Author Archives: M. Bradley

One Wish Left

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“You have one wish left,” the small genie said. The words hung in the air, delicate and heavy and alive, shimmering like the motes of dust in the slanted afternoon light that glinted through the open window. I looked down at the ancient brass lamp beneath my hand, the indelible swirl of its handle worn smooth by centuries of use—and by me, only a day ago, idly polishing its tarnish before realizing what I held.

Only one wish left. I closed my eyes, crestfallen. My heart hammered. This is always the moment in the stories, the stories I loved as a child, before I believed—I brushed a lock of hair from my forehead and lifted my gaze to the genie, whose luminous eyes watched me with infinite patience. Two wishes gone—and folly.

First, I had blurted something silly: “I wish for a lifetime supply of chocolate!” The genie blinked, nodded, large eyes widening in surprise. In an instant, carts of treats appeared, boxes and boxes layered in my cramped apartment. At first, joy: rich, melting sweetness, dark and bittersweet, milk chocolate with caramel, white chocolate with pistachio. Friends came to marvel—and eat. But by day three, the sheer volume overwhelmed me. I cared less and less for the chocolate; it cluttered my space and weighed heavily on my conscience, knowing waste is a sin some larger than taste. I’d feel guilty even tossing a wrapper. The glamour faded fast.

Second wish: “I wish I had perfect memory.” I craved something useful, intellectual—value, I told myself. But I hadn’t considered how overwhelming it would be to carry every moment, every fact, every sliver of experience forever. I could recite my childhood like a movie, recall every factoid I had ever absorbed. But it became exhausting—the intrusions of petty regrets, buried embarrassments, every dismissible conversation replaying endlessly in my mind, jangling like bells I couldn’t silence. And that’s why we were here now, poised on the third and final wish.

The genie held space around me, a fountain of soft blue incense and mild laughter—kind, curious, still bound by promise, by rules, by the burden of hope in my hands. I squeezed the lamp’s base, feeling the sense of potential—and peril. What did I truly want? What didn’t I?

Time blurred. The afternoon light shifted to dusk. I walked through my apartment, chocolate boxes half-open, dozens of unshelled memories drifting inside me, carrying the world’s cumulative weight. Nothing felt right. What need hadn’t I noticed until now. That’s when I thought of my sister.

Lily had been my little sister once—bright hair, dimples, an impish grin that meant she was about to ransack my room. We’d shared dreams: traveling the world, painting sunsets, cataloguing stars—anything to chase adventure. But Lily had fallen ill years ago. A rare disease, doctors gave us hope, then took it away again. She fought until she couldn’t, and then, she was gone.

Now the memory of her emptiness sat like a winter bloom in my chest: beautiful, tragic. I’d come to hate how memory could include everything—especially things you don’t want to remember. My second wish—my perfect memory—did nothing to comfort me. It simply replayed Lily’s younger laugh more clearly than before, sharper than any real memory could be. Could that final wish change something? Could I turn back time? Could I—dare I—erase some things? Or was that too… dangerous?

I lay on my bed, staring at the ceiling. The genie drifted near, curiosity peaceful, not expectant. Sometimes I’d catch it sliding like smoke between the furniture, adjusting to human space. It had already grown fond of me—timid laughter whenever I disclosed my regrets about chocolate or pointed and laughed at my own absurdity.

“I’m sorry,” I whispered.

For what? For frivolous desires when the world had swallowed more essential things. For not noticing sooner. For being selfish.

A breeze rattled the window. I heard cars passing. I smelled late-summer jasmine outside.

What if…?

I sat up. The genie looked at me, hopeful. I closed my eyes again, imagining each possibility. I imagined making a wish to bring Lily back. But then, the story pitfalls flooded my imagination: tragedies I couldn’t predict, infinite consequences—duping nature, old cosmic laws. I imagined a perfect world, change I could effect—and the knowledge of what that perfect world might cost. I pictured friendships rearranged, timelines snapped, histories rewritten. Another whiff of jasmine, warm evening light on my eyelids. And I thought: what if I don’t try to solve everything? What if instead I learn from what I’ve lost?

I brushed my fingers over the lamp. I felt its energy thrumming faintly. The genie floated closer, luminous glow illuminating my face, revealing worry lines I had only just noticed.

I swallowed hard, then asked: “Can I… ask for something to help me grow? To become more—worthy?”

It blinked, then nodded. That was allowed. Wishes didn’t require grand outcomes, just sincerity. I looked inside, trying to separate need from want.

I thought of memory—burdened—and the way I’m more than memories. I thought of chocolate—pleasure—but empty pleasure. I thought of Lily and how love existed beyond death. I thought of myself—and what I still could be.

Then I spoke:

“I wish… I wish for the strength and clarity to live a life that honors those I love, and leaves the world better than I found it.”

The genie’s eyes swelled. The lamp glowed. A hush of wind through the room, a pulse of light, and then… stillness.

It looked at me, and then at the lamp. “Your wish,” it said, softly. There was no cosmic shimmer beyond the light in its eyes—just calm. The lamp’s glow faded, and then the genie dissolved back into it, tiny again, smiling.

I held the lamp, trembling. Strength and clarity: not a power or potion—something intangible, something lived in choices. I cried. Grief, relief, possibility. I felt my chest uncoil slightly, memory still there—but no longer choice without pain. Choice with purpose.

The next morning, I woke early. The jasmine scent followed me. I brewed tea and opened the Duolingo app—Spanish lessons. Lily had loved Spanish songs, dancing in the living room when I played them. I opened a notebook and began: Para Lily. I wrote a single sentence in Spanish and smiled.

Later, I laced running shoes and jogged down a local trail. The sun filtered through trees; each step felt lighter and fuller.

I looked at my phone, thought of the chocolate languishing in boxes. Not waste—it could feed others. I messaged a local food pantry: Hi—I have bulk unopened chocolate treats—would you be interested in them? They did. They came and took everything yesterday. I smiled at the relief of passing clutter on.

That night, I volunteered at a literacy program in town—an elementary reading group. I felt shy, shaky—still a new version of me. But I showed up, taught one kid to read “cat” that night, saw the pride in his eyes. I walked home thinking of Lily’s smile, thinking of the children I might brighten.

I tucked the lamp in a drawer, hidden beneath other simple things—a revised relic now just a keepsake reminding me of a choice made.

Because true wishes aren’t always supernatural—they’re the choices made every day, with strength and clarity and quiet courage. I think the genie left too, maybe forever. I don’t mind. I have enough magic here

The Sleeper

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Every time I fall asleep, one year passes until I wake up again. It started on my 18th birthday. That night was ordinary—cake with too-sweet frosting, laughter echoing off the kitchen walls, a wish made over flickering candles I barely remember. I went to bed thinking about college applications and crushes, about leaving town and starting something new. I closed my eyes with the weightless hope of youth and opened them to find the calendar read June 20, 2024.

My room was dustier. The posters on the wall had faded to ghosts of their former selves. The vines outside my window had crept deeper into the cracks of the siding, pulling the house back toward the earth. I stumbled into the kitchen, heart pounding, and found news clippings on the fridge: Local Teen Still Missing, Presumed Dead. My name. My face. My family frozen in an old photo, smiling like we hadn’t yet fractured. I thought it was a dream. It had to be. But then I blinked—and the world spun forward again.

I’ve tried everything—staying awake for days, flooding my body with caffeine until my hands shook, tying myself to doorframes, sleeping in hospital lights. But it always comes. That moment when my body betrays me. When exhaustion wins. And when I wake… the world is one year older.

My parents grieved, then grew distant. My mother’s hair grayed, my father’s eyes dulled. My friends moved on, their lives arcing forward while mine stuttered like a skipped record. Technology surged ahead. Fashion shifted. The slang changed. Seasons lost their rhythm—summer felt like winter, spring was hot and wrong. The sun started rising at odd angles, like even it was tired of keeping time.

By my twenty-fifth wake-up, the world had grown quieter. Cities had begun to erode. Streets cracked and were swallowed by roots. Trees leaned harder into broken buildings. My childhood home was boarded up, condemned. I wandered the neighborhood like a ghost until a neighbor—one of the few who hadn’t moved or died—spotted me.

“You haven’t aged a day,” he whispered, backing away like I was a specter. “They say you’re cursed.”

