Chris Hale never thought of Wooden Gate as anything special. It was the kind of small American city where everyone knew the sound of their neighbor's car, where lawns were trimmed to the same height, and where Christmas lights stayed up long after the season was over. Eighteen years old, freshly graduated, and stuck between high school and whatever came next, Chris moved through life with the dull comfort of routine.
Tonight, broke that routine.
The house smelled of cinnamon and pine. His family filled every corner of their two-story home. His parents argued playfully in the kitchen about the ham. His grandparents sat in the living room, talking about winters from decades ago. It was an ordinary Christmas, and that was exactly why it felt safe.
Chris walked into the main hall and found his grandfather waiting with a box wrapped in dark blue paper. The old man's grin stretched wide beneath his silver mustache.
"I hope you've been a good kid this year," his grandfather said, handing over the gift. "Santa might have more waiting for you."
Chris laughed and tore the wrapping. A brand new PS5. "I don't know, Grandpa. I tried my best."
His grandfather chuckled and patted his back. "That's all any of us can do."
Dinner carried them into the evening. They prayed, they ate, they teased Chris about finally becoming an adult. It was warm, full, loud. By ten everyone was exhausted. His parents and grandparents claimed the ground floor bedrooms. Chris climbed the stairs and stretched out in his room, still buzzing from the night.
The clock hit midnight.
A sharp, cold dream dragged him awake. His heart thumped hard. For a moment he didn't remember where he was. Just a sense of danger clinging to him like frost. He rubbed his face and reached for the water bottle on his nightstand, drinking until the tightness in his chest eased.
When he walked to the window, the street outside looked empty. Too empty. Wooden Gate usually held a late Christmas hush, but this silence felt wrong. Still, he told himself he was imagining it. He got back in bed, letting sleep pull him down even though unease pressed at the back of his mind.
Morning came with sunlight crawling across his floor. He threw on clothes and headed downstairs, pushing last night's dream aside. His family sat around the table finishing breakfast. Everything looked normal again. Safe again.
He ate, showered, and began packing his bag for his college prep classes. When he checked his phone, the screen nearly froze him.
Eric had sent message after message. Fifteen? Twenty? Maybe more. All between midnight and dawn.
Call me.Dude answer.Something's happening.Chris pick up.Please pick up.
Chris tried calling, but all he got was a flat mechanical voice: The number you are trying to reach is not available.
Then his phone screen flickered.
Every app vanished. The wallpaper blinked to black. A message appeared in blood red letters, sharp and irregular, as though written with a shaking hand.
HI CHRIS
The phone vibrated once.
Then it went silent.