Detective Jack Alistair Miller stepped off the elevator into the narrow hallway of the apartment building. The fluorescent lights above flickered intermittently, casting shadows along the walls. He inhaled slowly. Something about this building felt wrong.
He had investigated countless crime scenes, but there was a distinct weight here, an almost imperceptible hum in the air that made the hair along his neck stand. The report had been brief. A missing woman, twenty-four years old, freelance illustrator named Amelia Hart. Two weeks ago, neighbors claimed they had not seen her leave her apartment. There had been no sounds, no disputes, no indication that she had been taken.
When he reached the front door, slightly ajar, his instincts screamed that something had gone horribly wrong.
Jack drew his service pistol out of habit and pushed the door open slowly. His blue eyes scanned the room. The apartment was a mess, but not from ordinary living. The destruction felt intentional, ritualistic in its chaos. Furniture was overturned. A coffee table lay split in two, shards of glass scattered across the floor. A chair had been smashed into pieces, its wooden legs splintered. Blood streaks marked the floor and walls, dark crimson against the beige paint. The scent of iron and dust filled the air.
Jack crouched, examining a smear on the floor. It was fresh enough to not have fully dried. The streaks suggested struggle. They moved across the room toward the kitchen, but then stopped abruptly. It was as if whoever it belonged to had vanished mid-step.
A photograph caught his eye. On a low shelf near the window, partially buried beneath overturned books, a framed picture of Amelia smiled up at him. She looked ordinary in the photo, carefree. But surrounded by the destruction, the image felt unreal, out of place.
Jack's fingers hovered above his notebook as he carefully documented everything. Broken furniture, blood spatter, signs of struggle, signs of forced entry. Nothing. There were no fingerprints other than her own. No footprints other than those of a panicked person fleeing or someone who had never truly left. The thought made him shiver slightly.
This is not normal, he murmured.
He moved toward the kitchen. The trail of destruction continued, the walls streaked with red. The splatters were not random. They curved along the wall in almost deliberate arcs, as though someone or something had intended to mark space before disappearing.
Jack's mind raced, piecing together every possibility. He had seen brutal crime scenes before, and he prided himself on composure. But there was a chilling difference here. He felt it in his chest, that subtle tightening that warned of forces beyond logic.
Then he noticed the chains.
Metal chains were attached to the radiator in the corner of the kitchen. Jack knelt carefully, inspecting the links. Rusted in some spots, still shiny in others. Whoever had been restrained here had been removed, leaving only traces behind.
A quiet click made him turn sharply toward the living room. Nothing. He exhaled slowly, keeping his hand near the pistol.
He approached the couch. The cushions were slashed. Blood stains spread across the fabric, yet there was no body. No sign of a struggle beyond the destroyed furniture. He crouched and examined the floor. Every streak, every smudge was there, but none led out of the apartment. It was as if someone had been erased mid-motion.
He stood and ran his hand through his hair. The case report had said missing person. Two weeks without a trace. But now, seeing this scene, Jack knew it was more than a simple disappearance. There was something unnatural about it.
Jack pulled out his phone and snapped several photos, careful not to disturb anything. He noted the layout, the broken furniture, the blood patterns. Each image seemed to confirm the same chilling impression. Amelia Hart had not just disappeared. She had been removed from reality.
He knelt near the kitchen, noticing tiny flecks of something unusual on the floor. Not blood, something metallic. Tiny splinters of glass mixed with a red substance that seemed to shimmer under the fluorescent light. Jack frowned. Was it paint? Some chemical? He did not recognize it, but he had a nagging feeling it did not belong to any ordinary crime scene.
Jack straightened and let out a deep breath. He needed to think clearly.
He opened his notebook and began writing.
Victim: Amelia Hart, 24, freelance illustrator
Apartment condition: Extreme destruction. Furniture overturned, slashed, broken. Blood on floors and walls. Chains attached to radiator
Evidence: Blood patterns indicate struggle. Patterns stop abruptly. Objects displaced, no exit traces
Other: Metallic flecks on floor, unknown substance
Jack paused, staring at the notebook.
159 missing people, he whispered.
He had been tracking disappearances for two weeks. Men, women, even one child. All vanished without explanation. Records kept changing, erasing details. Now Amelia was another number.
He closed his eyes for a moment, trying to steady his breathing. Detective work was usually methodical, sequential. But this defied method. Patterns did not just disappear. They were rewritten. Files that existed yesterday now vanished. Evidence that was real yesterday today did not exist.
Jack rubbed his forehead, feeling exhaustion settling in his bones. Two weeks of sleepless nights, chasing ghosts that were literally disappearing from existence. He had begun to feel the weight of it on his mind, the subtle tremor of panic that he could not show.
A faint sound made him freeze.
The apartment was silent.
Then the sound again, a soft creak like a floorboard settling.
Jack's hand instinctively went to his pistol. He slowly turned toward the bedroom. The door was closed. He approached cautiously. He reached for the doorknob.
Then he paused.
The doorknob rattled slightly in his hand.
Jack exhaled slowly. He pushed the door open carefully.
The bedroom was empty. Not just empty of people. Empty of anything that belonged to the apartment. Clothes folded neatly, the bed made, but there were no signs of Amelia ever being there. No photos, no personal belongings. It was as if the room had been reset, scrubbed of history.
Jack stepped inside carefully. Blood traces were gone. Furniture intact. Chains gone.
Jack's mind raced.
He pulled out his phone and compared the photos he had just taken with what he was seeing now. There was a discrepancy. The photos showed horror, destruction, blood, and chains. But the room now was normal, impossibly tidy.
He felt a chill creep up his spine.
This is not possible, he muttered.
Jack sank into a chair near the window. He leaned his head back and closed his eyes.
Am I losing it, he whispered.
A sharp sound drew his attention. His phone was vibrating. Unknown number.
He hesitated. Then answered.
Hello?
A childlike voice whispered softly, layered with static.
You remember.
Jack froze. His grip tightened.
Who is this?
You were never supposed to stay, the voice said.
Static drowned the rest. The line went dead.
Jack exhaled, shaking. He looked out the window. The city below was calm. People walking, cars moving. But inside him unease settled deep. Amelia's disappearance and the apartment shifting was beyond normal comprehension.
He knew one thing.
This was no ordinary missing person case.
And whatever had taken her, it might not be finished.
Jack glanced once more at the photos of Amelia smiling. Then at the empty apartment, pristine and lifeless.
A thought struck him.
If Amelia Hart could vanish from reality like this, how many others had already been erased, and would anyone notice?
He pressed the notebook against his chest, feeling the weight of unsolved mysteries pressing down. One hundred fifty-nine people had disappeared so far. If he could not solve this, if he failed to uncover the truth, how long before he too would become nothing more than a number?
The thought sent a shiver down his spine.
Jack Miller, Detective, age twenty-five, had solved murders, kidnappings, fraud, theft, and terrorized criminals alike. But tonight, in Amelia Hart's apartment, staring at the impossible, he realized something terrifying.
For the first time in his life, he did not just fear death.
He feared being forgotten entirely.
He knew deep down that if he wanted answers, he would have to go further than he ever had before.
He would have to confront not just Amelia Hart's disappearance, but the erasure of reality itself.