Chapter 2: They Weren't Human
1469 Words
POV: Julie Ferns
The bathroom light buzzes above me. That dull, headachey kind of flicker.
My hands are on the sink. White knuckled. Pressed so hard into the porcelain it should c***k.
It won’t stop replaying.
The sound. That first one. That wet snap. Like someone breaking a giant branch but too close, too sharp.
Then the way his claws dragged.
And that low sound. The growl that didn’t sound like anything a man should be able to make.
I squeeze my eyes shut. Breathe in through my nose. Hold. Out. Again.
Still here. I’m still here.
I open them. Look at myself.
Eyes sunken. Paler than usual. Hair a mess I don’t remember making. There’s a red mark on my cheek where I must’ve slept on the seam of my hoodie.
I lean in closer.
Try to see if something’s off.
If I look... different.
Crazy.
But no. Same face. Same girl. No blood. No fangs.
Just me.
Just... me.
I tell myself again:
Hallucination.
Stress.
Late shift. No food. Probably dehydrated. Maybe I dreamt the whole damn thing while walking. People do that. I’ve read about it.
I open the news on my phone, thumb shaking a little.
Scroll.
Nothing.
No police reports. No late-night disturbances.
No mention of anyone finding a mutilated body in the alley behind Kinley’s Books.
Not even a noise complaint.
Like it never happened.
I click out. Open Notes.
Start typing:
> They weren’t human.
I stare at it. A few seconds.
Backspace.
Gone.
My thumb hovers over the screen. Then I lock it and drop it face-down on the counter.
This didn’t happen.
Except it did.
---
At work, the cart’s wheels squeak every few feet. There's something stuck under one of them. Gum maybe. Or dried glue. I don’t care enough to check.
I’m in the fiction aisle, reshelving a stack I didn’t shelve right the first time.
Carver. Cavanaugh. Chandler. Charlotte Brontë.
Crap. Out of order again.
I blink and stare at the spines.
Red. Green. Gold. Black.
I forget what I’m even holding. I forget how to alphabet.
My fingers tighten around the books.
“Julie.”
I flinch.
Margie’s staring at me. Hands on hips. Frown tight like she’s smelling something bad.
“You okay? Been zoning out all morning. That’s the third time you’ve shelved Jane Eyre under T.”
“I’m fine,” I say. Too fast. Too clipped.
Her eyes narrow. She doesn’t believe me, but she nods and walks away like she’s tired of trying.
Good.
I’m tired of pretending.
Naomi’s laughing when she walks through the door. Tosses her bag onto the couch, kicks off her heels. There’s glitter on her cheek. Probably leftover from that stupid club she loves.
I open my mouth to say something.
Almost do.
Like, Hey, can I tell you something insane?
Or maybe: I saw a man kill another man, except neither of them were exactly men.
Or just: I’m not okay.
But then she’s grinning at her phone, texting someone back. Her perfume’s thick, sweet, cloying—like peaches and wine and something I can’t name.
And her laugh fills the space again.
So I shut my mouth.
Smile like everything’s fine.
Wait till she goes to her room.
Then I lock my own door.
Sit on the floor with my back to it.
And stay like that for a long time.
---
The dream comes later.
Same as always.
But clearer this time.
Fire. Screaming. Trees burning too fast to be real.
Someone’s yelling my name.
Not Naomi. A younger voice. Higher pitched.
Desperate.
There’s blood. Not a little. A lot.
Dripping down my legs. Pooling between toes I don’t remember being bare.
Smoke pours in. The girl screams again.
Then everything goes black.
I wake up with a gasp so loud it startles me.
There’s sweat on my chest. Neck. Even the backs of my knees.
It’s freezing.
I can’t breathe right.
---
The air in my room feels… off. Heavy. Still.
I sit up, throw the blanket off. My skin's damp, clinging to my tank top. It sticks between my shoulder blades. I pull it away. Doesn’t help.
The digital clock blinks: 2:41 a.m.
Figures.
