My body seizes up with fear, my eyes locked on the shadowy figure beside the guitar. The air grows colder, almost freezing, sending a chill that creeps up my spine and prickles my skin. For a second, I can't breathe. My heart slams in my chest, every beat reverberating in my ears.

The figure doesn't move—just stands there, unmoving, waiting. Its outline is blurry, shifting slightly in the dim light from the streetlamp outside, as if it's not fully solid. My mind is spinning, every logical part of me screaming that this can't be real. That I'm just imagining it, that my grief has twisted my thoughts, my vision, everything.

But Max growls again, his lips curling back as he crouches low to the floor, his gaze fixated on the figure. He sees it too.

"Tyler?" I whisper, my voice barely audible, shaking with fear and hope and something else I can't name. I'm terrified, but part of me wants it to be him, wants to believe that somehow, impossibly, he's standing there, back from the dead. That I'm not alone.

The figure shifts slightly, its form flickering in the shadows. And then, like smoke, it vanishes. One blink, and it's gone, leaving nothing but the suffocating silence behind. The guitar remains untouched, leaning against the wall just like it has for days. The only sound is the soft ticking of the clock, counting the seconds in a world that no longer makes sense.

I collapse onto the couch, my legs too weak to hold me up. Max paces back and forth, his nails clicking against the hardwood floor, still tense, still alert. I wrap my arms around myself, trying to stop the shaking, trying to convince myself that I didn't just see what I saw. That this isn't happening.

The cold feeling lingers. It's still here, like a shadow clinging to the walls, a presence I can't explain. My thoughts are tangled, looping over and over, replaying the sight of that figure—the one that looked so much like Tyler. The one that felt like him.

It's grief. It has to be. I may want to pretend he isn't there. However, I do want to see him. I want him back so badly that my mind is playing tricks on me. I'm imagining things. It's not real.

But the voicemail was real. And the shirt, neatly folded on the bed. And the knocking. And Max, who knows something's here.

I rub my temples, trying to fight the pounding in my head. I need to stop. I need to breathe. But every time I try to calm myself, the image of that shadow—Tyler—flashes in my mind again, more vivid, more impossible.

I don't know how much time passes as I sit there, curled up on the couch, lost in my thoughts. The room feels colder than ever, and the shadows seem to stretch longer across the floor, twisting and bending into strange shapes. I can't bring myself to move, can't bring myself to even look toward the hallway, where the figure had stood. I don't want to know if it's still there.

Eventually, exhaustion pulls at me, the adrenaline in my body wearing off, leaving me drained. I lie down on the couch, pulling the throw blanket around me, but sleep doesn't come easily. Every creak, every groan of the old building feels louder, sharper, like the apartment itself is alive, watching me. Waiting for me to let my guard down.

When I finally do drift off, my dreams are a jumbled mess of images—Tyler's face, the sound of his voice calling my name, the shadowy figure, the cold, the silence. It's like I'm stuck in a loop, trapped between the past and the present, between what's real and what's not.

***

Waking up hours later, the apartment still shrouded in darkness. It takes me a moment to realize where I am, my mind groggy, my body heavy. Max is curled up on the floor next to the couch, but his eyes are open, watching me. I sit up slowly, my neck stiff from sleeping in such an awkward position.

I glance at the clock.

4:17 AM

The darkness outside is impenetrable, the kind of deep, early morning blackness that makes everything feel more surreal, more distant. The world is asleep, and so is most of my mind. But something else has woken me.

The phone on the coffee table buzzes once.

I stare at it, my pulse quickening. Another voicemail.

I don't want to listen to it. I don't want to know what it says, don't want to hear Tyler's voice again. But I can't stop myself. My hand moves on its own, reaching for the phone, my fingers trembling as I swipe to unlock it.

Another unknown number. Another voicemail waiting for me.

I press play.

At first, it's just static again. The same crackling, distorted noise that fills the room, making my skin crawl. And then, through the static, Tyler's voice breaks through, clearer this time, but distant, like he's calling from a thousand miles away.

"Ettie..."

My breath catches in my throat, my heart racing as I listen.

"I need you to..."

The words break up, fading in and out, but the urgency in his voice is unmistakable. I can barely make out the last part, his voice warped and fading into the static.

"Help me!"

The voicemail cuts off abruptly, leaving me in stunned silence. My hands are shaking, my mind spinning with a hundred different thoughts, none of them making sense. I feel like I'm on the edge of something terrible, something I can't understand.

Help me

That's what he said. Tyler. Asking for help. But how? How is this even possible?

I drop the phone onto the couch, my heart pounding in my chest. This isn't real. It can't be real. But Tyler's voice keeps echoing in my mind, that desperate plea lingering in the air, pulling at me, demanding something I can't give.

I bury my face in my hands, trying to think, trying to breathe. I don't know what's happening, but it feels like I'm slipping further away from reality, further away from everything I thought I knew.

The apartment feels smaller now, tighter, like the walls are closing in around me. I don't know how to make sense of any of this, and the fear that's been gnawing at the edges of my mind is starting to take over. I can feel myself unraveling, piece by piece, and there's no one here to help me. No one to pull me back.

Except maybe Tyler.

I look around the room, half-expecting to see him standing there again, that shadowy figure, watching me. But there's nothing. Just me and the suffocating silence.

Help me

The words echo in my mind, over and over, like a broken record, and I know I won't be able to ignore them. Tyler's asking for help. He's reaching out to me. But how? Why? And what does he want?

I don't have the answers. I don't even know if I'm ready to find out. But I can't keep living like this, stuck between the past and the present, trapped in this apartment with the ghosts of everything I've lost.

I stand up slowly, my legs shaky beneath me, and walk toward the hallway, the darkness stretching out ahead of me like a tunnel. I stop in front of the door to the bedroom, my hand hovering over the handle.

I don't know what I'm looking for, but I open the door anyway.

The room is dark, the shadows thick and heavy, but I can feel it—the presence. That cold, unsettling sensation, like something is watching me from the corner of the room. My heart pounds in my chest as I step inside, the floor creaking beneath my feet.

The air feels different here, thicker, charged with something I can't explain. I move toward the bed, my breath shallow, my hands trembling. And then, I see it.

Tyler's journal. The one we used to keep together. The one I haven't opened since the day he died.

It's lying on the floor, just beneath the bed, as if it's been waiting for me to find it.

I kneel down, my heart racing, and reach for it. My fingers brush against the worn leather cover, and a shiver runs through me. I pull the journal into my lap, staring at it for what feels like an eternity before I finally open it.

The pages are filled with Tyler's handwriting, familiar and comforting, but there's something different about the last entry. It's dated October 7th, the day before the accident. But the words...the words don't make sense.

I know what's happening. I know what it wants.

The entry ends there, the words scrawled in a hurry, the ink smudged as if Tyler was interrupted before he could finish.

My heart pounds as I stare at the page, my mind racing with questions. What did Tyler know? What was he talking about? What wants something?

I don't have the answers. But I know one thing for sure.

This isn't over.