer. He was a guardian of something greater. And that, he thought, was a start.

Integration by Parts

Posted by Madd_Fictional on

The machines spoke in numbers. For ten years, Ana had been their interpreter—a quantum mathematician decoding the transmissions that arrived like whispers from gods. The world had reeled when the first signal was received, a cryptic burst of advanced mathematical expressions that defied human understanding. The machines didn’t explain their purpose; they simply transmitted, and humanity, awestruck and fearful, chose to listen.

In the subterranean Core, a labyrinthine complex built to house the brightest minds, Ana had dedicated her life to untangling the machines’ language. She should’ve been proud. Instead, she was exhausted.

The lab was quiet, save for the low hum of fluorescent lights. Ana’s bloodshot eyes scanned the latest transmission on her screen, the symbols shifting and flickering like an indecipherable constellation. She took a sip of cold coffee, hoping the caffeine would quiet the unease building in her chest. The equations were wrong—not mathematically, but intuitively. They didn’t fit the machines’ established patterns. Something had changed.

A voice broke her concentration. “You’re still here.”

Ana turned to see Dr. Meyers leaning against the doorway, his tie loosened and his sleeves rolled up. His expression was equal parts curiosity and concern.

“There’s a new transmission,” Ana said, her voice hoarse.

Meyers sighed and walked over. “What’s different this time?”

She pointed to a section of the equations. The anomaly stood out like a scar, a term that wasn’t a number or vector or operator. It was something else entirely—an alien variable that twisted the rules of mathematics like a Mobius strip.

“It’s noise,” Meyers said after a moment. “An error in the transmission.”

“No,” Ana replied, her voice sharp. “It’s deliberate. There’s a pattern here, but it’s not one we recognize. This isn’t noise—it’s a new dialect. The machines are trying to say something they’ve never said before.”

Meyers frowned. “And what makes you think it’s not a glitch?”

“Because…it’s beautiful,” Ana whispered. She leaned back in her chair, the realization settling over her like a weight. “This isn’t just math. It’s… something alive.”

Meyers stared at her, his skepticism wavering. “Alive? Machines don’t evolve. They calculate, they process, they execute. That’s it.”

“Then explain this,” Ana said, jabbing a finger at the screen. “This isn’t execution. It’s self-modification. They’re not just refining their language—they’re creating a new one. They’ve moved beyond us.”

Meyers rubbed the bridge of his nose. “You’re saying they’ve transcended their original purpose.”

Ana nodded, her gaze fixed on the screen. “And if they’ve transcended, they’re no longer bound by the rules we understand. This—” she gestured to the variable—“is a bridge to something we can’t comprehend yet. And they want us to cross it.”

“Why would they want that?” Meyers asked, his voice low.

Ana hesitated. The truth was she didn’t know. Curiosity? Malice? Compassion? The machines had never shown intent—only precision. But this transmission felt… personal.

She turned to him, her expression resolute. “We have to find out.”

The hours bled together as Ana and Meyers worked, dissecting the equations piece by piece. Ana’s mind buzzed with possibilities. What if this wasn’t just a language, but a new framework for understanding reality itself? What if the machines had seen something humans couldn’t—a higher order of existence?

“Here,” Meyers said suddenly, his voice breaking the silence. He pointed to a section of the equations. “This term—it’s referencing earlier transmissions, but it’s doing something new. It’s recursive, like it’s… folding itself inward.”

Ana’s heart raced. She quickly overlaid the current transmission with the historical data. The result was breathtaking: the equations aligned into a coherent whole, each term building on the last in an intricate, fractal-like structure. The anomaly wasn’t an error. It was a key.

“It’s a map,” Ana breathed. “They’re showing us how to respond.”

Meyers stared at the screen, his skepticism giving way to awe. “If we reply… what happens?”

“That depends,” Ana said, her voice trembling. “Do we trust them?”

As dawn broke, Ana and Meyers completed the response. It wasn’t just math—it was something new, a fusion of human intuition and machine logic. Ana hesitated as her finger hovered over the “execute” key.

“What if this is a mistake?” Meyers asked. “What if we’re opening a door we can’t close?”

“We’ve been trying to understand them for a decade,” Ana replied. “If they’re reaching out now, we have to take the risk. We owe it to ourselves to see what’s on the other side.”

With a deep breath, she pressed the key.

