Catherine

I just stared at the fireplace for what felt like an hour, heart still thudding like I'd run a mile. Then the floorboards creaked behind me. Slow, measured, deliberate. I turned. He was back, sitting in the chair by the window. Exactly where he'd been before. Same posture, same expressionless stare. "'Hey, where did you go?' I asked." He didn't look at me. I took a step forward.

Did you find your truck? Did someone come get you? Still nothing. Then he spoke. Just three words. Quiet. Measured. Like he'd rehearsed them. There are others. What others? I asked. But he didn't respond. The room felt colder. The shadows heavier. My skin prickled like a cold sweat was building under my clothes. "'Are you hurt?' I asked, keeping my distance.

Did you find your truck? Did someone come get you? Still nothing. Then he spoke. Just three words. Quiet. Measured. Like he'd rehearsed them. There are others. What others? I asked. But he didn't respond. The room felt colder. The shadows heavier. My skin prickled like a cold sweat was building under my clothes. "'Are you hurt?' I asked, keeping my distance.

He blinked slowly, then turned to look at me for the first time since reappearing. His lips barely moved. They walked too. That's when the generator cut out. The light flickered once, then everything went black." I fumbled for my flashlight and snapped it on. When the beam hit the chair, it was empty. He was gone. Again. No sound. No footsteps. No door.

He blinked slowly, then turned to look at me for the first time since reappearing. His lips barely moved. They walked too. That's when the generator cut out. The light flickered once, then everything went black." I fumbled for my flashlight and snapped it on. When the beam hit the chair, it was empty. He was gone. Again. No sound. No footsteps. No door.

Just vanished into thin air like the air swallowed him. That was the first time I felt something close to real fear. I checked the back door again, still bolted. Walked around the outpost with the flashlight. Every corner. Every creek. Every room. Empty. But when I stepped outside with the light and scanned the dirt, I found them. Footprints. Bare. Human. Deep in the dust.

Just vanished into thin air like the air swallowed him. That was the first time I felt something close to real fear. I checked the back door again, still bolted. Walked around the outpost with the flashlight. Every corner. Every creek. Every room. Empty. But when I stepped outside with the light and scanned the dirt, I found them. Footprints. Bare. Human. Deep in the dust.

Circling the entire outpost in wide loops. Long, narrow feet. No tread. Toes spread like hands. There were dozens of them. And they weren't mine. I didn't sleep that night. Not even a little. After seeing the footprints, dozens of them, circling the outpost like coyotes around a dying thing, I sat with my back to the closet door and the hunting rifle in my lap.

Circling the entire outpost in wide loops. Long, narrow feet. No tread. Toes spread like hands. There were dozens of them. And they weren't mine. I didn't sleep that night. Not even a little. After seeing the footprints, dozens of them, circling the outpost like coyotes around a dying thing, I sat with my back to the closet door and the hunting rifle in my lap.

It felt stupid, holding that old rifle like it would matter if whatever this was came inside, but it gave me something to grip, something real in a place that was rapidly slipping away from reason. I didn't call for help. I didn't even try the radio again. I don't think I really believed help would come anymore. Not from Clint. Not from the sheriff. Not from anyone.

It felt stupid, holding that old rifle like it would matter if whatever this was came inside, but it gave me something to grip, something real in a place that was rapidly slipping away from reason. I didn't call for help. I didn't even try the radio again. I don't think I really believed help would come anymore. Not from Clint. Not from the sheriff. Not from anyone.

Whatever was out there, it felt old. Older than roads. Older than the people who mapped them. It was quiet until just after 4am. That's when the shortwave crackled to life on its own. Not with static, with a voice. It came through faint, warped, like it was buried beneath ten layers of sand in time. It walked too far. I stared at the receiver, frozen. The voice came again.

Whatever was out there, it felt old. Older than roads. Older than the people who mapped them. It was quiet until just after 4am. That's when the shortwave crackled to life on its own. Not with static, with a voice. It came through faint, warped, like it was buried beneath ten layers of sand in time. It walked too far. I stared at the receiver, frozen. The voice came again.

The same words, but this time lower. More distorted. Doesn't remember what it was. And then silence. No click. No fade out. Just gone. I stepped away from the receiver like it might bite me, gripping the rifle tighter. That's when I heard it. The front door creaking open. Not slamming, not crashing. Just that slow, deliberate sound of old hinges turning. I hadn't locked it.

The same words, but this time lower. More distorted. Doesn't remember what it was. And then silence. No click. No fade out. Just gone. I stepped away from the receiver like it might bite me, gripping the rifle tighter. That's when I heard it. The front door creaking open. Not slamming, not crashing. Just that slow, deliberate sound of old hinges turning. I hadn't locked it.

After everything that happened, I never even thought to lock the damn door. The air turned cold, not desert at night cold, dead of winter inside your bones cold. I crept into the main room, and he was back, the stranger. Standing in the open doorway, same torn denim jacket, same boots, same dark hair, though now it looked damp. His back was to me, arms slack at his sides, he wasn't moving.

After everything that happened, I never even thought to lock the damn door. The air turned cold, not desert at night cold, dead of winter inside your bones cold. I crept into the main room, and he was back, the stranger. Standing in the open doorway, same torn denim jacket, same boots, same dark hair, though now it looked damp. His back was to me, arms slack at his sides, he wasn't moving.

The porch light behind him was flickering. casting his shadow long and distorted across the floor like it didn't quite belong to him. I raised the rifle slowly, arms trembling. And then he spoke. But his voice wasn't his. It came out layered. Two voices at once. One low and rasping, like a dying animal trying to speak. The other was high, almost childlike. Too high. I need help.

The porch light behind him was flickering. casting his shadow long and distorted across the floor like it didn't quite belong to him. I raised the rifle slowly, arms trembling. And then he spoke. But his voice wasn't his. It came out layered. Two voices at once. One low and rasping, like a dying animal trying to speak. The other was high, almost childlike. Too high. I need help.

I lowered the rifle. Not because I wasn't afraid. Because my arms just gave out. He turned around slowly. His eyes were pitch black. Not dark. Black. No whites. No iris. Just void. And his mouth. It didn't open the way mouths are supposed to. It stretched, wide and long, cracking at the corners, until it split his face almost in half. He didn't scream. He didn't lunge.