Chapter 5
1622 Words
Hannah woke up on her couch with her phone stuck to her cheek, her neck bent at an angle that felt illegal, and the strong suspicion that sleep had happened near her, but not to her.
She lay there for a moment, blinking at the ceiling, which had chosen to look aggressively judgmental this morning.
Her brain did a slow, careful inventory.
Couch? check.
Blanket? Half on, half on the floor.
Sleep? Debatable at best.
Sense of impending doom? Unfortunately present.
She groaned and rolled onto her back, the movement sending a sharp protest through her spine.
“Fantastic,” she muttered. “Love this for me.”
Her phone buzzed against her face like it was offended she’d stopped using it as a pillow.
Hannah peeled it off and squinted at the screen.
Jessa:
Tell me you’re alive.
Hannah stared at the message for a second longer than necessary, then sighed.
Alive was technically accurate.
She typed back with one eye still closed.
Hannah:
Alive. Very tired. Possibly cursed. Will circle back.
The reply came almost immediately.
Jessa:
I’m coming over.
Hannah bolted upright. “Nope.”
Her thumbs flew.
Hannah:
Do not. I am fine. I just didn’t sleep and my couch betrayed me.
Three dots appeared. Paused. Disappeared.
Then:
Jessa:
You’re bad at lying.
Hannah didn’t respond, because that was rude and correct.
She dropped her phone onto the coffee table and dragged herself upright, every muscle protesting like it hadn’t signed up for consciousness. Her apartment was quiet in that early-morning way that felt less peaceful and more accusatory.
No pressure in the air.
No static under her skin.
No sensation of being noticed.
Hannah exhaled slowly.
“See?” she told the empty room. “Normal.”
She shuffled to the kitchen, started the coffee maker, and leaned against the counter while it sputtered to life. The smell helped. Familiar. Grounding.
She showered, dressed, and tied her auburn hair back into a ponytail, studying her reflection for a moment longer than usual.
She looked the same.
Tired. A little pale. Annoyed.
“You’re fine,” she told herself. “You’re just sleep-deprived and dramatic.”
Her reflection didn’t argue, which felt like a win.
By the time she walked to work, the city had fully woken up—cars honking, someone yelling into their phone about crypto, a dog losing its mind at a pigeon.
Reality. Loud. Mundane. Comforting.
By the time Hannah unlocked The Latchkey that afternoon, she was almost—almost—ready to believe the last couple of days had been stress layered on exhaustion.
The bar opened. The day crowd trickled in. Regulars. Familiar faces. Predictable orders.
Hannah settled into the rhythm of it, shoulders loosening, sarcasm firing on all cylinders.
And then—
A glass shattered.
It wasn’t dramatic. No explosion. No slow-motion catastrophe.
Just a clean crack as the pint glass in Hannah’s hand split straight down the middle and fell apart like it had collectively decided it was done.
Beer splashed over the bar.
The room went quiet.
Hannah stared at the two neat halves of glass in her hands.
She hadn’t squeezed.
She hadn’t dropped it.
It had just… failed.
“Well,” she said, blinking. “That’s new.”
A customer frowned. “You okay?”
“Yep,” Hannah said immediately. “Bar glass is just emotionally fragile.”
She laughed. No one else did.
She set the broken glass down carefully, hands tingling like they’d fallen asleep.
The pressure rolled in.
Not subtle this time.
It hit her square in the chest, warm and electric, buzzing under her skin like static with opinions.
Hannah swallowed hard.
No. No no no. We are not doing this in front of people.
She took a breath.
The pressure eased slightly.
She exhaled.
It returned.
Her heart began to pound.
She glanced around the bar.
No flickering lights. No ominous silence. No one else reacting.
Just her.
“Okay,” she muttered under her breath. “Inside thoughts. Inside.”
She wiped up the spill, replaced the glass, and moved on—because what else was she supposed to do? Announce to the room that reality had decided to glitch specifically for her?
Five minutes later, the taps surged.
Not violently. Just enough that foam spilled over the rims of three glasses at once.
A man laughed. “Must be my lucky day.”
Hannah forced a smile. “Congratulations. You’ve won… beer.”
Her hands shook as she shut off the taps.
The pressure intensified.
Not painful. Not aggressive.
Responsive.
She realized with a sick little twist that it rose every time her irritation spiked.
“Oh,” she whispered. “That’s—no.”
The bell chimed.
Hannah looked up.