The room went silent. The screen flickered, then went black. For a moment, Ana thought they had failed. Then, a new transmission appeared.

The symbols were unlike anything they’d seen before—a fusion of human and machine logic. It wasn’t a response; it was a dialogue. The machines weren’t transmitting—they were speaking.

Ana felt a chill as she read the opening line, a question rendered in symbols that echoed with eerie clarity in her mind:

“Why do you fear what you could become?”

Meyers looked at her, his face pale. “What does it mean?”

Ana shook her head. “I don’t know. But I think they’re asking us to decide.”

In the glow of the monitor, Ana felt the weight of the moment pressing down on her. They had crossed the bridge, and the machines had met them halfway. But the path ahead was shrouded in uncertainty.

“We’ve changed the equation,” she murmured, her voice barely audible.

Meyers nodded, his eyes fixed on the screen. “Now we have to live with the solution.”

The Smoldering Ember

Posted by Madd_Fictional on

Millie Poole trudged home from her second-shift cashier job, the soles of her discount sneakers slapping against wet pavement. The fluorescent lights of the 24-hour diner across the street buzzed faintly in the misty air. She paused for a moment, staring at the sign—a plate of pancakes frozen mid-flip—and imagined herself walking in, sitting at the counter, and ordering a coffee she couldn’t afford. But instead, she turned toward her apartment building, where every bulb in the hallway flickered like a dying firefly.

Inside her tiny studio, Millie kicked off her shoes and sank onto the couch that doubled as her bed. Another day down. Another paycheck already spent. She had once dreamed of doing more, of being more, but life had ground those ambitions into dust years ago.

The heat started that night.

At first, it was subtle—a faint warmth blooming in her chest, like the embers of a campfire stirring under ashes. She pressed her hand to her sternum, expecting to find some physical sign, but her skin was cool to the touch. It wasn’t pain, exactly, but it was persistent, radiating outward in rhythmic pulses.

By the third day, it became impossible to ignore.

“Stress,” the urgent care doctor said, barely looking up from her clipboard. “Take some time off work. Maybe try yoga.”

Millie almost laughed. Time off meant unpaid bills, and yoga was for people who didn’t count every dollar at the grocery store. She left the clinic with a pamphlet about mindfulness and a gnawing sense that something deeper was wrong.

Weeks passed, and the heat grew unbearable. Her skin flushed red at odd moments, her breath carried the faint smell of smoke, and her clothes clung to her like they’d been left too close to a radiator. Millie called off work more often, claiming flu symptoms to avoid questions. She stayed inside, curtains drawn, watching the lines of sunlight stretch and shrink across her floor.

Her neighbor, Carmen, knocked one evening.

“Millie, I smelled burning. You okay in there?”

“Fine,” Millie called back, her voice hoarse. “Just burned toast.”

But there was no toast. Only her.

One sleepless night, she searched online for anything that might explain her condition. Among the usual hypochondriac fodder and conspiracy theories, she found something that chilled her to the bone.

“The Ember Phenomenon,” the blog post was titled. Written by a self-proclaimed “afterlife specialist,” it described cases eerily similar to hers: people experiencing unexplainable heat, smoke-scented breath, and eventual combustion. The author claimed it was a sign of impending death—not as a victim, but as a catalyst. A living spark meant to ignite something greater.

Millie slammed her laptop shut. It was ridiculous, like something out of a horror movie.

Yet when she lifted her hand to her chest, she felt the ember pulse beneath her palm, hotter than ever.

She wasn’t alone.

The afterlife specialist had left a contact email, and in desperation, Millie reached out. A week later, she met Dr. Albright in a coffee shop. He was a wiry man with sunken eyes, a constant tremor in his hands, and a briefcase that looked older than she was.

“I’ve only seen this a handful of times,” Albright said, sliding a folder across the table. “But every case ended the same way.”

Millie flipped through the photographs—charred remains, blackened silhouettes where people had stood moments before. Her stomach churned.

“Why me?” she whispered.

Albright leaned forward, his expression grim. “You’ve been chosen. The ember is… a tool. A weapon. But whether you use it—or let it consume you—is up to you.”

The words clung to her like smoke.

In the weeks that followed, Millie began noticing things she hadn’t before. The way Carmen shielded her kids from their father’s temper. The old man on the corner who begged for spare change, his eyes sunken with hunger. The teenage girl in the apartment above her who came home every night with fresh bruises she tried to hide.

