The police didn't find anything because there was nothing to find.
That was the first thing that followed us home, our anxiety.
My mom was awake when I walked in, standing in the kitchen doorway like she'd been there a while. The overhead light was on, bright enough to sting my eyes after the dark outside. The house felt too quiet—no TV, no music, no movement. Just her, waiting.
"You're late," she said.
Not angry. Just tired.
"I know."
"The police called."
That landed heavier than I expected. I set my shoes by the door, lined up too neatly, like doing something normal might steady me.
"They said you were in the woods," she continued. "They said you were scared."
I nodded once. Saying more felt dangerous.
"They didn't find anything," I said.
She didn't respond right away. Instead, she watched me—really watched me—the way parents do when they're trying to figure out how much of the truth their kid is carrying alone.
"That doesn't mean nothing happened," she said quietly.
I looked up at her then.
She sighed, rubbing a hand over her face. "You kids think danger announces itself. Like it knocks first."
I subconsciously let out a slight laugh. Mainly because Chief Grant had said the exact same thing to us.
She grounded me. Two weeks. School and home. No late nights. No excuses.
I accepted it without pushing back. Some part of me was relieved she didn't ask what I'd heard in the cave. I didn't know how to explain that the worst part wasn't what I saw.
It was that something had heard me too.
⸻
Sleep didn't come easily. It didn't come honestly.
I drifted in and out, caught in that half-awake space where your body rests but your mind refuses to. Every time I closed my eyes, the cave came back—not all at once, just pieces. The white glow on stone. The way the air felt heavier the farther in we went. The sound of my own voice calling my name from somewhere behind me.
I woke up convinced someone was standing in my room.
Heart pounding, breath caught in my throat, eyes locked on the corner by my door.
Nothing moved.
No shadow. No sound. No shape.
Just silence.
And for the first time in my life, silence didn't feel empty. It felt like something holding its breath.
⸻
School the next day felt wrong in a way I couldn't explain to anyone who wasn't there.
The lights were too bright. The hallways too loud. People laughed, shoved each other playfully, complained about homework and weather like the world hadn't tilted just a little overnight.
Hashim found me by my locker.
He didn't crack a joke.
That alone told me everything.
"You good?" he asked.
I nodded. "Yeah."
He hesitated, then nodded back. Neither of us believed it. But saying otherwise felt like crossing a line we weren't ready for.
Samiya showed up late, backpack hanging low on one shoulder, eyes sharp and tired. She didn't greet us. Didn't slow down. Just stood there like she was daring someone to say the wrong thing.
Neems hovered behind her, quieter than I'd ever seen her. Hoodie pulled tight. Hands shoved deep into the pockets like she was trying to disappear into herself.
Sia wasn't there.
"Maybe she stayed home," Neems said softly.
Nobody replied.
Classes blurred together. Teachers talked. I took notes without remembering what I'd written. Every sudden noise made my shoulders tense. Every time someone said my name, my stomach dropped before I could stop it.
At lunch, we sat together out of habit more than comfort. Food sat untouched in front of us.
Neems finally spoke. "I shouldn't have suggested it."
Samiya's head snapped up. "Don't."
"I'm just saying—"
"I said don't." Samiya shoved her chair back hard enough that it screeched across the floor. "You don't get to say that now."
Hashim raised his hands instinctively. "Yo, chill—"
"No," she shot back. "You all wanna pretend it was just a bad night? Fine. I'm not doing that."
She walked away, leaving her tray behind.
None of us followed.
Because none of us knew what we could say that wouldn't make it worse.
⸻
Sia came back the next day.
She looked fine. That was the unsettling part.
Same posture. Same calm expression. But it felt rehearsed, like she was holding herself together on purpose. Me and Hashim didn't speak to her that day, we thought we might've just made things worse.
"My parents don't believe me," she said later, when her and Neems were alone by the stairwell. "They think I panicked."
"Did you?" I asked.
Their eyes met. Didn't blink. "No."
That was it. No explanation. No elaboration.
They stood there in silence until the bell rang.
⸻
Hashim told me later that the worst part wasn't seeing it.
It was realizing he'd already been walking for a while before he noticed the world was wrong.
The gas station sat at the corner of Maple and Ridge, the kind of place that stayed open because nothing ever happened there. One flickering sign. One bored clerk. One aisle that smelled like chips, soda, and old coffee.
Hashim pushed the door open, the bell chiming above him.
He wore a hoodie pulled tight over his head, hands shoved into the front pocket. It was late—past midnight—and the streets outside were empty in that unnatural way that made every sound feel louder than it should've been.
