Ola exclaims—well, in his mind—as the princess takes glorious strides toward him, sword in hand.

“First blood wins,” she says.

“Your words, not mine, prince.”

She ends that last part with a smirk, like she’s about to make him eat his own words—his words, the prince’s words. Because honestly, Ola would never say such rubbish.

How hard could it be? Ola asks himself.

He looks around.

His smart mouth won’t save him this time.

So he unsheathes his sword too… less gracefully than a prince should, but it’s something, no?

He blames his sweaty palms. His posture. Anything but fear.

We’ll take it.

It seems the king will as well.

The king narrows his eyes.

This person is his son?

He wants to find out.

The king claps once.

Ola blinks.

She’s gone.

Then she’s in front of him.

Sofia no dey carry last.

She strikes.

He parries.

Once. Shling.

Twice. Shling.

Thrice. Clang.

The king is pleased.

And so is Ola, because for a second—just a second—he feels it.

Balance. Timing. Instinct.

Confidence begins to rise.

Bad decision.

Her sword pauses—

Then her fist drives straight into his gut.

Everything leaves his body at once.

Air. Pride. Ancestors.

Ola is sent flying out of the room and into the courtyard.

He lands hard, coughing up things he didn’t even know were inside him.

The marble floor cracks where he hits, sending a small spray of dust into the air. Courtiers gasp.

The king doesn’t move.

He doesn’t have to.

He conjures something grotesque.

Eyeballs with wings.

I’m surprised too. They follow Ola, transmitting everything to a screen before the king.

Lucky.

The princess glances at the king.

He nods—the kind that says carry on, beat that werey, but nobles don’t talk like that, so we’ll skip.

Ola is still retching, trying to prop himself up with his sword.

Sofia wastes no time.

She leaps from the throne room—

And lands in the courtyard.

She comes down with an overhead strike—

Ola blocks.

On one knee, he’s forced into the ground by the sheer force of it.

Cobblestones crack. A fountain’s edge shudders. Something in his chest protests. Loudly. Maybe ribs. Definitely pain.

No blood yet.

Ola grits his teeth and pushes back.

It works—

A little.

But she gives him no time.

Ola has learned this.

He kicks up sand into her eyes—dirty, but effective.

Quickly, he moves behind her.

Almost there, he tells himself. Just a few more steps—

Heat—

Then fire explodes outward from her.

She spins—

And her kick lands clean.

Ola is sent flying, his royal hair a mess.

He forgot there was magic in this world.

Well what would he have done if he remembered?

Branches snap as he crashes through a row of trees. Leaves rain down. Birds scatter.

He finally lands near the royal pond, water splashing over him.

Courtiers duck behind statues. Some are cheering. Some are frozen.

The king watches, amused.

Could this really be his son?

He’s never seen him take this many hits.

Ola—

Well.

I don’t know what you’re expecting.

He’s unconscious.

But surprisingly, not bleeding.

The princess exhales, lowering her stance.

“The fight continues another day,” she says.

June steps forward.

And, unfortunately, becomes responsible for carrying him.

Meanwhile, the real prince—stuck in Ola’s body—has been busy.

After his interview, he managed to burn down Ola’s house and land in jail.

We’ll cover that next time byeee

The alarm is ringing so loudly that I eventually will myself up just to turn it off.

I also hear my name coming from the door.

“Coming,” I say automatically, but when I open it the hallway is empty.

Another beautiful day, I tell myself as I open the blinds.

My neighbor’s children are running around on my lawn, laughing. One of them waves enthusiastically at… nothing.

Maybe they see them too.

The sprinklers are creating pretty sparkles in the sunlight.

I don’t have sprinklers.

I squeeze my eyes shut and shake my head.

No. It’s a beautiful morning and it’ll be a beautiful day.

It has to be.

Now I just have to go to work.

I work at the cemetery and mortuary. Things happened and I ended up there. I lost my parents, my job, and the only family member I had helped me get this one.

I bury people. I transport their bodies.

Sometimes we talk, too.

It’s just me and them the whole day.

You see, I’ve always been told I had a great imagination. It’s fun being all up in my head. It helps me escape things I don’t want to see.

I’m at work now, only I don’t remember coming in. It’s been two hours since I was home.

Anyway, there’s a faint knock on the door.

I check, and it’s just old man Ade.

I buried him last week.

He came to tell me his grave is too dry and needs watering.

I pick up the watering can and head for his grave, waving at Mrs. Esther braiding her hair. She lost her arm to an explosion; now she just sits on her grave and uses the other.

I water Mr. Ade’s grave and head back into my office.

Where the others are waiting.

I blink.

And I’m back home.

They whispered something to me before I came back.

Take your medication, kid.

I stand in the quiet of my apartment for a long time.

Then I reach for the orange pill bottle on my bedside table.

My therapist is going to love this story.

The last time we saw him, he was being dragged somewhere he didn’t understand, late for something he didn’t know, choosing cooperation over execution. In his mind, this had to be some sort of mission. Kings didn’t summon princes without reason. And princes who asked too many questions tended to lose their heads.

So he played along.

The doors burst open and the world assaults him all at once.

Noise—loud, constant, layered.

Smoke—thick, stinging, invading his lungs until he coughs like he’s been poisoned.

Buildings—tall and shiny. Is that even possible? He can see himself in something that isn’t water.

The fabrics people are wearing—no armor. What if they’re suddenly attacked?

No ball gowns in sight either. Is this place truly so… dull?

And then the carriages.

Horseless.

Metal beasts rolling on black wheels, people sitting inside them like royalty, moving faster than any horse he’s ever seen.

The prince freezes mid-step.

How are they doing this?

His mind races. This must be sorcery. Advanced sorcery. The royal wizard must have finally snapped and shared his secrets with the masses. Dangerous man.

He makes a mental note to investigate later.

For now, he focuses on keeping up.

He jogs behind the woman who drenched him earlier—clearly some sort of guard or escort—dodging people, nearly getting run over by one of the metal beasts that honks angrily at him like an insult.

Finally, he catches up.

“Excuse me, dear miss,” he says politely, breathless. “Please, what is going on?”

The woman stops dead.

Turns slowly.

Stares at him like he’s grown another head.

This, unfortunately, is Ola’s elder sister.

And Ola—real Ola—most definitely does not speak like that.

“Be like you knack head for floor as you dey comot?” she asks, eyes narrowing. “Are you okay?”

The prince blinks.

He doesn’t know what she said.

But somehow—somehow—he understands every word.

He straightens, nods solemnly, and answers with the confidence of a man bluffing for his life.

“I am… functioning.”

She squints harder.

“Functioning ke?” she mutters. “Ola, abeg don’t start this your rubbish this early morning.”

She grabs his wrist and pulls him forward.

“Make we dey go. If you miss that interview, na you know wetin you go tell Mama.”

Interview? the prince thinks faintly, as the world keeps moving without waiting for him.

Interview.

Ah.

Another battle.

He wonders which beasts he’ll be slaying today.

They arrive at a large building—glass walls, cold floors, guards that do not carry swords. Ola is told to walk in alone. He does, sitting calmly, folding his hands the way royalty is taught to.

Everything appears fine.

It is not.

A man walks in. Suit. Tie. Polished shoes. Ola is immediately impressed—this armor is sleek, intimidating.

“Good morning, Mr Ola,” the man says. His voice is deep, his eyes sunken. A veteran, surely.

Ola clears his throat.

“Good mor—o—ning, sir.”

The man nods slowly. “Okay. Now, Mr Ola, tell me about your qualifications.”

The prince relaxes.

Ah. This one he knows.

He sits straighter, confidence blooming.

“I am Prince Julius the First,” he begins proudly. “Leader of the Imperial Knights. First-class mage warrior. Defender of the Eastern Gates. Slayer of—”

The man’s pen stops moving.

Ola falters.

“…but somehow,” he adds carefully, “I have become… just Ola. And Ola is a random man.”

Silence.

Long. Loud silence.

The man leans back in his chair.

“Mr Ola,” he says evenly, “is this some kind of joke?”

The prince panics.

Rule one: say less.

Rule two: be vague.

I have to become this Ola, he realizes. That must be my mission here.

“Yes,” Ola says quickly. “Metaphorical.”

The man raises an eyebrow.

Ola nods, serious. “I believe in… transferable skills.”

The man sighs. “Just hand me your CV.”

A CV?

What is that?

Ola keeps his face neutral as he rummages through the backpack his sister handed him. May the gods bless her, he thinks. She shall be rewarded heavily.

His fingers close around a file labeled CV.

Victory.

He hands it over.

The man reads. His face changes—confusion melting into interest, then amusement. He smiles.

“No wonder you were joking,” he says. “You actually meet all the requirements. You’re a silly fellow.”

Silly.

Fellow.

The prince’s jaw tightens. He does not take lightly to being reduced to a clown. His hand twitches, instinctively reaching for his sword.

There is nothing.

He makes a mental note to acquire a new one—and to have this man’s head by the end of the week.

He barely hears the rest of the conversation. When a hand is offered, he shakes it. When told he may go, he leaves.

Outside, the world is still loud. Still strange. Still moving too fast.

Ola exhales.

This is going to be crazy.

The prince is going through all this while Ola is soaking in a hot tub in the prince's body — true true life no balance.

I wonder how long till the prince is locked up and Ola's head is lobbed off😭

Stay with me and hopefully we'll find out

Well—not too far back in time. It’s January 3rd in Abuja, and Ola is staying up late, reading a book he found and doesn’t remember putting in his bag. Smart move, Ola.

Our tech bro has just finished his nightly skincare routine—do you think this flawless skin is effortless? He slips into bed, hesitates, then picks up the book. Yes. That book. He reads a few pages, his eyes grow heavy, and somewhere between one paragraph and the next, Ola falls asleep.

Now Ola is right here.

He wakes to sunlight brighter than he remembers. The air feels heavier—and so does he. He sits up slowly, eyes scanning the room. Gold. Everywhere. Walls, pillars, carvings. Too much gold.

Ola blinks.

Maybe poverty has finally succeeded in taking his mind with it.

He pinches himself.

Nothing changes.

Minutes pass and he’s still frozen in awe when the door opens. A girl walks in—no, a woman. One of the prince’s attendants.

June.

She could honestly pass for a princess. Pink hair braided delicately to the side, hazel-green eyes, the softest features Ola has ever seen. Calm. Poised. Unreal.

Ola—our new prince—is speechless.

“Good morning, my prince.”

Prince? Ola thinks. Who? Where? When?

He doesn’t know what’s happening, but instinct kicks in. When in doubt—act like you belong. He clears his throat, straightens his back, and decides to play along.

“Morning to you, pretty lady,” he says.

Oh, Ola.

What if they have your head for this?

“My prince? Is everything okay?”

June asks again, concern knitting her brows. The prince—Ola—has never called her anything before. Certainly not pretty lady.