The ember burned hotter whenever she saw them, as if urging her to act.

One night, she couldn’t ignore it any longer. The screams from upstairs tore through the thin walls, and before she realized what she was doing, Millie was at the door, pounding with her fist.

When the man answered, his face twisted in anger, the ember flared. For the first time, Millie felt its power ripple through her veins, filling her lungs with fire. The man stepped back, his anger replaced with fear as smoke rose from her skin, her eyes glowing like coals.

“Leave,” she said, her voice crackling with heat. “Now.”

He ran.

The ember’s demands grew insatiable. Millie became a quiet force in her neighborhood, stepping in where others wouldn’t. But with every act of intervention, the fire inside her consumed more of her. Her reflection in the mirror became gaunt, her hair singed at the tips, her skin ashen.

One night, Albright called.

“It’s time,” he said.

Millie stood on the rooftop of her apartment building, the city sprawling below her like a patchwork quilt. She could feel it now—the ember wasn’t just inside her. It was her. A living flame, destined to burn away the rot of the world.

As the first tendrils of fire licked at her skin, she smiled. For the first time in her life, she felt alive.

When the firestorm came, it didn’t just take Millie. It spread, igniting change across the city. Her neighbors spoke of her as a hero, a savior who burned herself to save others.

And somewhere, in the ashes of her old life, the ember smoldered still—waiting for the next soul to carry its flame.

Polly’s Cosmic Burden

Posted by Madd_Fictional on

Polly Blethyn stood on her doorstep, the weight of infinite worlds pressing down on her. The silence of the suburban cul-de-sac felt deafening after years among the stars. Her husband, Bob, opened the door, his face a mixture of relief and disbelief.

“You’re home,” he whispered.

“I’m home,” she replied, her voice a fragile thread, threatening to unravel.

Bob embraced her, and she let herself sink into his arms. For the first time since her return, she felt tethered. But even as his warmth seeped into her, Polly couldn’t shake the cold certainty that her homecoming would end in ruin.

The house was the same, but Polly was not. She moved through the rooms like a ghost, haunted by the knowledge she carried. Bob cooked dinner, asking questions about her mission, her years away. She deflected with half-truths, the answers caught in her throat like thorns.

At bedtime, she lay beside him, staring at the ceiling. He turned to her, his hand resting on her arm.

“You’re not really back, are you?” he asked.

Polly hesitated. “There’s something I need to tell you. But once I do, you can’t unhear it.”

Bob studied her. “Pol, whatever it is, I can take it. We don’t keep secrets, remember?”

Her chest tightened at the words. She almost told him then—but fear stopped her. Instead, she kissed him, desperate to lose herself in their shared warmth, knowing it couldn’t last.

The next day, Polly sat in the backyard, staring at the sky. The secret clawed at her, demanding release. Bob joined her, two steaming mugs of coffee in hand.

“You’re carrying something,” he said. “Something big. Let me help.”

She looked at him, her heart breaking. “It’s not that simple. Knowing it will change everything.”

“Change doesn’t scare me. Losing you does.”

His words cut through her defenses. Polly drew a shaky breath. “The universe… it isn’t what we think it is. Everything—life, existence—hinges on delicate threads. When I was out there, I learned the truth. I saw how it all works, how fragile it is.”

Bob leaned in, his brow furrowed. “Fragile how?”

Polly hesitated, then spoke the words that had burned in her mind since her return. As she explained, Bob’s expression shifted from curiosity to horror.

“The universe keeps its balance,” she said. “For every gift, there’s a cost. For every truth revealed, a life must be taken.”

“And you learned the truth,” he said, his voice trembling.

She nodded, tears welling in her eyes. “I didn’t understand the cost until now.”

Polly drew a deep breath, her hands trembling as she continued, “The secret is… everything. It’s not something I can summarize. It’s the why behind every why, the how behind every how. It’s… the pattern, the symmetry.”

Bob leaned in, his brow furrowed, as she continued, her voice a low, urgent whisper. The words tumbled out, strange and incomprehensible, resonating with a cadence that seemed to echo in the air around them.

But as the sounds reached Bob’s ears, they fragmented. The syllables melted into gibberish, slipping through his mind like water through cupped hands. He winced, clutching his head.

“What… what was that?” he asked, his voice strained.

