The beeping of the heart monitor fell into silence—flatline. Just a single note stretched out, too long to be hopeful. The doctors tried—god, they tried. But there was no salvation left inside her veins. Her body had already begun its silent departure. Too much damage. Too little time.
She was gone.
In another sterile room, under surgical light, Sasha lay in a half-dream, her mind drifting between memories and numbing anesthesia. The cold breath of death had brushed her shoulder, and she felt it still linger in the folds of the hospital air.
When Sheriff McLaurel arrived with Luke, Sasha sat up weakly, her body shaking from pain not just of flesh but of soul. Her words came out like cracked porcelain, trembling and fragile.
"I'm amazed you got out of El Fuego de Store," the Sheriff said, her voice uncertain.
Sasha grabbed Luke's wrist, desperation pooling in her eyes like melted glass.
"Luke, you're next. I know it. You're next on his list.""Please… stay here. Stay with me. Don't leave this hospital, no matter what."Her voice broke like a snapped violin string. "I can't lose you too."
Before Luke could respond, the door swung open. Doctor Steph stepped inside, his coat heavy with the burden he carried.
"Your friend… she's gone. The damage to her intestines and brain was too extensive. We couldn't do more. I'm so sorry."
Sasha stared at the floor, her mind halting like a clock with no hands. A single teardrop trailed down her cheek. Her world, once full of twisted horrors and shadowy corridors, now echoed emptiness louder than screams.
"I guess… she'll never come back," Sasha whispered, her voice no louder than breath.
Luke kissed her temple gently.
"Try to rest. I'll be back. I'm just heading to the store to grab you something."
He stepped into the hallway, his footsteps hollow in the linoleum silence.
The elevator was crowded. Bodies pressed together. Sweat. Perfume. Muffled conversations. A murmur rose:
"Did someone fart?"
"No—it smells like… rot."
"Something's up there—above us. Look at the emergency hatch!"
Luke looked up. The ceiling panel trembled.
"Lift me up," he told the others.
Curiosity laced with dread climbed his spine. He rose on their hands and peeked through the hatch—and froze.
A woman. Or what used to be one. Her limbs were severed, her face peeled back like paper. She stared with eyes long past life. Luke shrieked. The elevator screamed louder. It snapped free. Metal groaned. Cables snapped like ribs. The elevator plunged.
Screams tore through the shaft like confessions, and then—impact.
When the dust settled, bodies were twisted, limbs wrong, eyes open and seeing nothing. But not Luke. Not a scratch. Not a bruise.
Hospital staff pulled him out, baffled, breathless.
"How is he alive?" someone whispered. "How?"
Sheriff McLaurel arrived, wild-eyed.
"Luke—are you okay?"
"Yeah," he said, dazed. "I think so."
"How the hell are you not injured?"
"Do you want me to be?"
She sighed. "Don't be clever, boy."
Luke didn't answer. He left the hospital, climbed into his car, and drove. The world outside blurred, winter trees bending like mourners in a funeral procession.
But then—tap tap.
He glanced behind. Nothing. Tap.
Another. The windows whispered, like fingers dragging across glass.
Then—headlights.
A truck roared from the darkness. He yanked the wheel. Tires screamed. The vehicle skidded, narrowly avoiding death. Luke slammed the brakes and gasped, breath short, heart loud.
"Well… that was some bullshit," he muttered, pulse racing like a hunted thing.
He arrived at El Fuego de Store. The neon sign flickered like a dying heartbeat. Inside, silence reigned. He picked up chips, drinks—mundane things, like he was trying to pretend the world was normal. But the cashier stared at him too long. Their grin was crooked.
"Do you know Sasha?" they asked.
Luke blinked.
"Yeah. Do you?"
"Oh yeah. She was one of ours—"
The past tense. The smug tone. Luke punched them. The cashier reeled back, blood splattering across the gum rack.
"Sasha's a fool! Just like all of you—"
Luke didn't let him finish. He drove the blade in. The cashier choked. He twisted the knife. Blood painted the counter. He smashed the register drawer into their skull. The store lights flickered.
Luke left with snacks in hand, like nothing had happened.
Driving back, the forest whispered. Then—crash.
A tree fell before him like judgment. Brakes screamed. A second too slow. Other cars couldn't stop in time. They hit him, flinging the car off the cliff. The sky spun. Then silence.
The vehicle landed upside-down. The windshield was webbed with cracks and blood. The engine hissed. Flames licked the frame.
Luke screamed.
He kicked. Crawled. Glass sliced his skin. Then—she appeared. A woman in black. Hair long as shadow. A face like agony. Eyes stitched shut but bleeding. She stared.
"Help me!" Luke cried.
But she danced in the flames, laughing. Her body burned, unmoving.
He crawled out. Phone in hand, fingers bent and broken.
911.
A flaming knife flew. It pierced the phone. Laughter. She was on him in an instant.
"You must pay the price. For our heavenly entity. For our guide."
"You… are… nothing."
She raised the knife again—
A shot cracked through the air.
Sheriff McLaurel appeared behind her.
"You son of a bitch," she growled—and fired again.
Two bullets struck the entity. She screamed—a sound that tore through the skies and made dogs howl. Windows shattered across town.
She writhed. McLaurel shot her again. Then again. Then stomped her.
Luke looked up.
But—no. Not over.
A shadow moved in the flaming wreckage.
Something else was there.
Eyes. Red. Glowing.
He pointed, trembling.
"Sheriff—look!"
But McLaurel didn't turn. Instead, he grabbed Luke's arm—and pushed.
Luke's heart dropped.
The Sheriff's eyes were glowing. His face twisted. Not McLaurel.
"Bye-bye, Luke," the thing whispered. "May we meet again." And Luke fell. His scream split the wind.
He crashed on the rocks below—bones snapping, skull fracturing. Blood painted the stones like art. Half his face caved in. One eye dangled loose.
When police arrived, the car was untouched.
The fire—gone.
No signs of struggle. No knife. No woman.
Just a broken boy in the ravine.
"Suicide," said McLaurey.
"No damage. How'd the car fall?" Albert asked.
"Maybe he sped up?"
"There's no damage, McLaurey. Think."
"You always say this ghost crap—"
"This is serious."
They found Luke's phone—shattered. A knife embedded in it. They found a black cloth. Still warm.
Albert went pale.
"This wasn't suicide."
Sasha arrived with Sheriff McLaurel—the real one.
Her knees buckled when she saw the body. The cliff echoed her wails.
"I can't lose him!"
She clutched Luke's shattered hand.
Back at the store, a report came in.
"Another body. At El Fuego de Store."
McLaurey turned pale.
"Something's happening."
And the wind, ever so gently, carried a whisper from the cliff's edge. "May we meet again…"