Tortured Souls

The night air was thick with silence, the kind that settled only in small towns after dusk. Luna sat on the rooftop again, bare feet, moonlight brushing her skin, her black hoodie shielding her from the wind. She didn’t know why she always came up here. She just did. Below her little sisters were busy with schoolwork. Inside, her mom was humming while washing dishes. And above… that full moon. Bright, magnetic. Watching her. Something inside her stirred every time it rose like that. A strange buzzing behind her ribs. Not painful, just there. “Luna!” her dad’s voice called from the window. “You’ll catch a cold.” She didn’t answer. She was staring at the neighbor’s roses. One by one, the petals began to blacken and curl in on themselves. She hadn’t touched them. Luna blinked. The roses were fine again. Bright red, perfect. No signs of burning. She pressed her palms against the rooftop tiles. Maybe she was imagining things again. It had happened before… flickers, glitches, tiny things breaking or bending when she got upset or scared. But never like that. Never… from calm. She climbed down quietly, avoiding the creaky spots on the gutter. Her dad gave her a look as she passed the living room, part concerned, part knowing, like he was about to ask something and changed his mind. In the mirror by the stairs, Luna paused. Her reflection looked normal. Brown skin, shoulder-length curls, tired eyes. But for just a second her eyes looked silver. Glowing. She flinched. “Must be the moonlight,” she whispered to herself, shaking her head. Downstairs, her younger sisters, Sienna and River, still laser focused on their school assignments. Her mom, kind, quiet Hilda, gave Luna a warm smile as she handed her a mug of rooibos tea. “Sleep’s been hard again?” Hilda asked softly. Luna nodded, cradling the cup. “Yeah. Just… weird dreams.” She didn’t say what they were. She never did. Because in the dreams… she wasn’t herself. She was someone else. Someone cruel. And there was fire. It happened the next day. Luna sat at the back of the classroom, half-listening as Mr. Haines droned on about cell division. Her pen tapped restlessly against her notebook, her foot bouncing to a rhythm only she could hear. She hadn’t slept again. The room buzzed with whispered jokes and paper flicks. Normal stuff. Until Jenny Walker turned around. Jenny, perfect hair, too much perfume, always looking down her nose. She smirked. “Hey, Luna,” she said loud enough for the front row to hear, “did you cast a spell on your shampoo or are you just allergic to good taste?” Laughter erupted. Luna clenched her fists under the desk. The lights flickered. Mr. Haines didn’t notice. He kept talking about mitosis. But Luna’s desk trembled. And then, with a sudden, sharp pop Jenny’s pen exploded. Ink shot up her white blouse like a bloodstain. She shrieked, standing up in horror as everyone turned toward her. “Who did that!?” she screamed. Luna didn’t move. She just stared at her hands. They were shaking. So was the floor under her feet. Luna bolted. Before anyone could laugh, before Mr. Haines could turn around, before Jenny’s voice turned sharp enough to cut, she grabbed her bag and rushed out the door. Someone called her name, maybe the teacher, maybe not. She didn’t stop. The hallway spun. Her heart pounded in her ears like war drums. She pushed through the double doors at the end of the corridor and burst into the empty quad, gasping for air. What was that? What was that? She clutched the stone wall, pressing her forehead to the cool surface. Her palms were still tingling, not from adrenaline, but something worse. Something… alive. It felt like something inside her had snapped open. Like a door she didn’t even know existed had been flung wide. She looked down at her hands again. Tiny wisps of black smoke curled from her fingertips. Faint. Barely visible in the sunlight. But they were real. And they were hers. Then came the night, the house was too quiet. The girls were asleep. Hilda had gone to bed early with a headache. Luna sat in the kitchen, turning her spoon in a bowl of cereal that had gone soggy half an hour ago. She heard the creak of the hallway floorboards. Her father, Marcus, stepped into the kitchen doorway, rubbing the back of his neck. He was still in his work overalls, grease staining his sleeves, the scent of metal and diesel following him in. “You okay, kiddo?” Luna nodded too quickly. “Yeah. Just… school stuff.” He didn’t sit. Just leaned against the counter with that quiet, unreadable look he always wore when he was working something out in his head. “Something happened today?” he asked. She hesitated. “No.” Then: “Yes.” She stared at her hands. “I got mad. And something weird happened. I can’t explain it, but it wasn’t normal.” He didn’t respond right away. When she finally looked up, his face had changed. Just a flicker but she caught it. Not surprise. Not confusion. Recognition. “Have you ever felt... strange before?” he asked carefully. “Things moving when they shouldn’t? Lights flickering? Dreams that feel too real?” Luna’s chest tightened. “You know something,” she whispered. Marcus looked away. His voice came out low. “I was hoping we’d have more time.” Luna stood slowly, the silence between them thick and pulsing. "More time for what?" she asked. But Marcus didn’t answer. He just turned away, his face shadowed by the dim kitchen light, and whispered as he left: “Some doors, Luna… once opened, never shut.” And then he was gone.