He wasn’t wrong. Eventually, I stopped trying to explain. You can only tell someone you’re a walking paradox so many times before the disbelief calcifies into fear. Instead, I began to plan my years like missions. I left letters in library books, hid instructions in vaults only I knew how to open, buried messages under stone. I studied languages. I watched how the world tilted—how solar flares impacted climate, how artificial intelligence reshaped the economy, how the sky itself sometimes flickered. I learned to garden. Not because I’d ever see the bloom, but because I wanted to leave something living behind.

Then, on my thirty-second wake-up, I met Aria. She was standing in front of an abandoned bookstore, painting a mural of a phoenix wrapped in clock gears. I watched her for an hour before she turned and said, “You look lost. Or late.”

She believed me—without flinching. Called me her Rip Van Winkle with a clockwork heart. She asked questions no one had before: What do you miss the most? Have you ever left something behind on purpose?

That day, we built a capsule together—filled it with pieces of our lives: her sketchbook, a photo of us, my notebook scrawled with maps of possible futures. We buried it under the old bell tower, sealing it with a promise: if we found each other again, we’d dig it up.

The next time I woke, she was gone. Only a note remained, brittle and faded like old leaves: If you ever wake again, find me in Florence. That was twenty-four wake-ups ago.

I’ve searched across continents. Florence, Italy first—then Florence, Oregon. Every Florence I could find. Some didn’t exist anymore. Some had changed their names. But I searched anyway. I asked about her in dusty towns and sleek arcologies. I studied old security footage, traced murals, found fragments of the phoenix in back alleys and gallery ruins.

I’m almost seventy now, though I still look eighteen. My bones don’t ache, but my soul does. I’ve watched decades pass by the handful. I’ve outlived my friends, my parents, and the future I once imagined. But I haven’t stopped searching for her.

Tonight, as my eyes grow heavy, I hold her last note to my chest. The ink is nearly gone, but I’ve memorized every letter. I whisper her name like a prayer, willing my dreams to hold steady. Because maybe—just maybe—next year will be the one I find her. Or maybe next time I wake, the world will finally stop spinning without me.

Reflections

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On the other side of the mirror was another me. Smiling and happy. It wasn’t a dream. Not this time. I stood in front of the mirror in my cramped bathroom, toothbrush dangling from my hand, the minty paste half-falling from my open mouth. I hadn’t smiled in months—not a real one, anyway. And yet the man in the reflection looked like he’d just gotten a promotion, found the love of his life, and won the lottery in one glorious afternoon.

Same short black hair. Same crow’s feet forming at the corners of our eyes. Same five o’clock shadow. But the difference was in the eyes—mine tired and hollow, his alert and brimming with warmth. I blinked. So did he. But a beat late. I leaned in. He didn’t.

He just stood there, that warm smile like a secret. I raised my hand, slowly, like a mime testing glass. He did the same. This time, perfectly in sync.

Maybe I was losing it. Maybe it was the stress, the quiet loneliness that had sunk into my bones since Mira left, or the late nights spent scrolling job listings that all blurred into the same corporate-jargon soup.

But no, he was still there the next night. And the one after that. He waved at me once. And I waved back.

My name is Henry. Thirty-six years old. Insurance claims analyst. No kids. No pets. No real reason to get out of bed, most days, if I’m being honest.

The days blurred together like bad dreams I never fully woke from. My apartment was clean but sterile—no art, no plants, no hint that someone lived there. Just a series of polite spaces arranged for function, not feeling.

I’d met Mira in college. She had a laugh that could wake the dead and a talent for making the world feel larger, brighter. We made it six years before she walked out, said she couldn’t keep waiting for me to come alive.

“I feel like I’m dating a mirror,” she said once. Funny how that stuck. Except now the mirror was smiling. Now the mirror had the version of me she’d wanted all along.

On the fourth night, something changed. He waved again—but this time, gestured toward me. Beckoning. His smile widened. Then he pointed at the mirror, and made a pushing motion. Like an invitation.

“Come on,” he mouthed. I stepped closer. Close enough that the fog from my breath began to ghost across the glass. I pressed my palm against it, expecting the cool, familiar resistance. But there was none. My hand sank in. I yanked it back, heart pounding. A tremble ran through my legs, the kind that said this shouldn’t be possible. But I was no longer sure what possible meant.

That night I didn’t sleep. I sat in the hallway with the bathroom light on, staring at the door like it might open on its own.

The next night, I brought a notebook.

“What do you want?” I wrote. He stared at the page. Then, slowly, deliberately, mirrored me. His version of the notebook had a pen. He scribbled something. I leaned in.

“To show you what life could be.”

Night after night, I watched. Like some twisted long-distance voyeur. He had friends over for dinner. He laughed with them. He danced. There was a woman—same hair as Mira, but older, wiser. She hugged him, long and warm. A version of her, maybe? Or someone else entirely?

Meanwhile, my life was all plastic forks and cheap wine and rewatching sitcoms that felt more like lullabies than entertainment. The contrast clawed at me. He wasn’t just me. He was better.

I started skipping work. Calling out sick just to spend more time… watching. One night, I asked: “What’s the cost?” He looked at me for a long time. Then wrote one word.

“Choice.”

The night I stepped through, it was snowing. The apartment was silent, as usual. But my heart thudded like a war drum. I stood in front of the mirror, hands trembling. He stood there, too—smiling, arms open like an old friend ready for an embrace. I took a deep breath. And stepped forward. It was like falling through smoke. Cold and damp and weightless. And then—warmth. The smell of fresh-brewed coffee. The hum of soft jazz. Morning sun spilled across hardwood floors. I was standing in his apartment—but it was mine. Filled with photographs, cozy blankets, a shelf full of well-worn books. Behind me, the mirror shimmered. I turned. It was empty.

The days that followed felt like a dream written by someone who knew me. Everything just… fit. The coworkers were friendly. The job was meaningful—something about helping nonprofits with insurance reviews. The woman from before—her name was Ella—was kind and sharp and clearly in love with me. He’d set up a life that seemed effortless. People trusted me here. Respected me.

And for a while, I let myself sink into it. Let it wrap around me like a warm coat. I began to forget the cold, dusty corners of my real life. Began to feel like this was the life I was always meant to have.

But no story is perfect. The first crack appeared at a dinner party. Ella mentioned my mother—how she was glad we’d reconciled after “everything.” Except my real mother died five years ago, and I never reconciled with anyone. Then there was the co-worker who thanked me for covering something I didn’t remember doing—and looked puzzled when I asked about it.

Worst of all were the dreams. Flashes of another version of me—angry. Trapped. Screaming behind a pane of glass. He wasn’t smiling anymore. I returned to the mirror one night. It was quiet. Still. Then suddenly—BAM—a face appeared. My face, but not the smiling one. His eyes were bloodshot. His lips cracked. He screamed something, but there was no sound. He pounded against the mirror.

“Let me out.”

I pieced it together slowly. The version of me in the mirror had made trades. Bit by bit, he gave up pieces of himself to build the perfect life. An estranged parent forgiven with lies. A partner won over with omissions. A job gained through stolen ideas. And I had inherited it all. Worn his sins like a tailored suit. But he hadn’t just invited me in. He’d trapped himself. Or perhaps… I had. Because now the mirror wouldn’t open, no matter how much I begged.

I found the answer the way you always do: in sacrifice. I had to make a choice. I told Ella the truth—every twisted bit. Watched her face fall, the love dissolve. I left the job. Gave away the apartment. Found the mirror again, in a secondhand store on a forgotten street. And I apologized. Not to the world. To him. The glass shimmered once more, I stepped through.

Back in my old life, the apartment was still small. The job still dull. But I opened the windows more. Bought a plant. Called people back. The mirror now shows just one reflection. But sometimes… when the light hits it just right… I see him smile. And I smile back.

The Vigilante

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She wasn’t beautiful, she knew that. But when she put on the mask and leaped out into the night, she felt invincible. Not in the way comic books promised—no bulging muscles or laser eyes—but in the way a blade feels invincible in the hand of someone who’s not afraid to use it.