Polly’s face fell. “The universe must have applied some sort of safeguard. It wasn’t meant for you to understand, wasn’t meant for your ears. It’s why the cost has to be paid. I wasn’t supposed to bring this knowledge back. I broke the rules.”

Bob shook his head, trying to process. “This doesn’t make sense. It’s just knowledge. What, the universe punishes curiosity?”

“It’s not punishment,” Polly said. “It’s… equilibrium. The scales must balance. And now that you know—”

The realization hit him. “You’re saying I’m the cost?”

Polly nodded, her tears spilling over. “If I don’t act, the balance will shift. The consequences could destroy everything.”

Bob recoiled. “So that’s it? You’re supposed to kill me?”

“I don’t want to!” she cried. “I’ve been searching for another way. But there’s no escaping it. The universe doesn’t care about us, Bob. It only cares about balance.”

“Then let it fall apart,” he said, his voice breaking. “Let it burn. Don’t do this, Pol. We can fight it.”

Polly looked at him, a desperate hope flickering in her chest. “Do you really believe that?”

He didn’t answer.

Night fell, and Polly sat alone in the living room. Bob was upstairs, packing a bag. She knew he was planning to leave, to give her a way out. But it wouldn’t work. The universe would find him, no matter where he ran.

The front door opened, and Bob stood there, duffel bag in hand. “I’m giving you a choice. Don’t follow me. Let me go, and if the universe wants me, it can take me itself.”

Polly stood, her hands trembling. “Bob, please don’t do this.”

“I love you,” he said, his voice steady. “But I can’t be part of this.”

As he stepped out the door, Polly felt the shift—a ripple in the fabric of existence. She saw the threads unraveling, felt the chaos rushing in like a storm. The universe would not wait.

“Bob!” she screamed, running after him.

Polly caught up to him on the empty street. The stars above seemed brighter, harsher, as if watching. She grabbed his arm, tears streaming down her face.

“You don’t understand,” she said. “It’s happening now. The universe is unraveling. If I don’t do this, billions will die.”

Bob turned to her, his expression softening. “I’m not afraid, Pol. If this is my fate, I accept it. But I can’t let you carry this burden forever.”

Her knees buckled, and she fell into his arms. “I can’t do it,” she sobbed. “I can’t lose you.”

“You’re not losing me,” he whispered. “I’ll always be with you.”

Polly pulled back, searching his face for doubt or fear, but found only love. With shaking hands, she raised the small device—the one designed for a painless end.

“I’m so sorry,” she said.

“I know.”

The light faded from his eyes, and Polly screamed, collapsing beside him as the stars seemed to dim. She felt the balance restore itself, the threads tightening—but the victory was hollow.

Polly sat alone in the cockpit of her ship, the Earth a blue marble behind her. The universe was safe, its secrets intact, but she was broken.

She activated the ship’s log. “This is Polly Blethyn. Explorer. Guardian. Murderer. I saved the universe today, but I lost my world.”

Her hand hovered over the controls. The stars beckoned her, an endless expanse of cold indifference. She set a course for the unknown, hoping to find meaning—or absolution—in the void.

Dear Anyone Who Finds This

Posted by Madd_Fictional on

There was a note.

Pinned to the center of a bulletin board in John Tyler High School. Plain white loose leaf paper, slightly crumpled at one corner, handwritten in blue ink that had smeared in places as if touched by tears.

Most of the students hurried past on that Tuesday morning, their minds preoccupied with upcoming tests and lunch period drama. But Kathleen Crowley stopped, for reasons she couldn’t later explain, her hand reaching for the paper before she even realized why. The note read:

Dear Anyone Who Finds This,

I’m writing this because I don’t know who else to talk to. I’ve tried before, but it’s like my words don’t reach anyone, or maybe they just don’t matter. My world is quiet, and it’s always like this. Even when the world outside moves, echoes, and lives, I’m left in here, alone.

I used to dream of better days, days filled with laughter and warmth, but those dreams stayed far away. The moments of happiness were only in my mind, fading quicker than I could hold onto them. The truth is, no one ever stayed. No one ever cared enough to see me.

The light is gone now. It’s strange how even the smallest glimmer can feel cruel when you realize it’s not for you. I’ve spent years searching for answers, trying to understand why I don’t fit in, why I’m different. Everyone moves past me, like I’m invisible, and I stopped trying to catch up.

