Zeb emerged from the shadowed alley, his footsteps echoing against the silent buildings. The street stretched before him, illuminated by flickering streetlights but eerily empty. Night enveloped the city, yet the usual hum of cars and distant chatter was absent.
Is this only happening inside the fight club? he wondered. The silence pressed in, unsettling.
He approached a nearby bus stop and sat down onto the cold metal bench. Home was miles away; waiting for the bus seemed the best option. His heart pounded relentlessly. Glancing at his hands, he saw they were still trembling. He clenched them, trying to steady himself, then buried his face in his palms, eyes closed. Breathing deeply, he sought calm amid the chaos in his mind.
Time slipped by. Twenty minutes passed, and no bus appeared.
"It should've been here by now," he murmured. Buses ran every fifteen minutes at this hour.
With a sigh, he stood. "Guess I'll have to walk."
As he stood up, a sharp sting pricked his neck. His hand shot up to the spot, fingers brushing over a tiny bump. Just as quickly, it seemed to burrow deeper beneath his skin.
Panic surged. "No!" he gasped. "Was that one of those creatures? I can't become one of those monsters."
Zeb scratched at his neck, nails digging into the skin until it turned red. No relief came; the itch seemed to burrow deeper. "Calm down," he whispered. "It's just a bug bite—a mosquito or something." But the fear lingering in his eyes betrayed him.
The street stretched out before him, unnervingly silent. Not a single car passed, no distant chatter or hum of the city—just an oppressive stillness under the dim glow of streetlights. "This is so strange," he thought, quickening his pace. The emptiness pressed in, fueling his anxiety.
"I need to get home," he reminded himself, breaking into a jog. Thoughts of his mother and Sera swirled in his mind. Were they safe? Had whatever happened at the fight club reached them?
A faint noise pulled him from his worries—a muffled sound from a building he was passing. He hesitated, footsteps slowing. "Just keep going," he urged himself. But then, clear as day, the fragile cry of a baby pierced the silence.
He stopped. Heart pounding, he glanced back at the darkened storefront. "A baby? Out here?" The idea of leaving a helpless child alone gnawed at him. "What if someone needs help?" Clenching his fists, he took a deep breath and approached the building.
As he neared the door, the crying grew louder, each wail echoing in the still night. He grasped the handle, twisting it slowly. The door creaked open, revealing a wall of darkness. "Great, no flashlight," he muttered, remembering his phone was lost back at the fight club.
Feeling along the cold, damp wall, his fingers searched for a light switch. The baby's cries intensified, urgency threading through each sob. Finally, his hand brushed against a switch. He flicked it on.
A dim, flickering light sputtered to life, casting long shadows across the room. Dust motes danced in the air above aged furniture and tarnished antiques. "Must be a mom-and-pop shop," he thought, eyes scanning the cluttered space.
"Hello? Is anyone here?" His voice sounded small against the quiet.
Suddenly, the crying stopped. An uneasy silence settled, thicker than before. Then—a faint shuffling noise from somewhere deeper inside. The hairs on the back of his neck rose. "What am I doing?" he wondered aloud, doubt creeping in. But something pushed him forward—curiosity, concern, perhaps a sense of duty.
He moved toward a door at the back of the shop, its paint peeling and handle rusted. Each step felt heavier than the last. Reaching out, he turned the knob and inched the door open. The room beyond was cloaked in shadows, shapes of indistinct objects looming within.
"Hello?" he called again, stepping across the threshold. Silence.
Just as he was about to retreat, the baby's cry echoed once more—but this time, it was right behind him. His body went rigid. The sound warped, stretching into something unnatural, a distorted wail that sent a chill down his spine.
A warm breath brushed against his neck, slow and deliberate. His pulse thundered in his ears. *Move,* his mind screamed, but his legs felt anchored to the floor.
Gathering every ounce of courage, he forced himself to turn around.
There was nothing there.
The shop stood empty, shadows draped over silent displays. Confusion mingled with fear. "Am I losing my mind?" he whispered.
A sudden scrape sounded to his left—the screech of a chair sliding against the floor. He whipped his head toward the noise. In the corner, a figure slowly emerged from the darkness, indistinct and shrouded.
"Who's there?" Zeb demanded, his voice shaking.
The figure didn't respond. Instead, it began to hum—a slow, haunting melody that felt both familiar and utterly alien. The sound wrapped around him, thickening the air.
"I don't have time for this," he said, stepping back. "I need to get home."
As he moved toward the exit, the lights flickered, casting the room into brief darkness before illuminating again. Each flash seemed to bring the figure closer, though it remained stationary.
Panic surged. Zeb bolted for the door, yanking it open and stumbling back into the street. The cool night air hit his face, a stark contrast to the stifling atmosphere inside.
He didn't look back.
Sprinting down the sidewalk, he pushed himself to run faster. The city's silence was now a void he was desperate to fill with the sounds of normalcy—distant traffic, sirens, anything. But only his footsteps echoed in the emptiness.
"What's happening?" he gasped between breaths. "Is everyone gone?"
Reaching an intersection, he paused to catch his breath, glancing around. Streetlights stretched in both directions, illuminating vacant roads. The isolation pressed in, heavy and suffocating.
A soft lullaby drifted through the air, the same tune the figure had hummed. It floated on an unfelt breeze, wrapping around him. His chest tightened.
From the corner of his eye, he saw movement—a shadow slipping just out of sight behind a parked car.
"Who's there?" he shouted, backing away.
Silence.
The itch on his neck flared suddenly, a sharp sting that made him wince. He touched the spot, feeling the warmth beneath his skin.
"Get it together, Zeb," he told himself. "You're just imagining things."
But doubt gnawed at him. The events at the fight club, the empty streets, the unsettling encounter in the shop—it all felt connected.
"I need to find someone," he decided. "Anyone."
He resumed running, each step fueled by a mix of fear and determination. Buildings blurred past, their dark windows like empty eyes watching him. The city he knew felt like a hollow shell.
Turning onto his street, hope sparked within him. "Almost there," he breathed.
But as he approached his home, that hope wavered. The front door stood ajar, a faint light spilling onto the porch.
"Mom? Sera?" he called out, climbing the steps.
No response.
Steeling himself, he pushed the door open and stepped inside.
The house was quiet. Too quiet.
"Mom?" he tried again, moving through the hallway. The living room was empty, the kitchen untouched.
A soft giggle echoed from upstairs—Sera's laugh.
Relief washed over him. "Sera! It's me!" he shouted, taking the stairs two at a time.
At the top, he paused. The hallway stretched before him, shadows pooling in the corners. The door to Sera's room was slightly open, a sliver of light peeking through.
He approached slowly. "Sera? Are you okay?"
Pushing the door open, he stepped inside.
The room was empty, the bed neatly made. A music box on the dresser played a familiar lullaby—the same haunting melody from earlier.
His blood ran cold.
Behind him, the floorboard creaked.