In the daytime, Mara Lane worked at the city library, shelving books and dodging conversation. She wore oversized sweaters, kept her eyes low, and let the world pass her by like fog on a gray morning. People didn’t look twice. Sometimes not even once. But at night? At night she became Nocturne.

The mask was a simple thing—black, minimal, fashioned from an old ballet costume she’d dyed and sewn herself. It left her mouth uncovered, her hair tucked up, and her eyes like smoldering coals in the dark. She didn’t need to be beautiful. She needed to be seen.

She dropped from the fire escape, her boots barely whispering against the wet pavement below. Sirens howled in the distance—north of Mercy Street. That wasn’t her beat tonight. Her target was closer.

The alley behind Alcott’s Pawn, where Anton Ridgeway’s enforcers had shaken down a single mother the week before. She remembered the woman’s face—split lip, the way she clutched her purse like it contained the last piece of her soul. Mara had watched from the shadows, powerless without proof, without preparation. That night, she’d promised herself it would never happen again. And now, here she was.

Two of them stood near the dumpster, laughing—one lighting a cigarette, the other scrolling through his phone like the world owed him something. Neither saw her coming. They never did.

Mara struck fast. A baton to the ribs, a twist of the wrist, and the cigarette hit the ground along with its owner. The other man lunged at her, swinging wide and foolish. She ducked low, swept his legs, and pressed the edge of her homemade stun rod to his throat. He froze.

“Tell Ridgeway,” she hissed, her voice low and jagged, “this part of the city belongs to me now.” Then she vanished into the shadows, like a breath held too long.

Later, back in her tiny apartment, Mara peeled off the mask and stared at herself in the mirror. Same tired eyes. Same hollow cheeks. The city would never put her on a mural or name a street after her. She wasn’t beautiful. She wasn’t famous. But she was necessary. And that was enough.

TO BE CONTINUED

Mother Knows Best

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She heard her mom yelling at her to get up for school.

“Emily Jane Carter! You’re going to be late again!” Emily groaned and burrowed deeper under the covers, pressing her pillow over her ears.

“I’m awake!” she shouted, her voice muffled.

“You’ve been ‘awake’ for fifteen minutes!” her mom hollered from downstairs. “Your bus leaves in ten!”Emily peeked out from the blanket cave, her eyes squinting at the clock. 7:43.

“Ugh,” she muttered, rolling onto her back. “Stupid morning. Stupid bus.”

With the grace of a sleepy walrus, she finally tumbled out of bed and stumbled toward her dresser. Her dark curls stuck out in all directions, and she only bothered brushing them back with her fingers. She threw on a hoodie, jeans, and mismatched socks—close enough.

Downstairs, her older brother Daniel sat at the table, smugly munching on the last granola bar like it was made of gold.

“You’re late,” he said through a mouthful of oats.

“Thanks, Captain Obvious,” Emily muttered.

Her mom was standing by the door, already dressed for work in a crisp navy blazer and heels. She held Emily’s backpack in one hand and her car keys in the other.

“You missed the bus,” she said simply.

Emily winced. “I can walk.” Her mom frowned. “Em, it’s cloudy. They said rain this morning, and you know the trail through the park gets muddy. Please take the long way—along the main road. And take an umbrella!” Emily snatched her backpack. “I’ll be fine. It’s barely misting!”

“I’m serious,” her mom said, stepping in front of her. “No park trail today. And at least wear your raincoat.” Emily sighed loudly, already halfway out the door. “I’m not a little kid, Mom. I’ve walked to school a million times.” Her mom’s voice followed her as the door closed behind her. “That doesn’t mean you stop listening!”

The sky outside was smeared with thick gray clouds, but Emily ignored it. She tucked her hands into her hoodie pocket and made a beeline for the park trail—the one her mom specifically told her not to take. The long way added fifteen boring minutes. The trail cut that in half and went through a quiet patch of woods, down a sloping hill, over a creek, and out into the neighborhood behind the school. Besides, the puddles were kind of fun to splash through. At first.

By the time she was halfway in, the clouds cracked open and dumped cold rain straight onto her. The path turned to slush. Her sneakers started making embarrassing squish squish sounds. But Emily kept going, muttering to herself.

“Should’ve just listened, Emily. Nope. Too stubborn. And now—” Her foot hit a slick patch of mud.

“Whoa—!” SPLAT.

She landed sideways, her entire left leg sinking into the brown goop. Her backpack flew off her shoulder and rolled toward the edge of the creek. Her phone tumbled from her hoodie pocket and hit the water with a tragic plunk.

“No no no no NO!” she cried, scrambling forward on her knees. The creek was shallow but moving fast from the rain. Emily snatched her phone out, but it was soaked and completely black. She tried holding down the power button. Nothing. For a few seconds, she just sat there, dripping and defeated. Then she did the only thing that made sense—she walked home, crying.

The door creaked open and she stepped inside, shivering. Her mom looked up from her laptop at the kitchen table, eyebrows shooting up. “Emily? Why aren’t you at school? What happened—oh my gosh, are you hurt?!”

Emily’s lip wobbled. “I—I took the trail,” she whispered. Her mom stood quickly and grabbed a towel. She knelt down and wrapped it around Emily’s shoulders.

“I fell,” Emily said, tears spilling out now. “And the creek got my phone, and I didn’t listen, and—”

“Okay, deep breath,” her mom said gently, guiding her to sit down. “Let’s get you cleaned up first, then you can tell me everything.”

Once Emily had changed into dry clothes and was sitting on the couch with a cup of cocoa, she finally explained the whole thing—how she ignored the warnings, how the shortcut betrayed her, and how sorry she was. Her mom listened without interrupting.

When Emily finished, there was a long pause. Her mom took a slow sip of her coffee, then looked over at her daughter. “You know, I’m not even mad,” she said softly. Emily blinked. “You’re not?”

“No. I’m worried. You could’ve really hurt yourself.”

“I know,” Emily whispered, voice small.

“I get that you want independence. But part of growing up is knowing when to trust people who’ve lived a little longer than you. I wasn’t just being annoying this morning—I was trying to keep you safe.” Emily looked down at her cocoa. “I didn’t mean to mess everything up.”

“You didn’t mess everything up,” her mom said, smiling gently. “You just learned a messy lesson.” She reached for Emily’s phone and set it on the table. “We’ll try the rice trick, but no promises. Meanwhile, I’ll email your teacher. And you’re grounded from shortcuts for the week.” Emily managed a small, sheepish grin. “Fair.” Her mom leaned over and kissed the top of her head. “Next time, Em… just listen, okay?” Emily nodded. “I will.” And this time, she meant it.

The Call

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A voice on the other end of the line spoke. “9-1-1, what’s your emergency?” There was a pause.

“There’s someone in my house,” the girl whispered. “I think… I think he’s been watching me.” The dispatcher sat up straighter, fingers poised over the keyboard. “Ma’am, are you in a safe location?”

“I locked myself in the bathroom. I can hear him… walking.”

“What’s your address?”

“1025 Briarwood Lane. Please hurry.” As the dispatcher typed, the call went quiet.

“Ma’am? Are you still there?” No response. All she heard was heavy breathing and footsteps echoing. Then a different voice, deep and hollow, crackling through static: “She can’t come to the phone right now.” The line went dead.

Detective Sam Riley was on the scene in fifteen minutes. The air felt… wrong. The door was ajar, yet the latch wasn’t broken. He stepped inside, flashlight sweeping across dust-coated furniture and cobwebbed corners.

“Baker,” he called to the officer behind him, “no one’s lived here in years?”

“Records say it’s been abandoned since a fire in ’04. Girl died. Family moved away.”

“Then who called 9-1-1?”

The bathroom door stood open. No signs of forced entry, no blood, no girl. Just the landline phone on the floor. He picked it up. Cold. Recently used. The call log was open. The number clear.

“This is impossible,” Baker muttered. “There’s no power. No phone service.” Riley’s gut twisted.

The next day, Riley dug into old records. A girl named Emily Carver had died in that house at age fifteen. The fire had started upstairs. Electrical. Unexplained. Her parents had insisted someone was in the house that night, but no evidence was ever found. Riley found a photo. Emily had long, dark hair. Big eyes. The voice matched.

“Was there ever a suspect?” he asked the archivist.

“One,” she said. “Her uncle. Never charged. Vanished right after.”