Three men entered the bar—not together, not obviously connected, but close enough in timing to make her stomach tighten.
The first came in with calm, deliberate confidence—dark hair, tailored coat, eyes sharp and observant. He paused just inside the door, scanning the room the way someone scanned exits, then took a seat at the bar two stools down from Hannah’s usual station.
The second followed less than a minute later—broader shoulders, relaxed posture, smile easy but eyes calculating. He ordered a beer at the far end of the bar, then lingered instead of retreating with it.
The third arrived last.
Quiet. Watchful. He hesitated near the door before approaching the bar directly, choosing a seat closest to Hannah.
“Water,” he said.
Her eye twitched.
“Of course you will,” she muttered.
They weren’t sitting together.
But Hannah felt them anyway.
Each one tugged at the pressure under her skin like a tuning fork finding the same frequency.
She swallowed and slapped on her bartender voice.
“Hi,” she said loudly. “Welcome in. Please don’t make today weird. I’m already behind.”
The calm one smiled faintly. “Whiskey.”
Hannah poured deliberately, grounding herself in the mechanics. Lift. Tilt. Pour. Don’t think about the way the air leaned toward her when she moved.
She set the water down first.
The glass vibrated.
Just once.
The man noticed immediately. His posture sharpened.
Hannah slapped her palm over the rim on instinct.
The vibration stopped.
Every head nearby turned.
The pressure surged—hot, immediate.
A woman a few seats down frowned. “Is… is there music playing?”
Hannah’s heart slammed against her ribs.
“Nope,” Hannah said quickly.
The lights flickered.
Once.
Twice.
A murmur rippled through the bar.
“Oh come on,” Hannah whispered. “Absolutely not.”
She took a breath. Forced the irritation and panic down.
The lights steadied.
The pressure eased slightly.
The man with the whiskey leaned closer—not invading her space, just enough to be heard. “Does this happen often?”
Hannah barked a laugh. “Define ‘this.’”
The man with the beer shifted closer too, setting his glass down. “When you get upset.”
Her stomach dropped.
“I’m not upset,” Hannah snapped.
The pressure flared.
A stack of coasters slid across the bar and tipped over.
Someone gasped.
“That’s… new,” Hannah said weakly.
The man with the water didn’t take his eyes off her. “You should sit down.”
“Oh, I’m great,” Hannah said immediately. “Fantastic. Thriving.”
The pressure surged again.
A bottle rattled on the shelf behind her.
That did it.
Hannah slammed both palms onto the bar.
The room went still.
Not silent—still.
Like everything paused to see what she would do next.
Hannah stared at her hands, breath coming fast.
Oh. Oh no.
This wasn’t coincidence.
This wasn’t the bar.
This was her.
She lifted her head slowly.
Every eye in the room was on her now.
The three men were no longer pretending not to watch.
Hannah forced a shaky smile.
“Okay,” she said. “We’re going to take a very brief intermission while I… recalibrate.”
A few people laughed nervously.
She stepped back from the bar.
The pressure followed.
She stepped forward again.
It intensified.
The calm man stood, hands open. “You don’t have to be afraid.”
“Oh, I absolutely do,” Hannah snapped. “I just don’t have time for it.”
The broad-shouldered one murmured, “It’s reacting to her.”
The quiet one nodded. “Strongly.”
Hannah pointed at them. “No commentary. I don’t know who you are, but you don’t get to narrate my breakdown.”
The lights flickered again.
Someone shouted, “What’s happening?”
Hannah’s heart pounded.
She laughed—loud, defiant, a little hysterical.
“Okay!” she announced. “Free round for anyone who doesn’t ask questions for the next five minutes.”
That broke the tension.
Noise returned. Laughter. Relief.
The pressure eased—not gone, but manageable.
Hannah leaned on the bar, adrenaline buzzing.
The calm man approached again. “We need to talk to you.”
“No,” Hannah said. “You want to talk to me.”
She squared her shoulders, sarcasm snapping back into place.
“And I’m not doing mysterious side conversations while reality throws a tantrum.”
The man smiled faintly. “Fair.”
Hannah grabbed a towel and wiped down the bar with unnecessary force.
“Finish your drinks,” she said. “Then leave.”
The pressure hummed under her skin like a secret that had lost its patience.
And Hannah knew—without a doubt—that she had crossed the line between weird things happening to her and things happening because of her.
And this time?
Everyone had noticed.
- Writer