Ola’s heart starts racing. This is bad. Very bad. This feels like the kind of bad that ends with beheadings and crowds and dramatic music.

He panics.

“Declare yourself!” he yells, rubbing his eyes and stretching dramatically, as though sleep itself has personally offended him.

Olodo.

June freezes for half a second, then drops into a respectful bow. “Forgive me, my prince. I am June, your attendant.”

Relief washes over Ola so hard he almost slumps back into the mountain of pillows. Okay. Okay. That worked. He nods slowly, as if this is all perfectly normal and not the most terrifying morning of his life.

“Yes. June,” he says carefully, testing the name like a password. “You may… proceed.”

Proceed with what, exactly, he has no idea.

June straightens. “His Majesty requests your presence at breakfast.”

Ola’s soul leaves his body.

The king?

The king king?

Father-of-the-prince king?

Jesus oh.

Ah. This is it. This is where they discover he doesn’t belong. This is where they ask questions like What battle did you win last spring? or What is the royal motto? or Why do you speak like that?

He swallows.

“Breakfast,” Ola repeats, stalling. “Yes. But… not immediately.”

June tilts her head. “My prince?”

He places a hand on his chest, channeling every dramatic faint he’s ever seen in a movie. “I am… unwell.”

June gasps. “Unwell?”

“Yes,” Ola continues quickly, warming to the lie. “Very. Unwell. My head feels… full. Of thoughts.”

That part, at least, is true.

June hesitates, then nods. “You did return from an expedition only yesterday. I will inform His Majesty that you need time to recover.”

Bless you, June. Bless your pink hair.

She moves to leave, then pauses. “Shall I send for the physician?”

“No!” Ola blurts out—too loud. Too fast. He coughs, softening his tone. “I mean… no need. I require only rest. And… books.”

“Books?”

“Yes. The royal records. Histories. Anything,” he adds quickly, “to refresh my memory.”

June smiles gently. “Of course, my prince.”

When she finally leaves, Ola collapses onto the bed, breathing like he just outran death itself.

Okay. Think.

He’s a tech bro. He survives stand-up meetings, imposter syndrome, Abuja traffic, and unpaid internships. He can survive this.

Rule one: Say less.

Rule two: Ask questions disguised as wisdom.

Rule three: Blame everything on the expedition.

And he read a bit of that book yesterday so he should have a little royalty knowledge.

If the king asks about politics? He’ll say, “Times are changing.”

If he asks about war? “Strategy requires patience.”

If he asks about the future? Easy. “We must adapt.”

Vague. Thoughtful. Royal.

Ola looks around the room again—really looks this time. Symbols carved into the walls. A crest. Armor polished to a mirror shine. This prince had a life. A history. A script he’s supposed to follow.

Somewhere out there, a king is waiting for his son.

Ola exhales slowly.

“Alright,” he mutters to himself. “Let’s not die today— I neva make am yet.”

And for the first time since waking up, he notices something on the bedside table.

A book.

The same book.

“Ewo, my village people must have finally gotten to me.”

Ola couldn't believe his eyes.

The book was closed. Waiting.

Ola doesn’t touch it.

Not yet.

He's admiring the prince — himself in the mirror quickly, who knows when he'd ever be white and have gold hair again?

I spit out blood and maybe a tooth as the officer strikes me across the face. I’ve lost count of how many times it’s been. My cheek burns. I can’t feel my left eye.

“Oga, abeg naw,” I mutter, my words thick. “I go talk now. Please. E don do.”

He finally sits across from me. His face is flat, unreadable, like he’s conserving energy—ready to spend it on me if I waste his time.

So I start talking.

Yes. I came home earlier that day. I met Ms Mariam. Her door was open. It always was. I walked in like I always did. She was sitting on the balcony, just like every evening, and she greeted me normally.

I needed money. I took a loan from some people I shouldn’t have. People who don’t ask twice. I hadn’t paid back. I was desperate.

She said the amount was too much. She didn’t have it.

So I joked.

I said—half-laughing—that we could stage a kidnapping scare. Just talk. Nothing real. Her ex-husband was rich; he’d panic and send money quickly. I didn’t mean it seriously. It was a joke.

The officer slaps me again.

“A joke, abi?”

My head snaps sideways. The room tilts. The taste of iron fills my mouth.

“I was joking,” I repeat, weaker now. “I didn’t mean it like that.”

He leans forward, elbows on the table.

“Explain it to me slowly.”

My throat burns when I swallow.

“I said… what if people think she was kidnapped. Just that. That her ex-husband would panic. That he’d send money. I didn’t say I would do anything. I swear.”

“She said no,” the officer says.

“Yes.”

“And then?”

“She told me to go away.”

I hesitate. That’s where everything tightens. That’s where my story thins.

“She stood up,” I say. “She didn’t shout. She didn’t insult me. She just stood up and said it again. ‘Go away.’ Like I was a child.”

The officer’s pen stops moving.

“She looked at me like I was something dirty.”

Another slap.

“This is not a feelings session,” he says. “What happened next?”

“I didn’t touch her,” I say quickly. Too quickly. “I swear I didn’t.”

“But you stayed.”

“Yes.”

Silence.

“She offered me water,” I add, without thinking.

His eyes flick up.

“Water?”

“There was a sachet. Pure water. She drinks it all the time.”

I hear it—the mistake—as soon as the words leave my mouth.

He doesn’t react. He just writes.

“She drank,” I continue. “She sat back down. I kept talking. Trying to explain myself. She stopped answering.”

My voice is shaking now.

“I thought she was ignoring me.”

“How long did you wait?”

“I don’t know.”

Minutes. Enough minutes.

“She leaned back,” I say. “Like she was tired.”

The officer closes the notebook gently.

“And when did you realize she wasn’t listening anymore?”

I don’t answer.

After that, I got angry and left. I went out to clear my head. I walked. I thought. And somewhere between the walking and the thinking, I decided I would do it.

I came back later, after securing a place.

I went to my room normally. I even greeted her when I passed. She answered. Her voice sounded fine.

At night—around two—I got up and went to her room.

I tell myself now that she was asleep, as if that makes it better. As if it makes me kinder.

I injected her. I don’t know how she managed to open her eyes. I don’t know how she found the strength.

But she did.

She looked straight at me and said, “You’ll regret this.”

Then her eyes closed.

The room goes very quiet.

The officer doesn’t shout. That’s worse. He leans back and studies me like he’s finally decided what I am.

“You left,” he says.

“Yes.”

“You came back.”

“Yes.”

“And by then,” he continues evenly, “this woman you claim you didn’t touch was already not herself.”

I open my mouth. Nothing comes out.

He stands. The chair scrapes loudly against the floor. He opens the door and says something to someone outside. I hear movement. A laugh, far away, like the world hasn’t stopped.

When he turns back to me, there’s no anger left. Just process.

“So let me understand you,” he says. “You joke about ruining her life. She tells you to leave. She drinks water you were present for. She becomes unresponsive. You go out to ‘clear your head.’”

He steps closer.

“And then you decide to finish what the joke started.”

“It wasn’t like that,” I whisper.

“No?” He tilts his head. “Because from where I’m standing, you didn’t lose control. You planned.”

I shake my head too fast. Pain shoots down my neck.

“She was asleep,” I say, like it’s a defense.

He exhales slowly.

“She looked at you,” he says. “Didn’t she.”

I see it again. The darkness. Her eyes opening just enough. Not fear—recognition.

“You’ll regret this.”

“She knew,” the officer says softly. “Even then.”

Silence stretches.

Finally, he opens the notebook again.

“Who else knows?” he asks.

I look up. “Who?”

“Don’t play stupid,” he says, pen hovering. “Who helped you. Who gave you the idea. Who you talked to after.”

My hands are shaking now.

Nobody feels like the wrong answer.

Everybody feels worse.

“Now I need you to continue,” he says calmly, too calmly, “and tell me where she is. Or I’m going to pluck your eyes out. Got it?”

I swallow. My throat refuses to work. Silence stretches, thick and dangerous.

He notices.

He stands.

The chair doesn’t scrape this time. He walks out quietly. That’s worse. Much worse. I hear nothing—no footsteps, no voices—until I sense him behind me. Close enough that the air changes.

I’m too scared to turn around.

“Sir?” I whisper.

Something presses against my skin.

Hot.

Not sharp. Not sudden. Just heat—pure, deliberate heat.

My scream tears out of me before I can stop it. My body jerks forward, straps biting into my wrists. The pain is everywhere, swallowing thought, swallowing time. I can smell it before I understand it. My skin feels like it’s pulling away from itself.

Then it stops.

“SPEAK!” he shouts.

The word cracks through me.

“She’s dead!” I sob. “Okay—she’s dead! I didn’t mean to—I swear—I gave her too much. It was an accident.”

My chest heaves. Everything is slippery now. Words, breath, reality.

“She’s in an uncompleted building,” I rush on. “About thirty minutes from the house. I left her there. She’s dead. I know she is.”

Silence.

He steps back into my line of sight slowly, like I might shatter if he moves too fast. His face shows nothing. Not anger. Not satisfaction.

“Which building?” he asks.

I tell him.

“Which floor?”

I tell him.

“Where exactly?”

I tell him.

He writes it all down, carefully, like he’s taking inventory.

Then he closes the notebook.

“You overdosed her,” he says, not asking.

“Yes.”

“But she was alive when you left.”

I shake my head violently. “No. No, she wasn’t. She wasn’t breathing.”

He studies me for a long moment.

“You know what the worst part is, Jaleel?” he says finally. “You didn’t panic.”

I don’t understand.

“You didn’t run for help. You didn’t call anyone. You didn’t try to save her.”

He leans closer.

“You moved her.”

My mouth opens. Nothing comes out.

“That means,” he continues evenly, “some part of you knew exactly what you were doing.”

He straightens.

“If she’s alive,” he says, “you’ll wish you told the truth sooner.”

He turns toward the door.

“And if she’s dead,” he adds without looking back, “you’ll have plenty of time to remember her last words.”

The door opens.

Just before it closes, he says one final thing—quiet, almost conversational:

“You should hope she didn’t suffer.”

The lock clicks.

And for the first time since this started, I’m alone.

And that’s when her voice comes back to me.

Clear.

Steady.

Not afraid.

You’ll regret this.

Hello Mr- I mean ace, sorry we had to call you back again today. How are you?

Ace

Come, this woman, what do you want from me? I already answered you yesterday na, do you know I had to trek here?

“Ace, we're live already”

And so, please I'm going, I don't have strength for another interview.

Reporter

Ah, ace please naw. You people should help me beg him, please oh.

“If I come back, will you guys sit with me?”

Say yes, say yes, please. I could lose my job.

They've said yes oya come back.

Ace

Walks in and sits back down majestically.

Clears throat. Hii guyss, how are you? Sorry you had to see all that, let's sit okay?