Later that night, Riley sat in his car outside 1025 Briarwood Lane, unable to shake the feeling. The dispatcher’s recording played over and over. Then he heard it. Just behind the voice—beneath the whisper. A second voice humming, like a nursery rhyme.

The next night, Riley returned. He brought an old tape recorder—analog, the kind used before digital systems became standard. Something about the way the dispatcher’s recording glitched at the end unsettled him. He wanted to hear it live. The house loomed in the moonlight, skeletal and silent. As he crossed the threshold, the temperature dropped. He flicked on his flashlight. “Emily?” he said, unsure why he was speaking aloud. “If you’re here, I want to help you.”

A creak echoed from upstairs. Riley climbed the stairs slowly, every board beneath him groaning. At the top was a blackened hallway. The fire damage was clearest here—walls charred, ceiling peeled away in places. One door remained barely intact. Her bedroom. He opened it. The walls were covered in faded wallpaper—pink with faint clouds. The bed frame, twisted and melted, still sat in the corner. On the scorched floor lay a soot-blackened music box. He bent down and touched it. The moment his fingers brushed the metal, the lid sprang open. A slow, eerie melody tinkled out. Riley froze. It was the same tune he’d heard in the background of the 9-1-1 call. Then, behind him, a whisper: “Why didn’t anyone come?”

He spun around. Nothing there. He fumbled to turn off the music box—but it kept playing, even with the lid shut. He bolted down the stairs and out of the house, music box still clutched in his hand.

Back at the station, Riley pored over Emily’s case file again. That night, her parents had been out. Her uncle—Raymond Carver—had been babysitting. He told investigators he’d left to “grab cigarettes,” and when he returned, the house was in flames. But neighbors reported hearing screams before the fire even started. Riley ran a background check on Raymond. Dead. Suicide, ten years ago. Found in a motel, clutching a picture of Emily. The words “I see her every night” were carved into the wall above his bed.

Riley’s breath caught. He reopened the music box. It was silent now. Inside, wedged beneath the dancer’s platform, was a slip of scorched paper. He unfolded it carefully. It was a photograph—Emily, smiling. On the back, a scribbled message:

He’s still here. In the walls. In the wires.

Riley returned one final time—this time just before midnight. He set up the recorder again, this time in the living room. Then he waited. Midnight struck. The static came first. Then the footsteps. Not across the floor—but through the walls, as if pacing behind the drywall.

“Emily,” Riley called, “I know what happened. He hurt you. He never left, did he?”

The lights flickered. Then a deep, garbled voice snarled, “She was mine.”

The room exploded with sound—glass breaking, music box tunes warping into dissonant wails. Then silence. Riley stood in the middle of the room, breath shaking. “You don’t belong here anymore,” he said firmly. “She’s free.”

For a long moment, nothing. Then the lights went out completely. And in that darkness, a soft voice—Emily’s—whispered, “Thank you.”

The next day, the house was gone. Neighbors swore they heard a boom—like a transformer exploding. But no fire crews came. By morning, only scorched earth remained. No phone. No furniture. No foundation. Just ash.

Riley quit the force a week later. He keeps the photo of Emily on his desk, and the music box—still silent—on a shelf. Every now and then, when the night is quiet and the air feels too still, he hears the faintest melody and smiles. Because this time, someone answered.

The Road to Nowhere

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The car came to an abrupt stop. It was pitch black outside and the wind was howling. Ben tightened his grip on the steering wheel, his knuckles whitening. In the passenger seat, Mia turned toward him, her voice tight with panic.

“Why did you stop?”

“The engine,” Ben said. “It just… shut off.”

In the back, Chris leaned forward between the front seats. “You gotta be kidding me.”

Lily and Jason shifted uncomfortably, each pressing closer to the middle as if somehow the darkness outside could seep through the car windows and drag them out. Ben tried the ignition again. The engine clicked uselessly. No headlights, no dashboard lights, not even a flicker. Jason tapped on his phone. “No service. Not even one bar.”

Chris cursed under his breath. “We should’ve taken the main highway. This shortcut—”

“It wasn’t supposed to be a shortcut,” Ben snapped. “It’s a mapped road. It’s just… isolated.”

Outside, the wind tore through the barren trees that lined the narrow road. Their skeletal branches scratched against one another, making a sound like dry bones.

For a few minutes, they sat in heavy silence, listening to the howl of the wind and the occasional rattle of the car as gusts rocked it gently on its suspension. Then came a new noise. A faint, rhythmic tapping against the passenger window.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

Mia jumped. “What was that?”

Ben grabbed a flashlight from the glove compartment, clicking it on with shaking hands. The beam cut through the dark — but there was nothing there. Just the endless stretch of empty, broken asphalt and the wild sway of trees.

“It’s just the wind,” Lily whispered, though no one sounded convinced.

Ben lowered the flashlight, and everyone stared. Fresh muddy handprints streaked across the window.

“Okay, no,” Chris said, his voice cracking. “Nope. Nope. I’m not sitting here waiting for something to smash in.”

Jason, impulsive and stubborn, yanked the door handle and stepped out before anyone could stop him. “I’m checking it out. Probably some creep messing with us.”

“Jason!” Mia shouted, but the wind tore her voice away.

They watched him step away from the car, the beam of Ben’s flashlight wobbling over his figure as he moved farther down the road. Two steps. Three. Then, just beyond the edge of the light, something moved. Not Jason. A pale, hunched figure slipped between the trees. The flashlight flickered. The light died. In the dark, they heard Jason’s voice — high-pitched, terrified, “Something’s here!”

A wet, tearing sound followed. Then silence.

“No,” Lily sobbed. “We have to help him!”

Ben grabbed her wrist as she lunged for the door. “No. Stay inside.”

Mia huddled close to Ben, whispering prayers under her breath. Chris fumbled in the back seat for something — anything — to defend themselves. Another noise. A dragging, scraping sound from the back of the car. Chris turned around, his breath fogging the glass as he peered into the darkness.

“I see something… it’s him! Jason!”

Ben looked too. A shape moved behind the car, slow and awkward, dragging a foot like it was broken. Mia’s hand clutched Ben’s arm. “That’s not Jason,” she whispered.

Chris didn’t listen. He grabbed the flashlight, flung the door open, and ran toward the figure.

“Chris!” Ben shouted.

The figure straightened suddenly, its head cocking at an unnatural angle. Chris froze. The flashlight dropped. The figure lunged. Chris’s scream was cut short. The flashlight rolled on the asphalt, its beam swinging crazily. Ben slammed the car door shut and locked it. Lily and Mia clutched each other, sobbing.

Inside the car, the air grew colder, damper. Ben’s breath came in ragged gasps. Outside, movement circled the vehicle, scratching and tapping, faint and persistent.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

Ben gritted his teeth, trying to keep his mind from unraveling. “We wait until sunrise,” he said, voice shaking. “We don’t move. We don’t open the doors for anything.”

Time twisted and distorted. Minutes stretched into hours. The night pressed heavier against the windows. At some point, Mia began murmuring to herself, rocking slightly. Lily clutched her necklace, whispering apologies, prayers, or maybe both. The tapping stopped. A new sound replaced it: voices. Jason’s voice. Chris’s voice. Calling their names.

“Ben… Mia… Lily… open the door. It’s okay now. It’s safe.”

Ben squeezed his eyes shut. He wasn’t stupid. It wasn’t them. The voices grew more persistent, more urgent, a dissonant chorus just outside the car. Sometimes they laughed. Sometimes they cried. Ben held on until his knuckles ached.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, a faint light bled over the horizon, painting the road and the trees in gray. Ben dared to open his eyes fully. The voices were gone. No figures circled the car. No tapping on the windows.

“Morning,” he whispered. “It’s morning.”

He unlocked the door and pushed it open. Cold air rushed in, sharp and biting. His legs felt stiff as he climbed out, blinking against the rising sun. The road was empty. Silent. No sign of Jason. No sign of Chris. No footprints, no blood. Not even the flashlight. Just the empty woods — and the faint feeling that they were still being watched.

Mia and Lily stumbled out after him. None of them spoke. There was nothing to say. Ben glanced back at the car one last time before they started walking. In the condensation on the rear windshield, a message had been scrawled in dripping letters.

SEE YOU SOON.

