The Night They Came

I was supposed to be asleep when they arrived. The lights went out first. Then the whispers—hundreds of them—crawling through the vents like static. Mom said not to look, but I did. Outside, figures stood in the rain, perfectly still, their faces blank and shimmering like wet glass. They weren’t human. And they knew my name.

The Night They Came

I was supposed to be asleep when they arrived. The lights went out first. Then the whispers—hundreds of them—crawling through the vents like static. Mom said not to look, but I did. Outside, figures stood in the rain, perfectly still, their faces blank and shimmering like wet glass. They weren’t human. And they knew my name.

I felt it again—the pull behind my eyes, like fingers brushing against the back of my skull. The bedroom door was locked. Windows sealed. But the air tasted metallic, and my reflection blinked a second too late.

"You're not sleeping," a voice said. Mine. Not mine.

On the floor, my phone buzzed for the seventh time. Same message from Mom: Don't answer if it calls your name. But it already had. Three times tonight. In Dad’s voice. In my voice. In the voice of the girl I kissed last summer, who died this morning.

Then the power cut out. The emergency light snapped on, casting long shadows. Something stood in the corner—tall, blurred at the edges, like a video buffering in real life.

My breath caught. It wasn’t there before. And it was holding my hand.