Reporter

We hear it's your second mensiversary today! And you just recently crossed 100 subscribers. Congratulationsss.

Ace

Stop ittt, I'm shyyy. Thank youu. I'm really grateful for everyone.

Reporter

So let's get right into it ace, will you tell us your origin story? I'm sure they're all dying to know. Why did he start writing? Where did he come from?

Uhmm I'm not some kind of superhero but okayy.

I downloaded substack to support my friend , my mentor, hiiiiiiiiiiiii. *waves to her sheepishly over the camera. After supporting her posts, I ghosted for awhile, didn't understand the app, ended up deleting it. But then one day I showed my writing begrudgingly if I may add. We were in class that day and she threatened to kill me if I deleted them. She told me to post, I even opened an anon account but it got blocked, so used this account eventually. Hiiii , I love youu and thank youu for being a great friend! Each time before I posted I'd show them both, get their opinion cause I didn't know what i was doing, just spilling in my notes app. Who'd want to read that? I thought. So that's basically it.

Reporter

Aww, that's really beautiful ace, you have great friends! Anyways, what's it like being a young writer? The support, is it massive?

I think it's really cool being on this space regardless of age.

Hehe, massive. I'm not egungun of lagos lol.

But yes my friendsss. They read, restack and comment on virtually all my posts. I'm so grateful! , , and They've been with me from the beginning. I love you guys! Then my writing started getting traction? Is that the word?(Reporter lady struggles to hold in a laugh)

And the friends I've made here too , , , , , , , and 🌚 ( make una no vex😭) to mention a few. It's been so much fun!

Reporter

Sorry about earlier I was trying to sneeze. This is really wonderful ace. I'm sure your friends love you too.

Quick question before I move on, I want to know and I'm sure the fans do too.

“What is it? *side eyee”

Well are you involved with anyone? Do you have a love-

I just knew it!! Look reporter lady, hold it right there. Take a good look at me okay, do I look like I have a love life? Please if you're not ready to continue let me know, I've not eaten today. Tch.

Reporter

But rumor has it you're a goner (*gives her a stern look)

I'm sorry, let's carry on. *Clears throat.

What do you think makes a thought worth posting?

Well, to me. I think anything is worth posting as long as it comes from you. If you think it, you should write it, who knows, it might resonate with someone. I've basically posted all my thoughts on here. From quotes, to poems and rants. My thoughts are always worth posting to me. Well if I'm not feeling doubtful that day… hahaha.

Reporter

So true ace, so true.

Next question then, what do you leave out on purpose?

Well, what if I said nothing?🌚

Actually, in my “reflective” posts I usually always end up writing it in first person for the most part. Then I convert all the I's to you's when I'm done. I'm literally just talking to myself tbh.

Reporter

That's a really weird writing method ( ace hisses)

Okay, next. What kind of messages from your readers stay with you? And do you write for or with them?

This woman, let's do quick and wrap this up. Abeg, na interview I wan do I no kill person.

Anyways, I love hearing what people think of my writing! Not in the greedy way, but it just makes me genuinely happy to see someone connect with something I said, every restack and comment means the world to me. And yes I write as if I'm in the audience, it's not for myself, it's for us!

*Chokes on saliva

Just talk say you wan kill me na

Reporter

So sorry ace, please somebody get him some water

Do you feel better now?

Okay, good.

We're almost done now.

There was a post you made about 3 aces, it raised concern about your mental health, are you fine?

You're trying to say I'm mad abi?

Come, this reporter sef, wetin dey worry you? Mtcheew

Anyways, I'm fine you guys, like I always say I'm mentally stable 🤭

*Left eye twitches but reporter chooses to ignore it.

Reporter

Clears throat and sips

Do you ever feel you post too much? With the daily posts and all.

To be honest, I do. But then I remind myself that it's my phone and nobody there bought me data so I can do whatever I chooses. I still hesitate alot though.

Reporter wrap this thing up!! Una no even get refreshments here, chaii.

Reporter

Please na, what does 2 months of consistency mean to you? Was it hard? And did you expect the growth?

It means alot tbh. I won't say hard I'll say it was fun, even days I didn't plan on writing anything I ended up with something, inspiration is everywhere for those who want it ( God please inspire me to study)

I never expected it yoh (felt like tyla on this😂) I'm still so surprised and so so grateful.

I'm going abeg

Reporter

Wait small nau

There's rumors going around saying you're taking a break. Are they true? And what do you have to say to your subscribers?

Oh chimmm

Actuallyyy, they're not just rumors. As you all know I go to uni and uni is hard. I don't think I can keep this up together with it and I have a big exam coming up… even though I'm not preparing yet ( God please 😔, do you people have tissue here? Can I cry? Off the camera lemme cry small)

We're back

Okay, as I was saying *sniffs, I'll take a break but I'll be back. I'm just really… tired? I think, I might still post weekly or every other week. We'll see

And to my subscribers, I love you guyss. Especially the first few, we started this together. So promise me we'll sit together again whenever I get back okay? And I'll definitely be reading you guys' work from the shadows 😌

Reporter

Oh ace, ( who's cutting onions in the studio?) you're just so… argh. Don't worry, we'll wait.

You wey wan kill me, please off the road abeg.

Reporter

Thank you for staying to the end Ace, but please tell us something about your love life, I need to know who two blues is about!!

*Ace proceeded to bite the reporter but he was escorted out by security.

Thank youu for reading till the enddd😂❤️

k bye for now.

You can ask more questions in the comments, I'll answer then after trekking back home and eating. Thank you.😔

It was another long day at work.

My boss, Mr Olakunle, always stresses me out. I can’t stand it. I’ll probably start looking for another job soon.

I’m leaving the office close to 11 p.m.

On a Friday.

Who does that?

All this stress for how much? Mtcheew.

I walk home. It’s not far, and besides, I can’t find any cab or bike. Useless people. The road is mostly quiet now, just one or two generators humming behind locked gates. Even the stadium lights look tired, duller than usual.

I live in a three-storey building around the stadium. Plenty flats, packed together. The walls are thin — we hear everything. Nigerians — always improvising with people’s lives. One good push and the wall would crack.

As I climb the stairs, I hear someone laughing inside one of the flats. A TV is playing too loudly somewhere above me. Normal sounds. Night sounds.

I pass my neighbour’s place — Miss Mariam. She lives alone. A divorcee. Her door is open, light spilling into the corridor.

“Good evening, Ma. You’re still awake?” I say as I pass.

“Couldn’t sleep,” she replies.

I hear her clearly from inside my own apartment next door. That’s how close we all are here.

“Oya naw,” I say, dropping my bag. “Take care oh. Please sleep soon.”

She doesn’t answer. I don’t think anything of it.

I change out of my office clothes, take a quick bath, and fall into bed. Tomorrow’s Saturday — no alarms, nowhere to be. Phone-in-bed time. I scroll aimlessly until the screen tells me it’s 2 a.m.

That’s when I hear a voice.

“They should all be asleep now.”

It sounds distant. Muffled. Maybe from the staircase. Sound carries here — everyone knows that.

I turn over.

Then I hear another voice. Lower. Sharper.

Miss Mariam’s voice.

“You’ll regret this.”

Silence after.

No struggle. No scream. Just a generator coughing to life somewhere nearby.

I fall asleep.

It’s 10 a.m. on Saturday when I finish narrating my yesterday to the officer.

Miss Mariam is missing.

Her door was open.

Her lights were on.

No one saw her leave.

And somehow, after all this, they think I’m the one.

Amarachi

I got back home early yesterday. School cancelled some classes — thank God — though one lecturer was still trying to teach till 5 on a Friday.

When I passed Miss Mariam’s flat, she was sitting by her balcony. Just staring outside. Or maybe asleep — I’m not sure. I didn’t greet her. Everyone knows how cranky she gets if you wake her when she’s like that.

I live next door to Jaleel.

The only man on this floor.

I heard him come in late. You can’t miss it — the stairs echo, and he never tries to be quiet. He greeted Miss Mariam like usual. She answered him normally. Nothing strange. No shouting. No fight.

Later that night — before Jaleel got back, actually — I heard her voice again. Like 7-ish

This time, she didn’t sound normal.

She kept saying, “Go away.”

Over and over.

Not loud. Just firm. Like she was talking to someone standing very close.

I didn’t hear any other voice clearly. Just movement. Shuffling. The kind you hear when someone is too close to your door.

I thought she was praying.

You know old women nau — they talk to God like He’s sitting across from them. I even laughed to myself and turned up my phone volume.

By the time Jaleel came in later, everything was quiet again.

This morning, when people started knocking and calling her name, that’s when I knew something was wrong.

Oh and few minutes before she started her "go away" I thought I heard Jaleel's door, but I was about to nap then. So maybe I imagined it?

Mr Sule

I was home throughout that day. My flat is by the stairs, directly below Miss Mariam’s. From where I sit, I hear everyone — footsteps travel more than voices in this building.

I heard Amarachi come in. Her heels always tap twice on the landing before she unlocks her door. I heard Jaleel too, much later. Office shoes. Hard soles. He never sneaks.

But there was another pair of footsteps that night.

Slower. Heavier.

A man’s.

I don’t know who he was, but I know he was not one of the usual people or maybe he was trying to throw me off? And I know he did not leave when others did. The generators got turned on so I could barely hear over the noise

When Jaleel finally came back, he greeted Miss Mariam like he always does. But she didn’t sound normal to me.

Not tired.

Not calm.

She sounded angry. On edge.

Like someone who had already been pushed too far.

I went out to see a friend by 7, so I don't know. I got back by 10.

That’s all I remember.

At the Station

Police finally call all of us and we’re faced with each other’s stories.

“Mr Sule, with all due respect, you dey craze?” Jaleel snaps when told about the footsteps.

Mr Sule grabs his collar immediately. “Na you dey craze oh, because me I no dey lie.”

The officer sighs, rubs his forehead, then raises a hand.

“Enough.”

The room goes quiet except for the hum of the standing fan.

The officer looks at his notes.

“Firstly,” he says, tapping the paper, “Miss Mariam’s door was open in all these accounts.”

He looks up. “Why?”

“She always left it open,” Amarachi says finally. “Especially in the evenings. For air. She says it’s better than fans.”

Mr Sule shakes his head slowly. “Not at night. Not like that.”

He turns to the officer. “She locks her door once it’s dark. Always. Even when she sits outside, she locks it and stays by the balcony.”

Jaleel scoffs. “So why was it open when I passed?”

Mr Sule looks at him. “That’s the question. Exactly what we'd like to know, young man”

The officer turns to Jaleel. “When you saw the door open, was anyone else there?”

“No,” Jaleel says quickly. Then hesitates. “I didn’t see anyone.”

“But you heard voices later.”

“Yes.”

“And you assumed they came from inside.”

“Sound carries.”

“You're sure you left work by 11?”