What’s Below Reflects Above

Posted on by under Short Stories

He lowered himself into the tunnel beneath the street. No, this day wasn’t usual, but neither was this murderer. Detective Caleb Ryker grunted as his boots hit the damp concrete below. The reek of mold and something long-dead clung to the air, turning his stomach. He tugged his coat tighter around him, more out of habit than warmth—no coat in the world could block out this kind of cold.

The access tunnel had been pried open earlier that day by a sanitation crew who’d found something their job descriptions never prepared them for—a man’s body, stripped bare and laid out with surgical precision. Organs arranged in a semicircle. Eyes placed delicately in the palms. The fourth body in three weeks.

Ryker clicked on his flashlight. The beam cut through the gloom, catching movement—just rats, fleeing into the dark. He exhaled through his nose, lips pressed in a line. The press was already calling him “The Ritualist.” Lazy name, but not wrong. Every victim had been positioned the same way. Every scene had the same message carved into the nearby wall: “What’s Below Reflects Above.”

He moved deeper into the tunnel. The floor sloped downward, and the stink intensified. The low ceiling forced him to hunch. Dripping water echoed like a ticking clock.

“Ryker, you copy?” His partner’s voice crackled through the comm clipped to his collar.

“Go ahead, Lena.”

“You’re sure you want to go in alone?”

“You know I don’t believe in backup until I’ve got something to point a gun at.”

There was a pause. Then: “Just don’t be a hero. We’ve already got four victims. I don’t want to add you to the list.”

He smiled faintly. “Noted.”

They hadn’t told the public everything, of course. The part about the victims all having the same birthday—September 9th. The part about the organs being removed without damage, as if someone knew the human body better than most surgeons. Or the fact that each body had been found closer and closer to the center of the city. Like a spiral tightening.

He paused at the edge of a larger chamber. His flashlight scanned the space. The walls were old—older than any public works project should’ve been. Stone, not concrete. Carvings, not graffiti. Strange symbols that looked like a fusion of Norse runes and mathematical diagrams.

And then, in the middle of the room—there it was. The fifth body. This one was different. Female, early twenties. Her expression was peaceful. There was no blood. Her organs were intact. But her chest had been cut open and stitched back shut, not arranged like the others. Ryker knelt, eyes narrowing. This felt wrong. Not just gruesome—wrong in a way he couldn’t explain.

“Lena,” he whispered into the comm. “You need to see this. And bring Forensics. We’ve got another one.” No response.

“Lena?” Static.

He stood, pulse quickening. The comms was dead. Either the walls were interfering with the signal, or something else was. A faint sound echoed behind him—metal scraping stone. He turned sharply, light slicing through the dark. Nothing. But then he saw it.

A shadow moving without a source. Just a slither of black across the far wall, rippling like smoke underwater. It stopped as soon as the light hit it. Vanished. Ryker swallowed. This wasn’t just a murder investigation anymore. This was something else.

He backed away from the chamber, only to stop as he caught sight of something he’d missed before—on the far wall behind the body, just barely legible beneath layers of grime: the same message, freshly carved.

“What’s Below Reflects Above.” But this time, there was an addition. “And Above Is Already Cracking.”

Ryker stepped back from the inscription, every nerve in his body taut like piano wire. The addition to the message nagged at something half-remembered—an old case file or an offhand remark from a profiler. He couldn’t pin it down, but it wasn’t new. Something was watching him.

He turned slowly, not with the panic of prey, but the calculation of a man who’d stared down death before and made it blink. The beam of his flashlight cut through the shadows again, revealing only stone and stagnant air. But the feeling remained.

Behind him, the dead girl lay like a whisper, stitched shut and waiting. He forced himself to crouch beside her again. Something about the surgical work gnawed at him. Too clean. Too controlled. Whoever did this had time—and confidence.

He looked more closely. Her hands were folded over her chest, fingers curled, but her nails were painted—chipped red polish with tiny gold stars at the edges. He’d seen that once before. It wasn’t in the autopsy photos, but it was in his notes. Victim #1 had the same polish. He cursed under his breath. They had missed it. All of them. The girls weren’t random. They were connected.

His radio clicked softly. Static. Then Lena’s voice. Warped, faint. Like it was coming from a long way off.

“Ryk—there’s—need—you to s—above—the light—it’s—” Static again.

“Lena? Repeat that. I didn’t catch—Lena?” Nothing.

He stood. Every instinct told him to go back, but he took one last sweep of the chamber before retreating. His beam caught something he’d missed earlier—a small object wedged into a crack between stones. He pried it out. A gold earring. Delicate. Shaped like a crescent moon. He pocketed it and made for the surface.

The street above felt like a different world. Blindingly bright. Noise everywhere. Sirens in the distance. People shouting. The sudden return to reality felt jarring, like stepping out of a dream mid-fall. He pushed through the gathered crowd and ducked under the yellow tape. Officers nodded him through. Lena wasn’t there. He checked his phone. One missed call from her. No message.

“Detective Ryker!” He turned. Officer Graves jogged toward him, face pale.

“You better come quick.”

They stood in front of the burned-out remains of a corner bookstore two blocks from the tunnel entrance. Fire crews were still hosing it down, steam rising like ghosts into the afternoon air. Ryker frowned.

“What am I looking at?” Graves pointed toward a group of onlookers across the street.

“Lena was here before it went up. Said she was chasing a lead. One of the victims used to work here. She went in—and then boom. Place lit up like kindling.”

Ryker’s stomach dropped. “Is she okay?”

“She’s alive. Shaken. Couple burns. Paramedics took her to Mercy General. But here’s the kicker—before she went in, she told me to look in the basement. Said there was a hidden room. She was convinced this bookstore wasn’t just a bookstore.”

Ryker stared at the scorched remains, something dark curling in his chest. He didn’t believe in coincidences—not four ritual murders, a hidden chamber, and now a hidden room in a bookstore connected to the victims.

He turned to Graves. “Did you find anything?”

Graves shook his head. “Not yet. Basement’s unstable. Too hot to get into safely. But fire marshal said it looked like something was already burning down there before the upstairs caught.”

“So someone wanted it gone,” Ryker muttered.

“Yeah. Or buried.”

Later that night, Ryker stood in the hospital hallway, listening through the glass to Lena argue with a nurse. She was sitting upright in bed, her dark curls a mess, bandage on her cheek, fury in her voice.

“I don’t care if he’s ‘not allowed’—tell him to get in here before I walk out!” The nurse glanced toward Ryker, already recognizing him. “I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear that,” she said, then pushed the door open and waved him through.

Lena locked eyes with him. “We need to talk.”

Ryker pulled a chair over and sat. “You first.”

“I found a journal.”

He blinked. “A journal?”

She nodded, digging into her bag beside the bed. “Wrapped in oilskin. Hidden behind a loose brick in the basement. It was still warm, so I grabbed it before the fire spread.”

She handed it to him. The cover was cracked leather, old. The spine had a symbol burned into it—three intersecting lines forming a spiral. He’d seen it once before. On the wall of the first crime scene, faint, like it had been washed away.

“Whose was it?” he asked.

“Belonged to the owner. Evan Mallory. Same birthday as the victims. September 9th. His body’s never been found—but he’s been presumed dead for two years. House fire.”

Ryker flipped the journal open. The handwriting was small, frantic.

They’re coming from below. I hear them in my dreams. The spiral is tightening. The city isn’t built over something dead—it’s built over something sleeping. Something we woke up. And it remembers us.

He looked up at her.

Lena’s voice was low. “There are more victims, Caleb. Ones they never found. This guy tracked them. Said they were part of something called ‘The Ninefold Echo.’ A kind of cult—but older. Way older. Before the city. Maybe even before the settlers.”

Ryker’s throat felt dry. “Why haven’t we heard of this before?”

“Because every time someone starts asking questions,” she said, “something burns down. Someone vanishes.”

She leaned in. “And I think Mallory was trying to stop it. I think he started the bookstore to watch the people being drawn in. All of them had the same birth date for a reason. September 9th isn’t random. It’s part of a pattern.”

He nodded slowly, adrenaline creeping back into his bloodstream.

“So what’s the next move?” she asked.

Ryker closed the journal, his jaw set.

“We go deeper.”