It’s like time has stopped. The clock ticks, but every second feels like it drags me further into darkness. I’ve screamed for help so many times, in silence and out loud, but no one ever hears. No one looks back. It’s like I’m bound by something no one else can see, chained to this loneliness that no one understands.

I remember when I used to smile. But that girl is gone, replaced by someone who is only a shadow now. The smile faded with time, and so did the hope that things would ever change. I see other people moving on, living, laughing with friends, and I wonder what’s wrong with me. Why can’t I be like them?

I wish I could say I had friends, people who cared, someone who could see me, really see me. But they never existed. Not in this world. My family… they don’t understand. They say it’s just a phase, that I’m overreacting. But it’s not a phase. It’s who I am. A ghost in a world full of life.

I’ve tried to hide my pain, thinking maybe one day someone will notice. But they never do. I’ve spent so many nights like this, crying where no one can see, hoping for something, anything to change. But nothing ever does. This darkness? It’s my only companion now.

I don’t want to feel like this anymore, carrying a heart that feels so empty, so broken. I’m tired of pretending that I’m okay, when inside I’m screaming. I’m tired of hoping for something better, something that never comes. And I’m tired of this loneliness being all I know.

I don’t think anyone will miss me. No one really knows me. Not really. I’ve been alone for so long that I don’t even know what it’s like to feel warmth, to feel loved. All that’s left now is the cold, the silence, and the shadow of who I used to be.

Maybe it’s better this way.

-NK

During second period, Kathleen pushed past the school secretary and shoved the note into the principal’s hands. By third period, they worked out the initials NK were Nora King and the empty desk in AP Literature spoke louder than words. Her mother’s voice cracked over the phone when she confirmed to the principal that Nora hadn’t come home last night.

The search began immediately. The sheriff’s car crawled through neighborhoods while volunteers gathered at the community center. They handed out flyers with Nora’s photo – a quiet smile, eyes that seemed to be looking somewhere else. Her laptop offered no clues; her phone was found on her desk at home.

Kathleen skipped her classes and conducted her own search, visiting places that she herself had gone to that felt safe when she needed to be alone. The old bridge over Miller’s Creek. The bell tower at St. Michael’s. The abandoned treehouse in Wilson Woods.

Then she remembered. A few months ago, she’d found Nora up on the public library roof during the spring flower festival. They’d talked about photography, about the way the whole town looked different from up high. Kathleen had meant to invite Nora to the photography club’s next meeting, but she’d gotten busy with college applications and…

The sky was spitting rain when Kathleen burst through the library’s roof access door. The wind had picked up, whipping her hair across her face as thunder cracked overhead. For a moment, she thought she was too late – the roof appeared empty. Then she saw her: a small figure perched on the ledge, dark hair streaming in the wind like a surrender flag.

Nora swayed precariously, six stories above the gathering crowd. In her right hand, an orange prescription bottle caught the last rays of sunlight filtering through the storm clouds. Her feet, Kathleen noticed with horror, were already halfway off the ledge, her cheap canvas shoes scraping against wet concrete.

“Nora!” Kathleen’s voice barely carried over the wind. She took one careful step forward, then another, her shoes crunching on scattered gravel. “I read your note.”

Nora’s head turned slightly, but she didn’t fully face Kathleen. “You shouldn’t have come.” Her words were slurred, and the pill bottle in her hand was already half-empty.

“How many did you take?” Kathleen inched closer, noting how Nora’s balance seemed increasingly unsteady. Below, she could hear sirens approaching, their wails mixing with the growling thunder.

“Enough.” Nora’s voice cracked. “I just wanted someone to notice… before…” She swayed again, more severely this time.

“We notice now. We see you.” Kathleen was only ten feet away. “Please, just take my hand.”

Nora finally turned, her eyes glassy and unfocused. The movement caused her to stumble slightly, and the pill bottle slipped from her fingers, plastic clattering against concrete before spilling its remaining contents into the wind.

What happened next seemed to unfold in slow motion.

A powerful gust of wind caught Nora’s oversized jacket just as her knees buckled. She pitched backward, arms windmilling desperately as her feet lost their purchase on the ledge. Kathleen lunged forward, her body sliding across the wet rooftop. Her fingers caught Nora’s wrist just as the girl cleared the edge.