“Yes”

The officer nods and writes something down.

He turns to Amarachi. “You said you saw her earlier that evening.”

“Yes.”

“Was her door open then?”

“I… don’t remember.”

“But you remember she was on the balcony.”

“Yes.”

“But not the door.”

She swallows. “No.”

The officer leans back.

“So,” he says calmly, “we have three possibilities.”

“One: Miss Mariam opened her door herself.”

“Two: Someone else opened it.”

“Or three: It was already open because she was expecting someone.”

The fan squeaks as it turns.

“She wasn’t expecting Jaleel,” Mr Sule says.

Jaleel snaps his head toward him. “Who said anything about me? Me and you go get problem oh!”

Silence.

The officer closes his notebook.

“Whatever happened last night,” he says, standing, “didn’t begin with a scream.”

He looks at all of us.

“It began with an open door.”

The Flat

The hallway smells different in the morning.

Stale. Closed-up. Like something stayed too long.

Miss Mariam’s door is still open.

The officer stops at the threshold. The fan inside hums low and uneven, like it’s tired.

“Who was the last person here?” he asks.

No one answers.

He steps inside first.

The room is neat.

Too neat.

Her slippers are by the door, placed side by side. Not kicked off. Not hurried.

“She removes her shoes before entering,” Mr Sule says quietly. “Always.”

On the small table by the wall sits a glass of water. Half full. No condensation.

The chair near the balcony is pulled back.

Not fallen.

Not overturned.

Just moved.

The officer crouches by the doorframe. There’s a faint scuff on the floor. Like something heavy shifted its weight once.

“Anybody hear a struggle?” he asks.

“No,” we all say. Almost together.

He stands, walks toward the staircase, listens.

Nothing.

Then, faintly, from somewhere outside, a generator starts.

As the officer turns back, Amarachi’s eyes catch on something near the sink.

She frowns.

There’s a damp patch on the counter — already drying — and beside it, a small plastic sachet, torn cleanly across the top.

Pure water.

Empty.

The officer follows her gaze but says nothing.

He gestures for us to leave.

As we step into the corridor, the fan inside keeps humming.

No one turns it off.

Miss Mariam’s door stays open.

This was really fun to write. Tell me who you think did it . Guess before scrolling to the answer!

Leave a comment

I'll drop the officer's final statement and the answer eventually 🌚

Officer

By the time we step away from the flat, the noise finally makes sense to me. Miss Mariam didn’t leave in a hurry — the slippers aligned, the chair only eased back, the glass untouched long enough to warm. She opened the door herself. Not for air. For someone she recognized.

The words “go away” weren’t fear; they were refusal. Quiet, because the person was already inside.

The generator didn’t hide a struggle — it covered footsteps moving down the stairs, unhurried. Sule heard a man go up earlier, but from where?

And the voice at 2 a.m. didn’t come from her room at all. It came from the staircase. Sule should have heard that too. Close enough to hear her answer. Close enough to leave without running.

I circle one detail in my notes:

the only witness who heard Miss Mariam speak after midnight was already awake to hear her stop.

Jaleel.

He lied about his 11 p.m. clock-out — he came and went to make it believable. Amarachi wasn't imagining it. He lied about the voice to misdirect me.

Hi guyss, welcome to another episode of the interview. Today we're going to be taking a peek behind the curtains, in the author's mind and our special guest today is… drumroll please🥁🥁

Ace

Hi guyss, it's me. How are you doing? Will you sit with me? Let's go through this together, the journey hasn't been mine alone. Come on, pull up a seat it'll be funnn. I'll be answering some questions on my posts I think, it better not be more than that, lady *side eyee

Thank youu for inviting me for this interview 😌🧎🏾‍♂️

Reporter

How are you doing Mr Ace?

Ace

Uhmm just ace is fine and I'm good thank youu.

Reporter

Let's get right into it then!

First question

What would you say is the most personal piece you’ve written, and why?

Right into a hard one huh?

Well let's see, it'll definitely be one of my first few posts, life was really weird back then. My most personal will have to be:

I wrote that earlier this year after one of the most draining academic years of my life, I was literally just tired tbh. I don't think I've ever felt that way in my life, only to realize it definitely doesn't get better but oh well. Most of my old stuff is really close and personal to me, like

I wrote this one after seeing the picture, but it just sort of connected to me cause I think I was feeling better then, and then there's

I wrote this one at 2 am, I just felt so heavy so I had to write

Reporter

I think that's really beautiful young lad, I hope it gets better and the world becomes kinder to you

Next question then

What is your favourite personality trait about yourself, and how does it reflect in your writing?

Well, I'm an overthinker who feels alot. If you've been sitting with me for awhile you'll definitely know by now. It makes me write alot… maybe too much? I think that definitely shows in my writing. Cause I'm either overthinking a quote or maybe a picture or something. A gift and a curse tbh. Hahaha ( this is where you laugh)

Reporter

*laughs nervously

Well that's really something Ace, let's move on shall we?

What is your favourite piece you’ve written, and why?

Uhmm, I don't think I really have a favorite piece, they're all so precious to me fr. But I had so much fun writing:

And

It was just really fun letting my imagination run wild and actually seeing it through to the end.

Then my poems, I love poems and playing around with metaphors. Two blues is still my favorite one till date.

Then there's the time I wrote as the sun

Among my “reflective" posts I'd pick two too, let's see

Felt like I snapped on this one tbh, I just couldn't take it anymore 😂

The quote just kind of resonated with me and I had to spill my guts in a way. There's a lot but let's stick with these two. “To be seen” was me wanting to really understand what it's like and “nicest sponge in the world” well let's just say I snapped again.

Reporter

These seem so nice ace, everyone should totally check them out

So what is the last thing you read that made you feel truly seen?

Let's see, it's really tough, there's lots of talented writers on substack. But…

This. This just felt so real tbh

𝚂𝚑𝚞𝚔𝚛𝚘𝚑🧸ྀི

Why Do We Only Miss Things When They’re Gone?

Sometimes I wonder why life feels clearer in reverse. Why moments that once felt ordinary suddenly become the ones my heart aches for the most. It’s strange… how we sit inside a moment without knowing it’s the last time it will feel that way. How we move through days thinking they’ll repeat forever, not realizing we’re slowly walking out of a chapter we…

Read more

4 months ago · 24 likes · 3 comments · 𝚂𝚑𝚞𝚔𝚛𝚘𝚑🧸ྀི

And this one, felt like me, like she was speaking to me directly

Sakshee

The weight beneath the ribs

What Do You Do When You Feel Too Much…

Read more

4 months ago · 19 likes · 4 comments · Sakshee

You should really check them out!

Reporter

Well, you heard him people. Please do.

So our final question.

What motivates you to write?

Well, I just… write. Sometimes, it's a picture, videos too, animee, a quote, a feeling, a memory or something my friend said— my friends are top notch. Sometimes I just feel like writing, so I spill especially when I can't take it — I rant, should have like 3 😭 and I get inspired by people's posts too.

Reporter

Well, we've come to the end of this session. Thank you so much Ace, it was wonderful having you. Tell your friends about us too, we'd love to have them over.

Thanks for giving me this opportunity, it was an honor 😌🤝🏾

Thanks for sitting with me everyone. I love youu🧎🏾‍♂️❤️

I'd like to nominate And Anon, I don't know why I can't tag you, 🌚

If you like what you see here hit the button below, I promise I don't bite.

Subscribe now

Apparently our lecturers enjoy giving 8 a.m. classes. They come early, lock the doors, and act surprised when human beings are late.

God please do something, I mutter. Even if it’s the devil—abeg, you sef do something. I hiss under my breath. Don’t these people have happy homes?

I move through the morning like I’m being dragged by an invisible rope. Bath. Clothes. Bag. Everything done with resentment. On my way out, I shout goodbye to my mum. She’s probably out back, staring at the sky like she’s waiting for it to answer her. What a life.

“Chaii, why always me?” I ask myself at least fifty times on the way to school.

It’s cold and dry. Harmattan kind of cold. I rub my hands together in the back of the keke.

“This harmattan strong sha,” I mutter, mostly to myself.

The driver doesn’t respond. The engine rattles. Someone coughs behind me.

Normal things. Ordinary morning.

I get there three minutes to eight.

The class is already noisy. Too noisy. The lecturer isn’t around yet, but there’s something in the air—restless, sharp. Like something bad is about to happen.

God abeg oh.

We wait.

Eight becomes nine. Nine becomes ten.

Then another lecturer walks in. His face is tight, like he’s holding something fragile. He tells us the man who was supposed to teach us that morning was murdered.

Ewoo.

Murdered ke.

The class dissolves instantly—whispers, gasps, hands over mouths. Someone starts crying. Someone else laughs, too loudly.

And in the middle of it all, a thought slips into my head.

How funny it would be if my prayer this morning did this.

My chest tightens. I whisper God forbid three times in quick succession, like I’m chasing the thought out. I laugh, small and shaky.

Me ke.

I pack my things quickly and leave the classroom. Staying feels wrong. Like if I sit still long enough, someone will ask me a question I don’t know how to answer.

Outside, the road is quiet. Too quiet. No keke in sight.

I start walking.

That’s when I bump into someone.

He stops about two feet away from me—close enough that I catch a strange smell. Dry. Heavy. I shift to go around him, already planning to cross to the other side of the road. I’m not entertaining creeps; the country is not safe, biko.

He doesn’t move.

Then he says, softly,

“You people don’t think before you talk.”

I pause.

“Ehn?” I say. “Sorry? You said what?”

He tilts his head, like he’s studying me. I still can’t see his face—just a hoodie pulled low, dark goggles reflecting nothing but the road behind me.

“Careless words,” he continues. “Very dangerous.”

My heart starts beating too loudly.

“I don’t know you,” I say, forcing a small laugh. “I think you’ve mistaken me for someone else.”

He steps back.

“Hope you enjoyed your morning, though?”

For a moment, I think I see a smile.

Then someone calls my name from across the road.

I turn.

When I look back, he’s gone.

No footsteps. No movement. Just empty space where he stood.

My hands are shaking now.

I walk faster. Then faster.

“Jesus, Jesus, Jesus,” I whisper.

God abeg oh.

I didn’t mean anything by it.

I was just tired.

After that day, school stopped feeling safe.

Sleep stopped coming easily.

And prayer—prayer felt like something that needed permission.

Still, some nights, the thought comes back.

What if it wasn’t an accident?

I never finish the question.

I don’t think I want to hear the answer.

I’m drenched—sweat, rain, tears, blood, vomit—all of it mixing into one sticky, cold layer on my skin. I can barely stand, but somehow I manage to lift Charlotte off the forest floor. My legs threaten to buckle with every step, but I don’t let them. I can’t.

When I turn back for her mum…

she’s gone.

Her body. The book.

Both vanished without a trace—no blood, no ash, nothing.