The subway tunnels beneath District Seven had long since been decommissioned, swallowed by new infrastructure and sealed behind rusted iron gates. But Ryker knew the city best kept secrets underground. He moved through the skeletal remains of the platform, flashlight trembling slightly in his hand. It wasn’t fear—not yet. It was the pressure. Like being watched by a thousand unseen eyes.

The deeper he went, the colder it got. Old tiles shed dust with every step. Faded graffiti whispered stories in languages no one spoke anymore. He paused at the edge of a corridor, studying the markings etched into the walls. Circles. Spirals. Interlocking triangles. The same pattern that appeared on the journal spine and the walls of the murder scenes.

He knelt and traced a symbol with his gloved fingers. It had been carved deep, not with modern tools—more like etched with stone or bone. Below the pattern were three words, barely legible beneath soot:

“Nine Folded Once.”

He didn’t understand it, but the phrase pulsed behind his eyes like a forgotten memory. A soft sound behind him made him rise fast, gun drawn. Footsteps. Just one set. Then silence. He turned. No one.

But when he aimed the flashlight back down the tunnel, something had changed. The spiral graffiti wasn’t behind him anymore. It was ahead of him—on the opposite wall. Had he turned around? No. He was sure he hadn’t. Something was toying with him.

Back in her hospital bed, Lena stared at the ceiling, the journal open on her lap. She hadn’t told Ryker everything. Not because she didn’t trust him—because she couldn’t yet trust herself. Her hands trembled as she flipped to the page she’d hidden between two glued sheets, a trick she’d learned in fieldwork years ago. Mallory’s final entry wasn’t written in ink. It was in blood.

To stop the spiral, one must go inward. The murders are echoes, sacrifices. The Ninth is always the key. Born on the Ninth, chosen by the Ninth. Each cycle begins anew. The Echo needs a mirror, and it’s found one. In him.

She closed her eyes. The word him was underlined. She didn’t want to believe it. Couldn’t. But the journal mentioned Ryker. Not by name directly—but it described a man matching his profile, his transfer to the precinct five years ago, the death of his wife, the insomnia, the tunnel dreams. He’d been dreaming about the tunnels long before the murders started. And somehow, he didn’t remember that.

Underground, Ryker reached what looked like an old maintenance chamber, sealed by a reinforced door. Faded paint spelled out Zone 3-B: Civic Utility Access. Someone had welded it shut long ago. Except now, the welds were melted through. He pushed the door open, and the darkness behind it swallowed the light.

The chamber was massive, circular, built in an era when stonework was still an art form. At its center stood a platform, slightly raised, with grooves cut into the stone floor like channels for draining—or guiding. The same spirals covered the walls here, but these were painted in something darker, glossier. He stepped forward. His boots echoed across the stone. In the center of the platform sat a chair. Not a throne. Not a torture device. Just an old wooden chair. Simple. Ordinary. Too ordinary. It was the only thing not covered in dust.

As he approached, a cold wind stirred the air, though there was no source for it. Then a voice. Low. Feminine. Barely above a whisper, yet it filled the chamber like thunder in the mind.

“Welcome back, Caleb.” He spun, gun up, but the room was empty. No sound. No movement. The chair creaked. Not just an echo. It moved. By itself. He didn’t run. He wanted to—but his legs refused. His body felt miles away, as if he were moving inside a dream, following a script written by something else. He took a step forward. The air changed—like stepping through a veil. Cold became warmth. Darkness became memory.

He was eight. Sitting in his mother’s basement. She was crying upstairs. Father gone. TV flickering static. The door to the furnace room cracked open. A voice whispering his name.

Caleb.

He blinked, and the memory vanished. He was still in the chamber. But the walls were closer now. Or maybe the room was shrinking. He staggered back. This wasn’t a murder scene. It was a ritual. And someone—or something—was trying to pull him into it.

Lena’s phone buzzed on the hospital tray. She didn’t recognize the number, but she answered anyway.

“This is Detective Marlowe.”

The voice on the other end was gravelly. Male. Shaky. “You need to get him out of there.”

She sat up. “Who is this?”

“The chair. The spiral. The Ninefold Echo—it doesn’t kill. It copies.”

The line went dead. Lena stared at the phone. Copies? She opened the journal again, flipped to a page with a diagram of overlapping faces—nine faces, all variations of the same man. Some older. Some younger. Some distorted, monstrous. The Echo doesn’t destroy. It duplicates. Replicates. Possesses? She cursed aloud and grabbed her jacket, pain flaring in her side. Ryker didn’t just find the center of the spiral. He was the center.

Ryker stared at the chair. The wooden frame groaned softly, though there was no breeze. No movement. Just the sense that it was waiting. His flashlight flickered. Once. Twice. Then it died. Darkness swallowed everything. Ryker’s breathing quickened. He tapped the flashlight, shook it. Nothing. He reached for his phone—its screen blinked to life for a second, then went black with a hiss of static. Then a faint, low hum filled the chamber. Not mechanical. Not natural. A resonance. Like a note played on an ancient instrument, buried under centuries of silence. And beneath that note, whispers. He stumbled backward and hit the wall. The stone was warm, too warm.

He spun, running his hand across the surface—and felt shapes carved into it. Familiar. Faces. Dozens of them. Mouths open, locked in silent screams. He jerked his hand away. The humming grew louder. The chair creaked again. And suddenly he knew. This was where it started. This was where they brought the Ninth.

Lena raced through the municipal archives building, limping slightly, coat flapping behind her. The night clerk gawked as she flashed her badge, then barreled past him into the elevator. The journal had referenced blueprints. Hidden ones.

Basement Level 2 had an unscanned archive: original civic engineering documents from the early 1900s, long before digitization. If there were records of these chambers—of the “Ninefold” designs—they would be here. She flipped through dusty drawers, choking on old paper and mildew. Finally, she found it.

CITY CAVERN SYSTEM—PROPOSED RITUAL SITE BENEATH 7TH & RAVEN

Her blood ran cold. There was a name on the blueprint. Project Overseer: Evan Mallory. She pulled out her phone and snapped photos of everything, hands shaking. And there—scribbled in red pencil on the corner of the final page—were two words.

“It remembers.”

Back underground, Ryker tried to move, but his legs wouldn’t obey. His arms felt heavy. Breath shallow. The chair called to him. Not in words. In memory.

He was seventeen. His best friend saved him from almost drowning in a lake outside the city. He never spoke of what he saw beneath the water—only that he came out changed. The nightmares started a week later. And when that friend vanished months later, all Ryker found was a journal. Spirals. Numbers. Symbols carved into the margins. He had forgotten that. Or something had made him forget. The humming crescendoed. And in that moment, Ryker saw himself. Not reflected in a mirror—but multiplied. Nine versions of himself. All standing around the chair. Some smiling. Some weeping. One screaming maniacally, covered in blood. He blinked—and they were gone. The chair sat empty. But not alone.

At the far end of the chamber, something stepped forward. Not a person. Not a shadow. A version of him. Eyes hollow. Face slack, like a mask only half-formed. It raised one hand—and pointed. Sit.

Lena burst into the command center at Central Precinct, a handful of blueprints and the journal clutched to her chest. Captain Wilkes stood from his desk, startled. “Jesus, Marlowe, you look like hell.”

“I need every available unit near 7th and Raven,” she said, slamming the journal down. “There’s a chamber underground. Ryker’s in it. And he’s not alone.”

Wilkes frowned. “You’re not making any sense.”

“He’s part of something. Something old. It doesn’t just kill—it copies people. Uses them. There were nine original chambers. Nine people born on the Ninth. But this cycle—it didn’t finish. Someone interrupted it last time. Now it’s starting again.”

Wilkes looked pale. “You’re talking about cult stuff?”

“No. I’m talking about something worse.” She met his eyes.

“I don’t think it’s trying to hurt Ryker, it’s trying to become him.”

In the chamber, Ryker fell to his knees. His thoughts were unraveling. His name, his memories, the boundaries between what he was and what he’d done—it all blurred. The echo-thing stepped closer. It opened its mouth—and his voice came out.

“You saw it too. In your dreams. The spiral. The chair. The city above breaking apart.”

Ryker gritted his teeth. “You’re not me.”

“No,” the thing said. “But I will be. Soon.”