I rub my chest with the heel of my palm. There’s this tightness. Like something's lodged under my ribs, pressing out. Not pain exactly. Just wrong.
I push to my feet. Bare toes meet cold floor. That wakes me more than the dream did.
I don’t know why I walk to the window.
I just… do.
The curtain’s light, thin. It sways a little. There’s no wind.
And then I see him.
Across the street. Right under that busted streetlamp that flickers like it’s dying.
He’s just—standing there.
Still. Straight-backed. Like he’s been carved out of the dark.
No cigarette. No phone. No movement.
Just watching.
My body forgets how to move.
I squint, try to make out his face, but it’s shadowed. All I see is the shape of him. Tall. Lean. Shoulders broad like a boxer’s. That same stillness from the alley. Like nothing could knock him off balance.
I don’t need to see his face to know it’s him.
It’s him.
The way my breath catches—my body already knows.
Naomi stirs on the other side of the wall. Muffled, half-asleep voice: “Everything okay?”
I don’t look away.
“Yeah,” I say.
Lie.
Then I close the curtain. Slowly. Like that’ll undo it. Like maybe he’ll vanish if I don’t see him.
But my hand’s shaking. I have to press my palm to the glass to steady myself.
It’s cold. Too cold. But I don’t pull away.
---
I don’t sleep again. Just lie there, staring at the ceiling like it’ll give me answers.
My heart doesn't calm. It just... adjusts. Like it found a new rhythm to beat to—tight, jittery. Off.
When the sun starts coming up, I finally move. Slowly. Like I'm hungover, but it's not that. It's something else. Something deeper in the bones.
I pull on jeans, sweatshirt. Skip makeup. Don’t even bother with breakfast.
Naomi’s already in the kitchen, scrolling on her phone, chewing on a protein bar. Her hair’s up in that high, messy bun she only wears when she doesn’t care.
I sit down across from her. Still feel that streetlamp burned into my retinas.
“I think someone was watching me last night,” I say.
Her eyes don’t lift from her screen. “What?”
I clear my throat. “There was a guy. Across the street. Just standing there. Around two or three.”
That gets her attention. She blinks, finally looks up. “What the hell? Did you call the cops?”
“No. I mean... he didn’t do anything. Just stood there.”
Naomi snorts. “Okay, creepy. Probably some dude with a crush. Or a bored model trying to look mysterious. This city’s full of weirdos.” She shrugs, tosses her phone on the table. “You want coffee?”
I nod. But I’m not really listening. Not really here.
Because I keep seeing his eyes.
Too sharp.
Too knowing.
Like they could cut straight through skin and get to the part I’ve been hiding. Even from myself.
And that’s the part that scares me.
I don’t answer Naomi. Just wrap my hands around the mug and nod. Let her talk. Let the morning noise fill the space so I don’t have to.
Because it’s still there.
This hum under my skin. Like something’s tuning up inside me.
Like something's waiting.
That night, I can’t stay still. I try. Lie in bed, flip my pillow, shift around. Nothing helps. I even try counting backwards, like some therapist once told me. But my body—it’s like it knows something I don’t.
My skin itches. Not from the outside. From underneath.
Like static. Like a million tiny sparks dancing beneath my ribs, trying to get out.
My heart kicks up for no reason, thudding like I’m being chased. But the room is still. Naomi’s asleep. The street outside is quiet. I check.
And I do that thing again.
Get out of bed. Walk to the window.
Bare feet on cold floor.
Curtains pulled back slow.
There’s no one out there. Street’s empty. Same flickering streetlight. Same shadows stretching across pavement like lazy arms.
But I know.
I know.
I’m not alone.
Can’t prove it. Can’t see it. But it’s like the air thickens. Just slightly. Like someone breathed in too close.
I press my palm to the glass.
And I shiver so hard my teeth knock together.
Not from cold.
Not fear either.
Not just fear.
Something worse.
Or better.
I don’t know yet.
But it’s in me now.
And it’s not going away.
- Writer