Somehow, that terrifies me more than seeing her die.

I don’t know what I’ll tell Charlotte when she wakes. I don’t even know what I saw. I just know she’s breathing, and I can’t let her out of my sight.

I get her into the car and drive.

The world feels wrong. The trees too still, the sky too clean—like the storm never happened. Like the forest swallowed the evidence.

At the hospital, they treat her wounds. They ask questions. I answer none. I sit there shaking while they wipe the blood from her face. She doesn’t wake once.

When they’re done, I take her to another hotel. Far from the woods. Far from anything that even looks like a tree.

She sleeps instantly.

I’m left alone.

Alone with my thoughts. Alone with her floating body burned into my mind. Alone with the sound of that thing ripping through her mum. Alone with the silence after.

There’s a burning pain across my back—sharp, deep.

I reach behind me, my fingers brushing something hot and tender.

Did the flamethrower hit me?

Or… did something else touch me in that moment?

I don’t know.

I don’t know anything anymore.

Except one thing: something changed tonight.

In Charlotte.

In me.

In whatever was tied to that book.

And even though the monster is gone…

…I don’t feel safe.

Not even close.

---

Charlotte wakes up fine. I’m relieved, because I barely slept at all. The darkness reminded me of it. So I kept my eyes open, holding onto Charlotte like she might slip away again.

I promise to tell her everything once we’re home. She agrees, and we hit the road. Another long trip. Each stop feels heavier than the last. My insomnia gets worse, but I don’t tell her.

When we get to her house, I finally explain—the forest, the storm, the floating, the book, her mum.

She cries until she can’t anymore.

Then she asks me to leave so she can think.

She hugs me tight.

Kisses me goodbye.

Thanks me for everything.

For the next few days, I pretend I’m okay.

I open my mail.

Go to school.

Write the test I’d been studying for before all this—

and I keep wondering what would’ve happened if I never picked up her call.

I talk to people. Watch TV. Smile.

But every night, the burning pain returns—worse.

I finally tell Charlotte. She comes over and snaps a picture of my back, saying we’ll examine it together.

Before I can even examine it, there’s a knock at the door. No one’s there—just a package. We bring it in. A book. My stomach twists.

“Charlotte… I burned that book. I swear. I don’t know what’s happening,” I stammer.

She can’t speak. She just shakes, wide-eyed, as we watch it pulse on the table. Then it opens. The first chapter isn’t the skuggfélagi this time. It reads: Margaret.

Her name. Charlotte’s mum.

We freeze.

And then I see it. The mark. On my back. Just like Charlotte’s—but bigger.

Charlotte can’t stop crying. I feel tears on my own cheeks—but all I hear is laughter.

The book flips. Again. Last page.

Here we go again.

The weather changes all of a sudden. Angry. Red. Raging—like someone just flipped a switch and pissed it off.

“W… what do you mean we don’t have time, ma’am?!”

I manage, heart lodged right in my throat.

“If we don’t get that book away from her, we may never see Charlotte again—it’s trying to take her,” she says. Her voice cracks mid-sentence.

I freeze, gaze jumping between Charlotte, the book, and her mum. I have a thousand questions, but none of them matter more than getting Charlotte back.

Think. Think. Think. Think—

Before I can form a plan, Charlotte’s mum sprints toward her daughter’s body lying at the base of the tree. But Charlotte’s eyes are open now. No pupils. Just… sclera. Pure, blank white.

“What are you doing?!” I scream over the storm, “Stop!”

She doesn’t. She doesn’t even look at me. She jabs a trembling finger at the flamethrower and waves for me to move—fast—toward the left, keeping close to her.

I follow. She snatches the book with a desperate, reckless speed and jumps back from Charlotte.

Then the air… changes. A low ripple, like reality dragging its nails across itself. The book swells—just slightly—then something black and slick stretches out of it.

“TORCH IT!” she screams.

My hand shoots to the trigger—but in that same split-second, the skuggfélagi lunges. Too fast. Too smooth. Its shape barely registers before it plunges through her chest.

A wet sound. A gasp.

Her heart is in its hand.

It lasts less than a second, but I still see its head turn toward me. Like it wants me to know: you’re next.

I stop thinking.

I scream as I pull the trigger, the flames swallowing the book—and her mum—together. I didn’t mean to. God, I didn’t mean to. But the fire roars, unstoppable, greedy.

The forest answers.

The sky answers.

Charlotte—whatever is inside her—answers.

They all scream at once, like the storm, the monster, and the girl are tied to the same raging vein.

I keep the trigger pressed until the book is nothing but collapsing sheets of glowing ash. The screams don’t stop.

They shred through the trees, through the sky, through me.

Charlotte’s scream—hers—hits the hardest. It feels like someone is splitting my ribs open from the inside.

The flamethrower sputters, coughs, dies.

Out of fuel.

I drop it. My hands won’t stop shaking. My legs won’t hold me. I half-walk, half-crawl toward Charlotte because if I stop moving, even for a second, I’ll break.

She’s slipping sideways, collapsing into the dirt, and I barely manage to catch her before her head hits the ground. Tears blur everything, but I can still see the mark on her hand.

It’s deeper now. Burned in. Twisting like something alive.

It must have hurt like hell.

Then—

It peels off.

Not like dead skin. Not like a scab.

Like something letting go.

But the injury underneath stays raw, red, torn open.

Is she… free?

Please. Please let her be free.

Charlotte jerks suddenly, choking. Her whole body convulses.

Then she wakes with a violent heave, coughing up blood—

and dinner

and more blood

and more blood.

I hold her up as she shakes, the sound of her gasping cutting sharper than anything the monster ever did. Her fingers claw at the air, at my arm, at the ground, like she doesn’t know where she is.

Like she isn’t fully back yet.

She lifts off me.

Not figuratively. Not metaphorically.

Charlotte’s body rises—weightless—as if pulled upward by invisible strings. Her head tilts back, neck strained, and a sound spills out of her throat.

Not a scream.

Not a word.

A language I don’t understand—too old, too smooth, too cold to belong to anything human.

I grab her hand, fingers locking around hers, trying to pull her down, to anchor her—but she’s barely there. Light. Hollow. Like the gravity holding her to this world is slipping.

Her voice grows louder. The symbols carved into the air around her pulse like living things—shapes I can’t look at without my eyes watering.

And then—

It stops.

All of it.

The storm cuts off mid-roar, like someone smothered the sky with their palm. The red vanishes. The wind dies. The forest, moments ago screaming in a chorus of rage, falls into a silence so sharp it hums.

Charlotte drops.

Straight into my arms.

I wrap myself around her instantly, holding her like she might slip away again if I loosen my grip even a little.

“Please,” I whisper into her hair, voice breaking, “please come back to me, Charlotte… don’t leave me.”

She stirs. A tiny movement, but enough to snap every last thread of panic in my chest.

She winces—pain first, confusion second—and blinks up at me with eyes that are finally, finally… hers.

“Jack…?” she breathes, shoulders trembling as she tries to sit up. Her voice is small. Raw. Human. “Where are we?”

Her question shouldn’t break me.

But it does.

Because she doesn’t sound possessed.

She doesn’t sound distant.

She sounds like Charlotte.

Alive.

Back.

Here.

And for the first time since the lights went out in that hotel room…

I let myself breathe.

Almost there

Part 10

I can barely see his face. Then he flicks on the light — a little too bright at first — and it takes my eyes a few seconds to adjust.

He’s smiling. The widest smile I’ve ever seen. His tie hangs loose, his sleeves are rolled up, and his trousers are smeared with mud.

He crouches beside me.

“Have you been enjoying our little game, Nora?”

“You— you think this is a game?!” I manage, my whole body trembling. I can feel my heart and intestines everywhere at once, pulsing, begging me to run. But how?

“You know,” he says casually, “since that night I came to take my sister back, I haven’t seen her anymore.”

“Take her back? From where? From who?” I ask.

“From you, of course. You took her away from me.”

He starts pacing, head tilted slightly to the left as he pulls at his fingers. The chainsaw sits by the door like a threat waiting for its cue.

“Just like she took Mum from me. You did the same. Ever since you met her, she doesn’t care about me anymore.”

“Are you insane? Your sister is dead — you killed her, you creep! And wait… your mum? Did you kill her too? Theo?! Are you okay?”

“Of course I’m okay!” he screams, voice cracking. His eyes are bloodshot now, nothing like the person I thought I knew. He turns away, scratching at his head — twitching. I can’t feel my legs. I can’t feel anything except terror.

“Let me tell you a story my dad told me,” he says.

“Dad said: take what you want. And if you can’t have it… make sure no one can.”

He laughs — sharp and manic. There is nothing human in that sound.

“I could never get my parents’ love growing up. Always overshadowed by Maya — the golden girl.”

He giggles, actually giggles, clapping his hands.

“So I burned their house down. Along with my parents. Maya can’t have their love now, can she?”

I can’t even breathe. I’m staring at the monster in front of me.

“Then you came along,” he whispers. “Stealing her love again. So I took her away. Sent her to Mum and Dad.”

He flutters his hands like wings… then clasps them together as if praying.

“Bless them,” he says softly.

“Theo— why?” My voice breaks. “Why are you doing all this? Why did you kill them? They loved you so much.”

“Lies!” he screams. “Lalalala— you’re lying! The voice says no one loves me. I’m too great for all of you. Superior!”

“This game has been the most fun yet, Nora. The first time I used the memory lab in a game. You almost lost your mind!”

He laughs again — a sound that scrapes at my bones.

His hand lands on my shoulder. Casual. Affectionate. Like I’m not his next victim.

“You know,” he murmurs, “I could’ve gotten away with all this without killing you… if you’d just forgotten. And that stupid Max — I’ll kill him too. You can all join my family up there.”

He points upward.

“I’ll pray for you. Time to go now, Nora.”

He begins to rise — and that’s when he finally notices he’s no longer alone.

Max slams into him from behind, arms locking around Theo’s neck, dragging him backward in a brutal chokehold. Theo thrashes and screams, but Max doesn’t let go.

“Nora!” Max grits out. “Get a sedative — anything! In the drawers!”

My body reacts before my mind does. I crawl to the cabinet, every drawer rattling under my shaking hands. I find a vial, a syringe — rip the cap off with my teeth. My fingers tremble so violently I fear I’ll stab Max instead.

“Do it!” Max roars.

They crash into the wall. Theo elbows Max hard. Their weight tilts dangerously. I don’t think — I just move. I lunge forward and drive the needle into Theo’s thigh, slamming the plunger down.

Theo screams.

His body convulses. His legs buckle. Max shoves him into the restraint chair — straps hanging like open jaws — and together we wrestle him down and lock him in.

When the final strap clicks shut, Max is soaked in sweat. I’m shaking so hard I can barely breathe.

He pulls me into his arms. I melt into him, too exhausted to stand. My whole world feels blurred — adrenaline, fear, grief, everything tangling together.