It pointed to the wall—where a new carving had appeared. Fresh. Still wet.

“The Ninth has returned. The Echo is complete.”

Ryker reached for his gun, but it was gone. Laughter echoed around him. The versions of him reappeared, circling the chamber now, eyes glowing faintly in the dark. And in the center, the chair waited.

Lena and two officers forced open the tunnel gate with industrial cutters. She led them through the same winding path Ryker had taken, flashlight sweeping across old graffiti and ancient markings. And then she saw it—blood on the wall. Fresh. They reached the open door to the stone chamber.

“Ryker!” she shouted. Her voice vanished into the dark.

Then a whisper echoed back. “Lena…”

She turned to the officers. “Wait here. If I don’t come out in five minutes, seal the door.” They started to argue, but she was already inside. The darkness swallowed her.

Ryker sat in the chair. He didn’t remember moving. His limbs didn’t feel like his own anymore. Around him, the copies began to hum in unison. The spiral above him—cut into the ceiling—began to glow faintly. The thing stepped forward, now wearing his face perfectly. But Lena’s voice cut through the chant like a blade.

“Caleb!” He looked up. The copies froze. The thing turned, hissing. And for the first time, Ryker saw fear in its eyes. He reached inside himself. Past the memories. Past the confusion. To the thing that wasn’t part of the spiral. The truth. He wasn’t just born on the Ninth. He was the break in the pattern. The one they couldn’t copy. Because he’d already died once. And come back wrong.

Lena stepped into the chamber and froze. Nine figures circled the center—each one a version of Ryker, flickering in and out of shadow like ghosts trapped between moments. And in the center, bound by something deeper than rope or chains, sat the real Ryker. His eyes found hers, wide and terrified—but not for himself.

“For God’s sake, don’t step inside the circle!” he shouted. She stopped. Too late.

The moment her foot crossed the etched groove in the stone floor, the air pulsed, and the spiral above them glowed brighter. The chamber shifted—stone groaned, not as if crumbling, but like it was awakening. The thing wearing Ryker’s face turned toward her. Perfect. Hollow. Infinite.

“You shouldn’t have come, Lena.” She raised her pistol, hands trembling.

“I came for him.” It smiled—his smile, but warped at the edges.

“You came for what’s left of him. But the Echo doesn’t break. It completes. It reflects. He’s already halfway gone.”

The other versions began to chant again. Low, rhythmic. The walls responded, light pulsing with each syllable. Ryker strained against the invisible weight keeping him in the chair. “Lena—it’s not just trying to be me. It’s trying to replace everything I ever was. The murders were the setup. I’m the finale.”

Lena took a step closer, crossing the second circle in the pattern. Her flashlight buzzed and died. Darkness closed in. Only the spiral remained lit—burning now. Growing. The Echo moved toward her. “You can’t stop it. But you can join him. Be the Tenth. Complete the new spiral.”

Lena’s mind screamed at her to run. But instead, she turned the gun—not on the Echo, but on Ryker.

“Tell me something only you would know,” she demanded, voice cracking.

Ryker’s eyes burned. “First time we met, you thought I was a media plant. Said no real cop had shoes that clean.” Tears welled in her eyes.

“Second time?” she whispered.

“You loaned me a pen. I never gave it back. It’s still in my desk.” That was enough. She fired—not at Ryker, but at the chair. The bullet struck the wood near his foot—and something screamed. Not a voice. A force. The circle erupted in a blast of heatless light. The chant faltered. The Echo stumbled backward, flickering like a failing signal.

Lena rushed forward, grabbed Ryker’s arm, and pulled. The chamber fought her. The floor cracked. Spirals twisted upward from the stone like vines. The other versions began to convulse, faces collapsing in on themselves.

“You don’t belong here,” she growled. “You never did.” Ryker grabbed her hand—finally able to move. They ran.

Behind them, the chamber collapsed inward, the spiral shattering, the echoes screaming. As they passed the threshold of the outer circle, a final pulse slammed through the space—and the chair exploded in a blast of darkness and light, like two realities colliding. The gate behind them slammed shut. Silence.

They emerged into the night. Covered in dust and blood, gasping for air. Sirens wailed somewhere distant, but the city felt… still. Like something had passed over it and moved on. Ryker collapsed against a wall, hands shaking. Lena knelt beside him, breathing hard.

“It’s over,” she said. But Ryker didn’t answer right away. He was staring at his hands. At his reflection in a broken piece of glass nearby. Then he whispered, “Not for me.”

Two days later, Ryker sat on the roof of the precinct, watching the sunrise paint the sky in beautifully rich hues of violet and gold. Lena found him there, wrapped in his thoughts, nursing a paper cup of black coffee. She sat beside him.

“They’re calling it a gas leak,” she said. “The whole chamber collapsed into itself. City engineers are baffled.”

He nodded. “Let them be.” She studied his face.

“You’re still hearing them, aren’t you?” He didn’t answer, but she saw it in his eyes. The spiral had broken. But some things—some truths—stay.

“They’re not inside me,” he said finally. “But they left something behind. Like echoes. I close my eyes and I see them. Feel them.”

She looked down. “You saved people, Ryker. Whatever they wanted, whatever they were trying to become—you stopped it. You broke the cycle.” He gave a small, sad smile.

“But I think they needed me to.”

She frowned. “What do you mean?” He turned to her, voice quiet.

“I was the break in the pattern. The flaw. They couldn’t complete the ritual with me because… I was never whole to begin with.” Her brow furrowed.

“The drowning. Years ago. When I was seventeen. I died, Lena. Just for a minute. Cold water. Silence. And something else.” His hands trembled.

“I think they touched me then. Marked me. But it made me… incompatible. A broken mirror.” She reached over and gripped his hand.

“Maybe you were the break. Or maybe you were the only one strong enough to refuse what they offered.” He looked at her.

“Do you think I’m still me?” She didn’t hesitate. “I know you are. You’re the version that walked out.” They sat in silence for a while, watching the city stir awake. He reached into his coat and handed her a pen—her pen. She laughed softly, tears in her eyes. “Took you long enough.”

“You earned it,” he said. “You came back for me. Pulled me out of the spiral.” She squeezed his hand once more, then stood.

“Time to get back to work. There’s a lot of city left.” He watched her go. Then looked down at the journal in his lap—burned around the edges, many pages unreadable. But one page remained legible. The final page.

The Echo breaks when the chosen refuses their reflection. But every mirror cracks differently. And sometimes, the cracks are where the light gets in.

Ryker closed the journal, tucked it beneath his coat, and faced the sun. Whatever came next, he would meet it head on. Alone, if he had to. But awake.

Wrong Turn

Posted on by under Short Stories

He hadn’t a clue where he was. His cell phone was dead and the area looked dicey. Buildings slouched together under the weight of age and neglect. Crumbling red bricks and tangled vines told a story of abandonment. Faded billboards loomed overhead like forgotten gods, their messages lost to time. Somewhere in the distance, a siren howled—sharp, mournful, then gone.

Jordan’s fingers tightened around the frayed strap of his backpack. Every instinct told him to keep moving, to find light, people, something—anything—that felt familiar. But every street he turned down just seemed to fold deeper into the city’s forgotten ribs.

It wasn’t supposed to be like this. He had taken the 23 bus from campus to visit his friend Derek, who lived in the next borough. Only, he hadn’t paid close enough attention. One missed stop. A rerouted line. Then that “shortcut” through an alley that seemed to promise a straight path through the grid. That was an hour ago. Now it felt like he’d crossed into a pocket of the city not listed on any map.

He pulled his phone out again. The screen was black. He tapped it. Held the power button. Nothing. The battery had died somewhere between confusion and panic. The irony burned—he had portable chargers at home, cables in every room. But not tonight.

The sky had deepened into a bruised purple, clouds thick like smoke overhead. It would rain soon. Probably hard. A low hum reached his ears—streetlights flickering to life, one by one. Their pale amber glow stretched long shadows across the cracked sidewalk. A newspaper cart, abandoned, listed on one wheel. A neon sign flickered in the distance: OPEN. Jordan moved toward it. It wasn’t just about finding his way—it was about safety. This neighborhood had too many blind alleys, too many places to disappear.