The lights buzzed overhead.
Then flickered.
Once. Twice.
Hashim stopped walking.
He looked up, squinting. The fluorescent bulbs above the snack aisle dimmed, surged, then dimmed again. Shadows stretched where they shouldn't have. The hum deepened, almost like a low growl buried beneath the electricity.
"Yo," Hashim said, glancing toward the counter. "Your lights good?"
The clerk didn't look up from his phone.
"What?"
"The lights," Hashim said, pointing upward. "They're flickering."
The clerk frowned, finally raising his head. He followed Hashim's finger, eyes tracking the ceiling.
"They're fine," he said.
Right on cue, the lights steadied.
No flicker. No hum. Just the dull, normal glow.
Hashim's face twisted—not fear, not yet—just confusion. The kind you get when reality doesn't argue with you, it just quietly refuses to agree.
"You sure?" Hashim asked.
The clerk shrugged. "Been fine all night."
Hashim nodded slowly, like he accepted that answer. He grabbed a bag of chips, a candy bar, a drink he didn't even like. His hands felt clumsy, fingers numb as he set everything on the counter.
That's when he heard it.
A sound like metal being dragged across stone.
Sharp. Screeching.
Close.
Hashim's head snapped toward the glass windows at the front of the store. His reflection stared back at him, distorted by the fluorescent lights. Beyond it—darkness. Street. The empty road.
"You hear that?" he asked, eyes still locked forward.
No response.
Hashim turned.
The clerk was gone.
Not walking away. Not ducked behind the counter.
Gone.
The phone sat where he'd left it, screen still glowing. The register was open. The bell above the door was silent.
"Hello?" Hashim called.
Nothing answered.
The screech came again—louder this time.
Outside.
Hashim swallowed and stepped toward the door. Every instinct screamed at him to stay inside, but his body moved anyway, like something had reached inside him and pulled.
The bell chimed as he pushed the door open.
Cold air hit his face.
Across the street, beneath a single streetlight, something stood.
Tall.
Unmoving.
Its shape didn't make sense at first—not fully. Too thin. Too long. Like someone had stretched a person upward and forgotten to stop. Its limbs hung wrong, elbows bending a second too late, joints suggesting movement without ever actually moving.
It didn't chase.
Didn't approach.
It just stood there, angled slightly toward the gas station, as if it had been waiting for him to notice.
Hashim's breath caught.
"The… hell…" he whispered.
The streetlight flickered.
The thing's outline blurred.
And Hashim woke up.
He shot upright in his bed, gasping like he'd been underwater. His sheets clung to him, soaked with sweat. His chest burned as he dragged air into his lungs, over and over again.
"A dream," he muttered. "Just a dream."
He ran a hand through his hair, laughing once—short, shaky.
"Just a dream."
Then he heard it.
A screech.
Faint. Distant.
Real.
Hashim froze.
Slowly, heart hammering, he turned his head toward the window.
The street outside his house was quiet. Empty. The streetlight across the road buzzed softly, bathing the pavement in pale yellow.
And for half a second—just long enough to know he wasn't imagining it—something stood at the edge of the light.
Watching.
Hashim blinked.
It was gone.
The light steadied. The street returned to normal.
But sleep didn't come back.
Because dreams don't usually leave echoes.
———
But Hashim wasn't the only one this has happened too. It'd seem like that monster, whatever it was liked watching us from our windows across streets.
I stopped checking my room when I woke up.
If something was there, I didn't want to confirm it. Like a scared child thinking theres a monster in the corner of their room in the dark.
Instead, I stood at my window, staring out at the street. Everything looked normal. Parked cars. Empty sidewalks. Streetlights buzzing softly.
Then something shifted.
Across the street, near the trees, a shape stood where there hadn't been one before.
Tall.
Too tall.
It didn't move toward the house. Didn't react when I froze. It just stood there, like it had always belonged and I was the one who hadn't noticed it until now.
My breathing sounded too loud in my ears.
A car drove past, headlights flooding the street with light.
The shape was gone.
My phone buzzed in my hand.
Neems: You awake?
I stared at the glass, at my own reflection layered over the dark outside.
Me: Yeah.
Neems: Okay.
Nothing else.
I didn't dare ask what she meant.
Because just beyond the reach of the streetlight, something shifted again—subtle, patient, unmoving for long stretches at a time. It was hard to believe any of this was even real.
Whatever had followed us home wasn't lost.
It wasn't confused.
It was waiting.
⸻
NEXT WEEK:
Chapter 3 — "The Voice Isn't Gone."