When he finally pulls back, something fierce burns in his eyes.

He sits me against the wall, then turns toward the door — toward the chainsaw. He picks it up. The machine sputters, then roars, the vibration buzzing in my teeth.

“Nora,” he says over the noise, “record everything. We’re getting this psycho to confess.”

I nod. Set my phone down. Hit record.

Max steps toward Theo, whose head lolls forward, the sedative dragging him toward unconsciousness.

“You like to play games, huh?” Max says.

He punches him — once, twice — hard enough that Theo jerks awake, coughing blood and whatever he ate earlier. It splatters the floor.

“You’re going to confess to everything,” Max growls.

“Or I’ll cut off every one of your fingers.”

It takes three fingers for Theo to break completely.

Three.

After that, he confesses to everything — the murders, the fire, the memory alterations, the twisted “games,” all of it. We call the police.

They storm the building, confiscate every inch of the fake “hospital,” interview us for hours. I tell them everything. Max does too.

They finally let us go.

Theo is facing trial. One of the officers said he’ll likely get the maximum sentence — maybe death.

I felt relief.

Real relief.

It’s been months now.

Max and I live together. We go to college together. Go for therapy sessions together while we try to be normal — whatever that means after something like this.

But some nights… I still hear the humming of the chainsaw, still taste the metal on my tongue.

Some nights I still wonder if any of this is real. If this life is mine. If this is another simulation, or a memory, or some false scene someone put me in.

I guess I’ll just have to keep going.

Living each one like it's real.

I’m disconnected from everything—floating outside my own body. I see Max’s lips moving, but his words don’t reach me. All I can think is:

He’s here.

Theo.

He’s going to kill me.

What do I do?

I blink—and suddenly I’m somewhere else.

Maya is lying on a hospital bed.

Her skin is pale, her smile barely there.

“I love you,” she whispers. “Thank you for saving me.”

Then the ECG flatlines, slicing the air open, and she’s gone.

My best friend—gone.

I choke back a sob and force myself out of the memory, back into the room, back into the danger.

“Max!” I call out. My voice is steadier than I feel. Determined. Ready—but for what? I’m not even sure.

“Keep Theo busy,” I tell him.

Theo.

The name hits my tongue like a blade. I don’t know how I remember it, but I do.

I move toward the back of the house to hide, to think—but then I hear it.

A chainsaw.

A chainsaw.

My blood runs cold.

That part was real?

He actually brought a chainsaw?

Wood screams as the blade chews through the door. He’ll be inside in seconds.

“Max—go!” I pull him with me. “This isn’t a fight we can win!”

We slip out the back and run, our feet pounding against the ground. Theo is right behind us, that unhinged laugh echoing across the yard—the same laugh from that night.

I swear I’ll make sure that freak gets what he deserves.

But right now—where do we go?

Max grabs my hand, pulling me faster, guiding us through the panic.

“We’re going to the hospital,” he says between breaths. “We can get evidence—medical proof of what he did.”

He’s right.

It’s the only place we can run to.

So we run.

Theo came alone.

That realization sinks in like ice water down my spine.

He didn’t come to threaten.

He didn’t come to scare.

He came to kill us.

Oh my God.

We reach the hospital—no, break into it—because it’s midnight and the doors are locked, and I don’t even have time to question why a hospital would be closed. Of course it’s fake. Of course everything around this case collapses the second you touch it.

The lobby is dark, quiet, too quiet.

Max and I slip inside like fugitives, breathless, shaking. I can still hear the phantom buzz of the chainsaw in my ears.

“We need evidence,” he whispers. “Real evidence. And fast.”

The lights flicker once—like the building is warning us.

We look at each other, nod, and make the decision without saying it:

We split up.

Max heads toward the admin wing, straight for Theo’s office—empty hallway, door half-ajar, the kind of room that hides secrets in the walls.

I go the opposite direction, toward the exam rooms— my room. My footsteps echo far too loudly in the sterile dark. My chest feels tight, my mind racing.

Somewhere behind us…

The hospital door creaks.

He made it inside.

Theo is here.

And now Max and I are separated.

I hear the faint hum of his chainsaw—low, hungry, almost taunting. Like it’s calling to me.

Please. No.

“Nooooooraaa,” he calls.

Dragging out my name the way he used to when we were younger—except now it’s warped, soaked in something cold and monstrous. Every syllable crawls down my spine.

I almost scream, but I slap my hands over my mouth, forcing the sound back down my throat. I try to take pictures of the wall, the room, anything that could count as evidence. The phone Max gave me makes a shutter sound.

In a normal place it’d be drowned out by noise.

But here?

This place is dead silent.

“Shit.”

“Come out, come out, wherever you aaare…”

His voice gets louder. Closer. Too close.

Panic surges through me—I don’t know where to run, what to grab, what to do. I drop to the floor and crawl under the bed, my breath shaking so hard the mattress trembles above me.

I whisper a prayer. Maybe my last.

Theo steps into the room. I can tell by the shift of shadows beneath the door, by the soft scrape of his boots on tile. Then—

The chainsaw roars to life.

I bite down on my knuckles to keep from crying out.

A moment passes.

Two.

Three.

Then a hand latches onto my ankle—cold, firm, unmistakably his.

He’s got me.

This must be the end.

Part 10!

Metal. I can taste it again. At this point it’s getting old—my tongue should be numb to it, but somehow it feels stronger every time. I’m lying on the couch. The same one we watched the video on.

I sit up too fast. The room tilts.

I stumble to the bathroom and spit the metal out, gagging, trying to rid myself of the taste—of the memory clawing its way up my throat.

Footsteps. Slow. Controlled.

“Are you okay?” he asks.

His voice is calm in that unsettling way, and in the mirror I catch his reflection—jawline sharp, eyes unreadable.

“The blood…” he says quietly, stepping closer. “It means your memories are coming back. It’s a sign of the alteration they did. I researched it.”

I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand. “What alterations?” My voice comes out hoarse.

“Come sit and eat,” he says, as if this is a normal conversation. “I’ll explain.”

He guides me to the dining room.

There’s food on the table. I don’t know what time it is, so I don’t know what meal this is supposed to be. The sun is out—lunch? Breakfast? It all feels wrong.

He starts talking as he sits across from me.

“The memory research lab,” he says, “when they edit, remove, or interfere with your memories, it behaves like a blood clot in your head. It dissolves slowly in some patients. The bleeding is part of that process.”

He watches me closely.

“When did it start?”

“I don’t know,” I mutter, biting into the sandwich he made—he’s a good cook. But suddenly I see an image: that metallic pool. And it’s running empty. Maybe it’s almost dissolved.

His face brightens. “Yes!” he says, almost shouting. “Your memories should be flooding in soon. It’ll hurt—like an overload—but it means they’re coming back.”

“I need to remember. It doesn’t matter how painful or straining. Maya went through worse. I need justice for her, before her brother successfully pins this on me.”

“Pin this on you? How?” He looks genuinely confused.

“At the beginning of all this, I remembered killing someone. But I know that memory was fake—planted. A false scene.”

“Trust me,” he says firmly. “You didn’t kill anyone. The real culprit is still out there. I couldn’t get to him that night.”

“The birthday party night?” I ask.

He nods. “She was attacked that night. You went out to get something for her—candles, I think. I saw you walk in and called your name, but you just stood there, frozen. Then someone ran out the back.”

Heat rushes through me. My head spins violently, vision narrowing. Pain spikes behind my eyes, sharp enough to crack bone. I retch, gripping the edge of the table.

“I… I saw his face,” I choke out. “He was smiling.” My voice breaks, panic flooding my chest. “He was smiling, Max.”

A breath. A tremor.

“It’s her brother.”

I see flashes now—sharp, disjointed, cutting through the room like lightning.

Max. A café. He’s sitting across from me, sunlight hitting his face, and I hear him say “date” as if it’s the simplest thing in the world. The scene shivers, bends—

and suddenly I’m on a hospital bed.

Maya’s brother is there.

His voice slices through the fog:

“Make sure she takes the fall.”

Another shift—violent this time.

Max again. His face pulled tight with emotion, confusion, fear—so many things at once. He’s trying to reach me, pull me back, steady me, but everything is slipping through his fingers.

Then—

A knock.

Loud. Heavy. Too real.

Silence fills the house like smoke.

“I know you’re in there, Max.”

The voice is unmistakable. Cold. Controlled.

“Give her back. I don’t want this to get messy.”

Okayyy😭

part 9

The lights go out.

There’s a sudden whooshing sound from somewhere above us.

We need to move—I can’t use my flamethrower inside this hotel room.

I reach out blindly, trying to grab Charlotte’s arm as we make for the door, but my hand closes around something else.

Something warm.

Something slimy.

I rip my hand back instantly. A clicking sound snaps through the darkness, followed by a faint yelp that dies too quickly.

Something’s wrong. Something’s very wrong.

“Charlotte?” I call out. Nothing.

I glance toward her mum. She’s fumbling with her flashlight, fingers shaking like she’s forgotten how hands work. Seconds drag, stretch, bend—then finally, light.

But Charlotte isn’t there.

She’s gone.

The window is smeared with slime and streaks of blood—too thick, too dark to be hers.

The freak is injured? That’s the only thought I can hold onto before panic claws in.

I turn back. Charlotte’s mum looks like we just failed the final boss fight with our last life.

I grab her shoulders, shake her, try to drag her back into reality.

She blinks. Something clicks. Focus returns.

“You never mentioned anything about it kidnapping Charlotte!” I snap, voice cracking under the weight of it.

It’s past 1 a.m.

Charlotte is gone.

And she must’ve been too terrified even to scream.

We sprint out of the room. Slimy streaks stain the hallway carpet, leading straight toward the woods behind the building.

We’re still nowhere near the tomb.

What is happening?

Is it trying to keep us away from it—or herd us somewhere else?

We jump into the car and follow the trail until the road ends, swallowed whole by trees.

The forest air is colder here. Heavy and it just might slow me down. Damp. But I can still faintly smell the slime mixed in between.

I grip the flamethrower tighter; the dagger digs into my back pocket with every step.

I’m going to rearrange its skin. Tear it apart for taking her.

We follow the trail deeper, but the forest doesn’t feel real anymore.

The trees shift.

The darkness bends.

Our steps loop in circles, the path folding back into itself like the woods are breathing.

Then the trail goes cold.

Charlotte’s mum is breaking beside me. I can feel it. I don’t dare look at her—if I do, I’ll blame her, and I can’t afford to fall apart now. She tries to speak, but an echoing roar cuts her off—our friendly monster announcing itself.

My feet don’t wait for my brain.

I’m already running.

Branches slap my face, twigs scrape my eyes, thorns tear at my clothes, insects nearly fly into my mouth—but none of that matters. We need to find her before something irreversible happens.

And then I see her.