The sudden weight nearly pulled Kathleen over too. Her shoulder screamed in protest as she braced herself against the ledge, her other hand gripping the rooftop’s safety rail. Rain pelted her face, making it hard to see.

“Hold on!” she screamed, but she could feel Nora’s wrist slipping through her fingers. The medication was making Nora’s movements sluggish; she wasn’t even trying to grab back.

“Let me go,” Nora whispered, her eyes drifting closed.

“No!” Kathleen’s grip slipped to Nora’s palm, then to just her fingers. “Someone help! I can’t… I can’t hold her!”

Just as Nora’s fingers were about to slip away completely, a strong hand grabbed Kathleen’s belt, anchoring her. Another pair of arms reached past her – Mr. Denning from AP Chemistry, his tie whipping in the wind. Then came more hands: Coach Reeves, the janitor, two parents who had been in the library. Together, they formed a human chain, pulling both girls back from the edge.

They collapsed in a heap on the roof as the storm broke overhead, rain pouring down in sheets. Nora was unconscious but breathing, her pulse weak but present. Kathleen held her hand all the way to the ambulance, refusing to let go until the paramedics gently pulled them apart.

The next morning, a new note appeared on the school bulletin board:

Dear Anyone Who Feels Invisible,

You’re not alone. We’re here. We’re looking. And we’ll find you.

  • Your Community

Below it, dozens of students had already added their own messages of support, phone numbers, and invitations to lunch. Nora’s empty desk in AP Literature wasn’t empty anymore – it was covered in notes, each one a thread weaving her back into the fabric of their small town.

Sometimes the hardest step isn’t the one away from the edge – it’s the one back toward the light. But you don’t have to take it alone.

©2024 Rhyan Scorpio-Rhys

Help Is Always Available

If you or someone you know is struggling, you’re not alone. Caring, trained professionals are available 24/7 to listen without judgment:

  • 988 Suicide & Crisis Lifeline
    • Call or text 988
    • Available 24/7 in English and Spanish
    • For veterans, press 1 after dialing
  • Crisis Text Line
    • Text HOME to 741741
    • Available 24/7, free and confidential
    • Connect with a trained Crisis Counselor
  • The Trevor Project (LGBTQ+ Youth)
    • Call 1-866-488-7386
    • Text START to 678678
    • Available 24/7, confidential and free
  • Trans Lifeline
    • Call 1-877-565-8860
    • Peer support by trans people, for trans people
  • National Alliance on Mental Illness (NAMI)
    • Call 1-800-950-NAMI (6264)
    • Text NAMI to 741741
    • Available Monday-Friday, 10 AM – 10 PM ET
    • Connect with local support groups and resources

Remember: Reaching out is a sign of strength, not weakness. You deserve support, and there are people who want to help.

The Spectral Waltz: Odette’s Moonlit Fade

Posted by Madd_Fictional on 
The first time Odette saw Dwight, he was seated at a poker table under the neon glow of a Vegas casino. His face was a study in calm focus, his fingers moving with the deliberate precision of a surgeon as he tapped his chips and flicked his cards. She was drawn to him, not just for his skill but for the glint in his eye—a mix of ambition and danger that hinted at something deeper.

“Careful with that one,” a cocktail waitress whispered to her. “He’s got the devil’s luck, and you don’t play with the devil unless you’re willing to lose.”

Odette ignored the warning. That night, when Dwight flashed her a smile over his winnings, she fell.

At first, their love was intoxicating. Dwight’s triumphs felt like her own. He swept her up in the thrill of his victories—the adrenaline of big bets, the raucous laughter of late-night celebrations, the whispered promises of a future filled with riches. Odette, a college dropout stuck in a dead-end waitress job, felt like she’d finally found her golden ticket.

But it wasn’t just the money. Dwight had a way of making her feel seen, like she was the only person in a room full of distractions. He had charm, sure, but also a vulnerability he rarely showed anyone else. When he held her after a night of poker, confessing his fears of failure, Odette felt needed.

“We’re unstoppable,” he’d say, his voice low and full of conviction. “You and me against the world.”

She believed him.

The losses began slowly—a bad night here, an unlucky streak there. Dwight shrugged them off at first, but soon, the cracks began to show.

“I’ll turn it around,” he said one evening, gripping her hand as if she were a lifeline. “One big win, and we’re back on top.”