The shop came into view—a corner store, its windows grime-smeared, barred with thick iron grills. The light inside buzzed fitfully. Rows of shelves stood mostly empty. The door was locked. Jordan jiggled the handle, peering inside. A payphone hung crooked on the back wall, its receiver missing. Hope drained from his chest.

Then came the crunch. Glass underfoot. Behind him. Jordan spun. Nothing. Only the empty sidewalk, the stretching shadows. And then—

“You okay, kid?” The voice came from across the street. A man leaned against a rusted lamppost, the cone of light above him flickering on and off. He wore an old flannel jacket, patched at the elbow, and a knit cap pulled low over shaggy gray hair. A cigarette burned between two fingers, its tip a tiny red eye. Jordan froze. The man raised a hand, half wave, half signal of peace. “You look a little turned around.”

“I’m lost,” Jordan admitted, voice tight. “Phone’s dead. I don’t know where I am.”

The man nodded like he’d expected that answer. “Figures. You’re not the first to wind up down here after dark.” He flicked his cigarette to the gutter and gestured. “Come on. Diner’s a few blocks up. You can warm up, get a charge, maybe call someone.”

Every red flag in Jordan’s brain started firing. Stranger. Night. Isolated street. But he looked around again—at the boarded windows, the dead silence, the locked store. And he followed.

The man walked at an easy pace, hands in his pockets. He didn’t speak much, just offered directions when needed. “Left here. Watch the curb. That building burned out last winter—don’t lean too close.” Jordan stayed a few steps back.

“Name’s Milo, by the way,” the man offered. “Jordan.” Milo gave a small nod. “You from the college?” Jordan hesitated. “Yeah.”

“Thought so. You’ve got the backpack, the look.”

“What look?”

“That look like you’ve been reading about the world for years but tonight’s the first time it bit back.” Jordan gave a tight, nervous laugh.

They passed a narrow alley that stank of wet garbage and rot. Jordan caught sight of a dark figure watching from behind a dumpster—but when he looked again, it was gone. His skin crawled. “You see things sometimes, in this part of town,” Milo said softly, not turning around.

“What kind of things?”

“Things you don’t want to see twice.” Jordan didn’t ask for clarification.

The diner appeared suddenly—like it hadn’t been there until they turned the corner. Old-school chrome panels, a flickering DINER sign buzzing in blue and white. One window glowed softly, shapes moving inside. Milo pushed open the door. A bell chimed overhead. Warmth hit Jordan like a wave. The smell of bacon grease and stale coffee wrapped around him, almost comforting.

The interior was a time capsule—vinyl booths, Formica counters, a jukebox in the corner playing a jazz track so low it was more memory than sound. A waitress with tired eyes and bright red lipstick stood behind the counter, cleaning a glass with a rag that looked older than Jordan.

Milo slid into a booth. Jordan sat across from him, watching the few scattered patrons—an elderly man sipping soup, a couple whispering in a corner. No one looked up. The waitress wandered over. “What’ll it be?”

“Hot coffee. And he’ll need one too. Maybe a grilled cheese?” Jordan nodded. As she walked off, Milo leaned back. “You’ll feel better with something in your stomach.” Jordan glanced at the outlet near the booth. “Mind if I—?”

“Go ahead.”

He plugged in his phone, screen springing to life. Three percent. Enough. He texted Derek:

Got lost. At a diner near someplace named Calder Street. Can you come get me?

After what felt like an eternity, the message sent. Jordan waited. No reply. “Reception’s weird down here,” Milo said, sipping his coffee. “Sometimes the messages take a while. Or never go through.” Jordan frowned. “How come?” Milo stirred cream into his cup. “This part of the city… it forgets things. Or maybe it gets forgotten. People don’t come here unless they’ve got nowhere else to go. Or unless they’re sent.”

“Sent by who?”

“You’d be surprised.”

The grilled cheese came. Jordan devoured the sandwich, his appetite was ravenous now that he was safe. Or at least safer than he was a few minutes ago. He checked his phone. Still no reply. He looked up. “Milo, why were you out there?” Milo didn’t answer right away. He reached into his coat and pulled out a small, battered notebook. Set it on the table. “I help people who get lost. Been doing it for years.”

Jordan opened the notebook. Names. Descriptions. Dates. Dozens of them. One page caught his eye:

R. Harris. Found near the tracks. Said she followed a voice. Never made it back.

Then another:

L. Ortega. Claimed he saw the city breathe. Wouldn’t stop screaming. Disappeared from Booth 5.

Jordan swallowed. “What is this?” Milo’s voice was quiet. “People think when you get lost, it’s a mistake. A wrong turn. But sometimes… it’s a calling. The city has places that aren’t mapped. Places that pull. They find people when they’re vulnerable. Hungry. Scared. Lonely.”

Jordan leaned back. “You think that’s what happened to me?”

“I think you were close to something. But you didn’t cross the threshold. Not fully. And that means you can still go back.”

The bell above the door rang. A man walked in, soaking wet. Black hoodie. Pale face. Eyes wide, darting. He slid into booth 5. The same one from the notebook. Jordan looked at Milo. Milo just sipped his coffee. The man in booth 5 looked at Jordan, almost as if he was staring straight through him. Then he whispered, “You shouldn’t have come here.”

Leviathan

Posted on by under Short Stories

The rod pulled hard as he tightened his grip and began to reel in the line. Without warning, the reel shrieked, the line spooling out as though dragged by some terrible force from the depths. Jonah Thorne planted his feet against the wooden slats of his skiff, muscles taut, eyes fixed on the water’s surface where something vast and unseen twisted below.

For three days, he had hunted the shark. He had heard whispers of it in the docks, among old fishermen whose voices turned to hushed murmurs at its mention. They called it the Leviathan, a beast long as two boats, with eyes like polished stone and a hunger that never ended.

Jonah had seen what it could do. A week ago, it had torn through a whaling sloop, snapping oars, shredding sails, and leaving nothing but crimson streaks on the tide. He had seen the look in the eyes of the few survivors—men who had stared into the abyss and found it staring back, jaws gaping.

But Jonah was not like them. He was not running. He was here to face it.

The rod jerked again, nearly yanking him overboard. He braced himself, cursing under his breath. The sea around him was eerily calm, save for the black, undulating line that marked where the beast dragged his hook into the abyss. He let the shark run, let it feel it had won, until suddenly, he wrenched back, setting the hook deep into its flesh.

A moment of stillness. Then the ocean exploded.

The shark broke the surface in a frenzy of white water and spray, its bulk rising like a nightmare given flesh. A massive creature, nearly twenty feet from snout to tail, with scars crisscrossing its slate-gray hide like an old warrior’s map of battles past. Its eyes, black and hollow, locked onto Jonah.

A cold certainty settled in his bones. It was not just fighting for survival. It knew him. And it hated him.

The shark thrashed, its tail slamming the side of the skiff. Jonah held fast, his hands raw against the line, the salt spray burning his face. His heart thundered, but he did not waver. He had spent his life chasing ghosts of the sea, chasing something that would make him feel alive.

And here it was.

The battle stretched into eternity, the sun dipping low as the waves bore witness to their struggle. The beast dove deep, trying to wrench free, but Jonah held, his muscles screaming. He had come too far to let go now.

The shark turned, a dark shape gliding just beneath the skiff, and Jonah knew—it is not fleeing. It is coming for me.

A shadow rose, swift as death itself. With a roar, Jonah grabbed the harpoon beside him, lifted it high. The shark erupted from the sea, its maw gaping, rows of teeth like jagged glass.

Jonah struck.

The harpoon plunged deep into the beast’s throat as its weight crashed onto the boat, shattering the stern. The impact sent him sprawling, the salty depths rushing up to swallow him whole.

Darkness closed around him. For a moment, all was silent.

Then he felt it—the slow, fading convulsions of the monster beside him. Blood clouded the waters, warm and thick, as the shark’s body twisted in its final throes.

With a final effort, Jonah clawed his way to the surface, gasping as he broke free into the cold night air. His boat was ruined, little more than driftwood. But the beast was dead.

Floating there in the endless expanse, Jonah let out a ragged laugh. He had won.

Yet as he gazed into the black horizon, he could not help but wonder—what had he truly conquered? The beast? Or the abyss inside himself?