My chest tightens. If I make a wrong move... or sound, will it hurt her?

She's slumped against a tree.

Head hanging forward like she’s asleep—or unconscious.

The book lies open in her lap.

Everything is suddenly quiet. Too quiet.

It called us here, and now it's gone, leaving just Charlotte and the book, If I take one more step, it might come out.

My pulse hammers.

Charlotte is right there.

But the forest is holding its breath.

What do I do?

She's... she's alive right? I turn to Charlotte's mum who just made it, eyes wide open

As she looks at me and swallows hard.

"We don't have much time."

How do you think this will end? Happy? Sad? Or haunting? I mean we've not even had a death yet. Stay tuned you guys, thanks for reading

part 9

I can smell coffee. Hot coffee. I squint, gently opening my eyes against the sunlight.

I’m on a bed. I don’t recognize this bed— but I do. An overlay again. I’ve been here before.

I get out of bed. New clothes…? Did he—?

I burst through the door, looking for him.

The hall spins for a second, my vision vignetting. I’ve been here before.

He’s sitting on the kitchen counter, sipping coffee, his gaze softening as I walk in.

“You’re awake,” he says.

I part my lips to speak, but he cuts through.

“Before you say anything, my sister changed your clothes. She just left for work.”

As if he knew I would ask.

“Who are you?” I manage.

He steps down from the counter and walks toward the living room. “Come,” he says. “I’ve been preparing all day for that question.”

I move through the kitchen, brushing my fingers over the furniture. It feels familiar— too familiar.

The living room is brown, the calmest brown I remember. The furniture matches the walls. A projector and laptop face the largest wall, and he pulls the blinds shut.

“I put together video clips, pictures—anything that might help you remember. If it gets too much, scream. I’ll stop it.”

His voice is steady. Too steady.

What does he want to show me? My chest is tight. My palms are cold. My heartbeat hammers against my skull.

The video starts. He sits beside me, close, placing his hand gently over mine.

I’m hyperventilating. Every time I blink I see that place again—the metallic pool, the window.

It pulls at me.

I grip the sofa. My jaw aches.

I’m staying here.

Play.

It’s me.

Me and Maya.

We’re excited, asking someone to record us. His voice is behind the camera.

We look so happy.

Then a wave of selfies—me and Maya, then me and him. Too much. Too close.

Did I have a boyfriend?

My head spins. The metallic taste floods my mouth. Like drowning.

It drags me under, but I fight. I need to see all of it.

I need to remember.

My vision stabilizes just enough, and I see a party setup—Maya’s place, decorations everywhere. On the cake: “Happy birthday Max.”

Then the video cuts.

“Is that it? No—play more! Who’s Max?” I shout. My chest feels like it’s splitting open.

“I’m Max,” he says quietly. “Your boyfriend.”

A flicker of that café meeting flashes in my mind—was that him?

Shock hits, grounding and disorienting at once.

I’ve felt safe with him since the moment I woke up… but feeling safe isn’t proof. My heart disagrees anyway.

“We were both really close to Maya,” he says. “But on the night of my birthday—the party you organized—someone attacked her. She didn’t make it.”

What?

Maya is… dead?

Who? Why?

I press my palms over my eyes, trying not to scream. In the darkness: the metallic pool—drained now. Hollow. My stomach lurches. I pull away from him, shaking.

“You believed it was you,” Max continues. “That’s why I took you to the hospital. For help. But they wouldn’t let me in. Maya’s brother was the one updating me, but I never trusted him.”

“That place wasn’t a hospital,” I whisper, wiping tears.

“You were transferred here,” he says. “He claimed you couldn’t remember anything, so the research lab would ‘help.’”

It’s clearer now. Horrifyingly clear.

“It’s been months, Nora. I’ve missed you.”

He hugs me—tight, desperate—and pats my back. And something breaks open inside me. Memories surge, heavy and fast, dragging me deeper into the pool.

The room spins—

but this time, I know.

This time, I’ll wake with the truth.

I have to.

Part 8

Charlotte’s sleeping. I can hear her murmuring as she twists and turns in the back seat, her small body trembling under the thin blanket. “She can’t keep living like this,” I whisper to her mum.

“I think it’s finally time you told me everything, ma’am. Let’s start with what in the world you were doing while your only child was being hunted by some weird, creepy monster whose name I still can’t pronounce.”

My emotions are a storm. I almost wake Charlotte, but thankfully she stays asleep. I exhale slowly, bracing for her reply. The hum of the engine fills the space she hesitates to step into.

“I… I was doing confidential research for the government. I can’t say much right now,” she says.

Bullshit. A whole mouthful of it.

“Okay, then let’s start with the book. What do you know about it? Where’s it from?”

“I told you. Oaxaca. We were exploring the tomb of an old ruler, and we found this book… among other things. I dispersed the other artifacts, but that one stayed with me for a while. I studied it—or tried to.”

“Okay. Keep going.”

I lean forward, every nerve tuned to her voice. I can’t afford to miss anything.

“But I discovered something. I was supposed to bring it to the museum, collaborate with others who could help. Then another… incident happened. So I mailed it to Charlotte’s place. It was closer. I tried calling her, but it wouldn’t go through. Like I said—the book didn’t want me to stop her.”

I swallow. My throat barely opens.

“What do you mean?”

“This book, these guardians… they’re more complex than we realized, Jack. I’m sorry I dragged you both into this. Can you check Charlotte’s arm?”

I roll up her sleeve. My fingers shake.

The mark is there—somewhere between a third-degree burn and a stab wound, shaped like a crude “ü.” The skin is raw, faintly steaming.

It looks like it was just set on fire, but the edges are already drying.

I whisper, “I’m sorry, Charlotte.”

I nearly throw up.

“What is this?! What is it doing to her?!”

“That’s the sign of the bond. The curse. It burns because the monster just left. And it will ignite again when it’s about to appear.”

“So she’s been enduring this? And how do you even know any of this?”

“We experimented with it. The first link died. Jack… the monster tore them apart in front of me.”

I freeze.

No. No. No.

I am not losing her. Not after she just came back to me.

“I promise you, Jack—we will save her.”

Her eyes in the rearview mirror are steel now, her grip on the wheel white‑knuckled.

“Let’s reach the hotel. I’ll explain the rest. You both need rest.”

I nod. The next thirty minutes pass in silence. I stroke Charlotte’s hair gently as she murmurs in her sleep.

We reach the hotel safely, but the night is long.

Charlotte’s awake now, eating quietly. The three of us sit on the floor beside the bed, the bedside lamp stretching shadows across the wall like thin fingers.

We explain everything to Charlotte. She listens with a calm face she doesn’t truly feel.

Then the question that’s been gnawing at me surfaces.

“The first time I saw the book, it felt familiar—even though I’ve never seen it. You said it didn’t want you reaching Charlotte. So it has a mind of its own? Powers?”

The shadows on the wall pulse slightly, like they’ve heard me.

“It must have sensed your connection to her,” her mum says. “That’s why it felt familiar.”

As if mocking us, Charlotte suddenly winces.

A sharp hiss fills the air.

The smell of burnt flesh curls upward.

Then—

the clicking sound.

It’s here.

Here We Go Again.

Part 8

The doorknob clicks, breaking the silence as he locks the door behind him. He’s tall, skinny, brown hair — like Maya’s. I can’t remember him clearly, not completely, but the closer he gets, the lower my heart drops. It sinks so deep I can feel it beating in places it shouldn’t.

My breathing is too fast. Too shallow. Not enough.

I don’t want him to notice. I’m not supposed to know who he is — even though I don’t… yet. But I’m terrified.

I ground myself with the 5–4–3–2–1 rule, fingers digging into the sheets behind me so he won’t see them tremble.

“Hello,” he says at last, wearing a smile that feels wrong in every sense. He drags a chair beside my bed.

“Hi… uh, who are you?” I ask, trying to keep my voice steady. If he thinks I know too much, who knows what he’ll do.

“I’m John,” he says. “Doctor John.”

Maya’s brother wasn’t a doctor — not that I can remember — but fine. I’ll believe him if he needs me to.

“You were brought here after an… incident,” he continues. “We’re helping you recover your memories so we can understand why you did what you did. I heard you’ve been recalling a bit. Something metallic, right?”

Another smile. More unsettling than the first.

A flicker flashes at the corner of my eye — like an overlay — the figure I keep seeing. Make sure she doesn’t remember me doing it.

I snap back.

“I don’t recall much yet,” I lie. “Just bits. Thank you for helping me.”

I force a smile, fighting the nausea rising in my throat.

He reaches for my hand. Instinctively, I pull away. He clears his throat, pretending it didn’t sting, and asks what exactly I remember.

“My name. My best friend. Nothing else.”

Anything more could get me killed.

“That’s it?” he pushes. “There has to be more. The doctor told me—”

Another throat clear. “They said you were improving. I just need everything so I can update the cops.”

Cops.

The word freezes me.

“Do you remember a birthday party?” he asks, eyes locked on me.

“Birthday?” I repeat. “Whose?”

“Your best friend’s,” he says, leaning in. Too close. “The day of the incident. What you did is unforgivable, and you don’t remember it?”

My stomach drops.

What did I do to her? What is he talking about?

Before I can speak, he stands suddenly, like a wire snapped inside him. He heads straight for the wall — the wall where I wrote every piece I remembered.

His expression twists — shock, then panic — as if something there wasn’t supposed to exist.

He’s so absorbed he doesn’t see me slip off the bed.

Not until he hears the door unlock.

He turns, and the fear in his face is real. Wild. Desperate.

I step out, slam the door, and lock him in. My hands shake around the key, but I don’t stop.

If I stayed, he would’ve rewritten something again. Erased something. Or worse.

I don’t want to find out.

I run.

Down the stairs.

Avoiding faces.

Through the emergency exit.

The building feels smaller than it should, emptier than a real hospital. Too quiet.

Outside, the air burns my lungs, but it’s real, and that’s enough for now.

I need answers.

I need the full picture — not fragments.

I need to remember everything.

And I need to prove I’m not guilty.

It can’t be me. But who will believe me if he already has the cops on his side?

There were two figures that night. I know it. One was Maya — I’d know her silhouette anywhere. I sat beside her after… whatever happened. I remember that much.

But the other?

Who the hell was the other?

I keep running, but towards what? I have no idea.

Alarms explode behind me — loud, sharp, angry.

They’re coming from the “hospital.”

They know I escaped.

I’m screwed.

I run and run, and don't look back. I'm finally in the center of town I think and this area looks familiar, I've been here before. I know someone around here, someone who can help, but why do I feel that way?

While running frantically, as if reading my mind, our eyes meet, he's not that tall, he's white, with freckles on his face and dark hair parted midway with a scarf around his neck and I instantly feel relieved. Who is this person? Why do I feel he'll help me?