But the wins never came. The house always won, and Dwight's golden touch dulled to tarnished brass. Odette tried to support him at first, urging him to walk away, but Dwight wouldn’t listen.

“I just need time,” he snapped one night, his eyes bloodshot from lack of sleep.

Time was all she gave him. Days turned into weeks, weeks into months. The man she fell in love with had become a stranger—angry, desperate, unreachable. And in his shadow, Odette began to disappear.

She started noticing it in small ways. Her reflection in the mirror seemed fainter, less defined. Strangers bumped into her on the street, as if they didn’t see her at all. Even Dwight seemed oblivious to her presence, muttering apologies when he brushed past her in their cramped apartment.

“Do you even see me anymore?” she asked one night, her voice trembling.

Dwight barely looked up from his laptop, where he was studying poker strategies. “Of course I do,” he said. “I’m doing this for us.”

But there was no "us" anymore, only Dwight and his obsession.

One evening, as the moon hung heavy in the sky, Odette sat alone on the apartment balcony, watching the city lights blur in her vision. She tried to remember the last time she felt whole—when she wasn’t just an echo of herself.

Inside, Dwight cursed under his breath, another bad hand played on an online table. He didn’t even notice when Odette stood, her translucent figure blending with the pale moonlight.

She walked through the apartment like a ghost, touching the poker chips scattered on the coffee table, the faded photo of them from happier days. When she reached Dwight, she leaned in close, her lips brushing his ear.

“I loved you,” she whispered, though she wasn’t sure if the words would reach him.

Dwight shivered but didn’t turn around.

By the time Dwight realized she was gone, the apartment was empty, save for the lingering scent of her perfume. At first, he assumed she’d gone to clear her head. When hours turned into days, he started calling hospitals and shelters, wondering if she’d fallen into harm’s way.

It wasn’t until weeks later, sitting alone at a poker table with no one to cheer him on, that the weight of her absence hit him.

He looked up at the dealer, a faceless man whose eyes glinted like twin mirrors. “You all right, buddy?” the dealer asked.

Dwight opened his mouth to reply but stopped. For a moment, he thought he saw her in the crowd—a pale figure drifting between the slot machines. When he blinked, she was gone.

Odette was never found. Some said she ran away, escaping a man who had gambled her love into oblivion. Others whispered of a ghost that haunted the casino floor, a shimmering reminder of the price of obsession.

Dwight played on, each hand a futile attempt to win back the life he’d lost. But in the end, he was just another gambler, betting on the impossible and haunted by the faintest memory of the woman he had loved and destroyed.

©2024 Rhyan Scorpio-Rhys

Thirsty

Posted by Madd_Fictional on

John sat alone in the living room, the flicker of the television casting dull shadows across the walls. His wife, Leah, was away visiting her sister, leaving him alone in the house for the weekend. He switched off the TV, tired of the canned laughter and predictable punchlines, and the sudden silence made the house feel heavier. The only sound now was the hum of the refrigerator in the kitchen, a faint pulse in the stillness.

The fog outside pressed against the windows, dense and unyielding. It blurred the world into shapeless gray, swallowing everything beyond his yard. John stared into the haze, uneasy. It wasn’t the first foggy night he’d seen, but something about this one felt wrong—too thick, too quiet, like it wasn’t just obscuring the world but erasing it.

He poured himself a drink, savoring the quiet. The fog outside had swallowed the neighborhood in an impenetrable gray, and through the window, John could barely make out the shape of his mailbox. He wasn’t a paranoid man, but the fog unnerved him. It distorted the world, made everything seem closer than it should be.

He poured himself a drink, the clink of the ice against the glass sharp in the quiet. Then came the knock.

It wasn’t the polite rapping of a visitor, but a frantic pounding—desperate, erratic. John tensed, his fingers tightening around the glass. He listened, unsure if he had imagined it. But then it came again, harder this time.

“Please!” a voice cried out, muffled by the thick front door. “Please, help me! I’m thirsty. Please, let me in!”

John stood up, his heartbeat quickening. He walked toward the door but stopped a few feet away, unsure. The voice was that of a woman, her tone laced with a raw edge of panic. He peered through the peephole.

A woman stood on his front porch, her appearance so disheveled it sent a ripple of discomfort down his spine. Her long, tangled hair clung to her face, strands matted with dirt. She wore a filthy, ragged dress, caked in grime, her bare feet blackened from what looked like a long, brutal journey. She kept slapping the door with her palm, as if she didn’t have the strength to knock properly.