I think I hear my name as I slip because I'm focused on him not where I'm going

Part 7

I can hear it. Snarling and clicking. Somewhere in the shadows down here, as the light in the center of the room flickers gently.

I can feel Charlotte shaking behind me as I walk around her, attempting to look everywhere for it while we tiptoe toward the stairs.

And there it is—right in front of the door. This is no ordinary "monster." It appears to be smiling, as if happy about the chase. Then it crouches down on all three. I can feel the heat from its body as it roars at me, teeth still as terrifying as ever, saliva dripping down my face, its acidic breath stinging my nostrils. Charlotte screams behind me as I cock my gun and shoot… but it vanishes. As if disappearing into thin air. The bullet lies on the floor, right next to the book. It went back inside, and we make a run for it, not even trying to understand the situation.

Charlotte is in front as we run out of the house. Where do we go? We need to study this thing to know how to kill it — the library?

As we reach the front porch, a car zooms forward and someone calls for us to get in. I don’t see who, but Charlotte does and jumps inside. I hesitate, pointing my gun toward the driver’s seat, but I hear the monster clicking nearby. Charlotte motions for me to get in. I rush into the back seat.

We’re halfway out of town before I can finally speak. I’ve been shaking. What the hell is going on? My heart is almost in my mouth, my limbs are jelly. Charlotte, I’m sure, is doing worse. She tugs on her seatbelt while scanning the windows, eyes wide. Eventually, I ask who the driver is. It’s Charlotte’s mum.

"How are you kids doing?" she asks, still as helpful as I remember.

"What are you doing here and how did you know to come get us?" I ask, reaching for the gun beside me, just in case our monster is a shape-shifter.

Charlotte looks on, confused, waiting for an answer. Her mother speaks carefully:

"The book. It's mine. I was meant to collect it and help transport it to the national museum, which is closer to Charlotte’s. I got it dropped off there, but I couldn’t reach Charlotte to warn her. I… I’m so stupid."

That’s a lot. What? Why?

"Okay, then where have you been all this time? Charlotte said it’s been months. Are you using your daughter for an experiment, Mrs. Scientist?" I ask intently.

Charlotte finally speaks. "Where have you been, mum?" Tears threaten to fall.

"Do you know what I've been through?" she adds, voice trembling. I gently hold her hands, assuring her it’ll be fine—but will it?

"I got stuck with some other work, and I thought Charlotte wouldn't touch the book. I'm so sorry, sweetie." Her mother’s voice is shaky, tears escaping her eyes. Okay… okay. Let’s believe her.

"So, what's next? How do we get rid of it? Charlotte can’t live this way forever."

Her mother wipes her face and shifts into work mode. "We’re headed to the place I got the book from."

"Which is?" I ask.

"Mexico," she says.

"Oaxaca, Mexico. The book was transported from there all the way to El Paso, Texas. It’s about a 30-hour drive, but we can make it."

Charlotte and I exchange a look as I pull her closer, trying to calm her. This is real. We’re being chased from the US all the way to Mexico by a monster whose name I can’t even pronounce.

"This is dangerous," I tell her as I search the back seat and every corner of the car, making sure there’s nothing hiding.

"Can’t we take a plane? Who knows what’ll happen in those 30 hours? All I have is a gun, and it’s not helpful."

"This Skuggfélagi… it’s bound to her, right? If the distance between it and Charlotte is too much, they both die." I swallow, my chest almost breaking. Charlotte grips my hand tighter.

"Okay, ground it is," I nod, giving Charlotte a small, reassuring smile.

"But how do we protect Charlotte from it?"

Her mother hands me a backpack. I open it—flamethrowers and bottles of chemicals inside.

"I’ve been researching and brought this, just in case Charlotte was in danger."

"I see," I nod again, feeling a spark of hope.

As if to shatter that hope, the Skuggfélagi appears in the middle of the empty road. The car’s headlights catch its eyes, glowing and reflecting like oil on water. We slam the brakes. A standoff. The creature crouches low, ready to pounce. Its acidic breath hits the car as it lunges forward. It moves unnaturally fast, phasing in and out like a shadow. Rocks skitter across the road as Charlotte’s mum swerves.

Charlotte screams, covering her face while digging into my hand. My own hands are shaky as I grab a flamethrower and open the sunroof. Flames lick the air, but the wind throws the flames sideways, missing its flank. I adjust, heart hammering, before finally catching its side in fire. It shrieks, piercing the night like metal being twisted in agony. With a final, tortured shriek, it collapses into a cloud of dust that gets sucked back into the book. The cover slams shut with a deafening thud, leaving only the smell of burnt sulfur.

"It’ll be gone a while," she says. "But how long until it comes back? What if it’s nighttime?"

She doesn’t answer — just hands me a grocery bag. "You kids must be hungry," she says.

This is going to be a long trip. I promise I’ll protect you, Charlotte… but for how long?

Part 7

I’m cold. I can't see anyone. My teeth chatter. My fingers are numb, and the air smells… metallic. I hear my name, echoing from every corner. The voice is familiar… but not quite right. Like a memory stretched too thin. The voice calls again, warped, distant, and I realize I’ve been frozen, holding my breath.

“Hello?” I eventually say back, lips quivering.

I get up and step forward, hoping to find some warmth somewhere, but the floor feels slippery… or is it just my mind?

The further I go, the colder it gets. The echoes intensify, shaking me to my core each time. Then I hear cracks. Ice splintering beneath me. My stomach tightens.

Where am I?

A loud roar of my name — “NORA” — erupts through the darkness, violent and everywhere at once. The ground shatters beneath me, the ice giving way, and I plunge into the cold, metallic water below.

Inside the water, I see flashes — memories, close enough to touch. Faces. Voices. A hand reaching toward me, blurred and screaming. I reach out too, desperate to pull them back, but they slip through my fingers faster than I can grasp.

One memory lingers longer than the rest — a familiar silhouette, trembling, blood sliding slowly down the walls behind them — and then it dissolves like the others.

The cold clamps around my lungs. My chest burns. The metallic taste floods my mouth. I flail in the dark, scrambling for anything solid, anything real — but the fragments scatter, and the water drags me deeper until—

I’m back in the hospital again.

The antiseptic scent hits me first — sharp, almost comforting. The sheets are warm against my skin. Too warm. My heart is still pounding; my hands won’t stop shaking. I sit up slowly, anchoring myself to this “reality,” but the echoes linger just out of reach. It feels like my head is still underwater.

I step down from the bed, still dizzy, and go to the wall. The marker is where I left it. I start writing down whatever I managed to pull out of the memory dive.

Firstly, my name: Nora.

Last name?

I stare at the blank space, waiting for something to click.

Nothing.

“Unknown,” I scribble down.

Next: When was the last time you saw Maya?

The name hits me in the chest. Maya… John?

“My best friend! Her name is Maya John — it was her last name I saw the other day!” I shout, the relief sharp enough to sting. Tears slide down my cheeks before I can stop them.

“I’m sorry, Maya… I’m so sorry.”

I take a shaky breath and keep writing.

Okay. This is the sixth time I’ve woken up here.

There was an “incident” the night before I was brought in. Something no one wants to explain.

Before that, I met up with someone at a café… but who? The face is gone, smeared like a wet painting.

A week before that… I was at Maya’s place. We had planned a party.

Two weeks before… we… we had a—

A… uhm…

Yes.

The picnic.

And that’s where the memories stop.

Or where they refuse to go any further.

I write MAYA JOHN in capital letters and circle it boldly. I’m happy. It’s a start.

The necklace slips out of my pocket. I pick it up. It’s actually a locket. My hands shake violently as I open it. Inside is a tiny, creased piece of paper. The letters are jagged, almost like they were written in a rush, but familiar. On it is written:

“Don’t trust them. Maya.”

The words… “don’t trust them” echo in my mind, blending with the screams in the metallic water.

Who left this? Why? Can I even trust my own memories anymore?

I cover the wall writing with the curtains and walk back to my bed. There’s a piece of paper — the picture I saw yesterday before blacking out. I flip it. There she is — Maya, smiling, as beautiful as I remember. Scenes from the metallic water flash through my mind — laughter, sunlight on the picnic, the taste of lemonade — all crashing in at once. My hands tremble, and I press the picture against my chest.

I lower myself onto the bed, still dizzy. My head spins, but I force myself to breathe. The room doesn’t feel safe. Shadows seem longer than they should. And the whispers… I can still hear them at the edge of my thoughts.

Rest is impossible, yet I need it. For now, I close my eyes, holding the picture and the locket, praying I can make sense of it all when I wake again.

I hear someone familiar — it’s Maya.

We’re at her house, planning something. She’s laughing, teasing me about forgetting the snacks again, and she asks me to get her something from the store nearby.

I nod in the memory. I can feel the warmth of the room, the soft hum of her playlist in the background, the smell of her cinnamon candles. It feels so real I almost smile.

But when I get back—

A scream tears through the memory. Sharp. Long. Animal-like.

My heart drops.

“Maya?” I call out, but my voice feels muffled, like I’m speaking underwater again.

The door is half-open. My fingers freeze on the handle.

Inside…

she’s—

She’s on the floor.

The room is a blur of red and shadow. Her body is twisted, her hand reaching toward something I can’t see. The walls… they’re trembling, or maybe it’s just me. Another scream echoes — but this one might be mine.

I try to rush toward her, but the memory fractures, splitting into shards like broken glass. Every piece shows something different — Maya’s face contorted, her mouth moving but no sound coming out, blood dripping from her palm, someone standing behind her—

Then everything goes white.

I’m speaking to Maya again.

“I thought I told you to stay away from my brother. He’s… creepy.”

Her brother? She has a brother? My stomach twists. My hands curl into fists. I taste metal in my mouth.

“He works at that memory lab. They can literally edit and delete memories.”

Edit… delete… memories? My chest tightens. My heart is hammering. There it is, that silhouette flashes in the corner of my mind. More vivid. It's him. What has he been doing to me?

“Oh my God,” I whisper, voice barely audible.

The words on the locket stab my mind again: Don’t trust them. And now… I think I know who ‘them’ is.

Maya’s eyes are wide, serious. I want to ask more, but my throat locks. The room feels colder, darker, like the walls are pressing in. Every shadow seems to twitch, every whisper just at the edge of hearing.

“They… what? Edit memories?” I manage to croak, trembling.

Her lips press together. She doesn’t answer right away, and the silence stretches. I feel the metallic water from before press against my chest, pulling me under.

I gasp. The hospital’s antiseptic scent invades my senses again, sharp and suffocating. My hands clutch the picture and the locket. I have to remember. I have to.

But what if remembering is exactly what they want me to do?

The doctor and nurse's conversation suddenly replays: "Sadly she's remembering, we need to tell HIM"

He is him.

What if I'm playing into his hands?

I need to get out of here.

Someone walks in... someone eerily familiar. No. No. Please.

Part 6