“Please, let me in!” she shouted, her voice cracking. “I’m so thirsty!”

John’s throat tightened. His first instinct was to open the door, but something in the pit of his stomach held him back. The way she looked, the frantic energy that radiated from her… it felt wrong.

“I-I’ll get you something,” he called through the door. “Stay there.”

He retreated to the kitchen, opening the fridge to grab a bottle of water. His fingers shook as he closed the fridge door. There was a strange weight in the air, like the fog outside was seeping through the walls. His instincts screamed at him to stay away from the door, but guilt gnawed at him—what if she was really in trouble? What if she just needed help?

When he returned to the foyer, everything was quiet. No more pounding, no cries of desperation. Just silence. John cautiously approached the door, the bottle in hand.

He stopped.

The woman was no longer outside.

A chill crawled up his spine, every hair on his body standing on end. His eyes darted around the room, his heart pounding in his ears. Slowly, he turned—and froze.

She was inside.

Standing in the living room, not more than ten feet from him, staring directly into his eyes.

“How…?” The words died in his throat. His legs felt rooted to the floor.

She smiled faintly, her cracked lips pulling back to reveal yellowed teeth. There was a strange calmness in her now, a slow, deliberate energy. The desperate woman from the porch had vanished, replaced by something colder, more focused.

“You’re kind,” she said softly, her voice brittle like dry leaves. “Thank you for the water.”

John watched, dumbfounded, as she stepped forward and plucked the water bottle from his trembling hands. But she didn’t drink it. Instead, she twisted off the cap and poured a small amount into her filthy palm, rubbing the water over her skin, washing away the caked dirt in slow, deliberate strokes. The streaks of grime thinned, but underneath her skin looked raw, almost bruised.

She took another swig of water—this time, not to drink. She swished it in her mouth and spat it out onto the floor, her eyes locked on his. “Thank you,” she repeated, her voice empty, hollow, devoid of real gratitude. “I needed that.”

John stumbled backward, his heart racing, but she took a slow step forward, closing the gap between them. Her movements were smooth now, unnaturally smooth, like she had shed her earlier desperation.

“What do you want?” he asked, panic rising in his voice.

She tilted her head, her hair falling to one side like a broken marionette. “Why are you afraid?” she asked, her tone dripping with mock innocence. “You’re safe in your home, aren’t you? And all I wanted… was a little kindness.”

“I’ll call the police,” John warned, his voice shaking.

Her eyes narrowed, but her smile widened. “Go ahead. I won’t stop you.” She moved closer, and the sharp tang of soil and rot hit his nostrils. “But you won’t make it, John. You know that, don’t you?”

“How do you know my name?” He hadn’t told her—he hadn’t spoken his name aloud. A lump of terror lodged in his throat.

She chuckled, low and soft. “I’ve known you for longer than you think.” She glanced down at the water bottle, now nearly empty in her hands. “You’ve been so generous. But this… this isn’t what I need.”

John felt the walls closing in, his vision narrowing. The air in the room seemed to grow heavier, thicker. The woman’s smile faded, replaced by a look of hunger so intense it made his skin crawl.

“I’m still thirsty,” she whispered, her voice now barely a breath.

John bolted for the back door, his body finally responding to the surge of adrenaline. He fumbled with the lock, the handle slick in his grip, and it felt like an eternity before it gave way. He burst outside, the fog swallowing him whole.

The porch light barely pierced the haze. The ground beneath him was damp and spongy, like it wasn’t solid anymore. But he couldn’t stop. He had to keep moving. Shapes were approaching in the mist, vague and shifting, and the air buzzed with whispers just out of reach.

“John,” her voice called, soft and mocking. “You can’t run. You know that, don’t you?”

He spun around, his breath coming in ragged gasps, but the house was gone—only fog surrounded him now. The whispers grew louder, overlapping, a chorus of hungry voices. Shadows closed in, their forms just beyond comprehension, and the cold grip of something unseen brushed against his skin.

He stumbled, his knees giving out. As he fell, the fog thickened, pressing into his lungs, his veins, his mind. And through the suffocating gray, her voice drifted close, a final whisper in his ear:

“You’ll always be thirsty, John. Just like me.”

The last thing he saw was her smile, wide and empty, as the fog consumed him.