It was a gentle afternoon, the kind that made the world seem harmless. Grace Willow, a small girl with a short golden bob, sat with her back against the pillows, humming a soft, almost hypnotic melody. Amanda, the nurse, stood behind her, brushing her hair with patient strokes. In Grace's lap, a pencil scratched over a sketchbook, her little hand working intently—until the sharp *snap* of breaking lead cut the air.
Grace exhaled a small, frustrated groan. Amanda placed a steady hand on her shoulder. "I'll get you a sharpener," she said, moving to sit in front of her on the bed. Her eyes drifted to the open page. It was a child's drawing—at first glance—yet something about it clung to the mind. The figure had a boy's shape from the waist up, but below… the body tapered into a curling, black tail, as if made of smoke.
Amanda tried to lighten her voice. "What is it? A genie?" She smiled faintly.
Grace's gaze rose to meet hers. Her voice was a whisper. "It's the kid."
Amanda's smile faltered. "Are you having nightmares again?"
"That's not a nightmare…" Grace paused, eyes flickering with a strange fondness. Then she smiled. "He's beautiful. Nightmares can't be beautiful. I feel… connected to him."
Amanda said nothing. Instead, she slid the sketchbook away and guided Grace to lie back. The girl didn't resist, though her eyes lingered on the page until it was out of sight. Amanda prepped the syringe, holding Grace's small arm in her hand. The needle pricked skin; the child flinched, a muscle in her arm twitching as the liquid entered her vein.
"There, there," Amanda murmured, brushing the back of her fingers across Grace's cheek. A tear glimmered in the corner of the girl's eye, catching the afternoon light like a bead of glass.
"What's troubling you, Grace?" Amanda asked softly.
Grace's eyes searched hers. "Have you ever been bullied?"
"Who hasn't?" Amanda tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear.
"How did you make it stop?" Grace's voice carried that strange innocence again, almost fragile… almost too knowing.
"I had a friend," Amanda replied, her thumb smoothing over the child's knuckles. "Someone who stood with me and helped me fight back."
"Really? Because… I don't even have any friends. I'm… lonely. Who would stand by my side?" Grace's voice wavered, and her eyes sank with sadness. "Have you ever… felt like giving up?"
Amanda quickly shook her head, reaching to brush away the child's tears. "Don't say that. Am I not your friend?"
A small smile flickered on Grace's lips, but before she could answer, the door creaked open and another nurse's voice called for Amanda.
"Before you go… can you help me sit? I'm tired of lying down."
Amanda adjusted her pillows, easing herself upright. "I'll be right back," she promised, smiling, before stepping out of the room.
As the latch clicked shut, Grace's eyes went to the sketchpad on the side table—just out of reach. She leaned, strained, but her fingers grasped only air. Her gaze fell to the wheelchair beside the bed, and tears pricked her eyes. She hated this—this helplessness that clung to her like chains.
She forced herself to sit still. Time crawled. The light shifted, fading into that strange, breathless moment before night. The sun was sinking; the sky bruised into orange and gray. Grace's mind wandered, her lips carrying a faint, eerie hum.
Then the wind came. Not gentle, but a sudden, violent howl that rattled the windowpanes. The trees outside bent unnaturally, their leaves whipping in frantic circles. Their trunks twisted as though something unseen gripped and twisted them.
Grace turned her head as far as she could, trying to glimpse the chaos, but her limited movement left her staring at shadows and flashes of motion.
And then—silence.
The wind cut off so abruptly it seemed the world itself was holding its breath. Darkness began to spill across the room faster than it should, swallowing the last traces of daylight. Grace's chest tightened.
Something struck the window.
The sound was sharp—like bone against glass. The pane exploded inward, shards spraying across the floor, the bed, tangling in Grace's hair.
She clamped her hands over her ears, rocking slightly, whispering to herself, "It's alright… it's alright…" But her voice shook, betraying the lie.
The crash had carried down the hall, and moments later, Amanda burst into the room. She found Grace trembling, her wide eyes fixed on the shattered window as if something still lingered there in the dark.
"Grace, did you?" Amanda whispered with disbelief, crouching beside her. In her mind, the image had already taken shape—Grace, desperate, smashing the glass to harm herself.
But the girl shook her head violently, tears streaking her face. "I didn't do anything!" she cried.
The second nurse rushed in, stopping cold at the sight of the jagged hole where the window had been.
They were still questioning Grace when a scream cut through the air—high, sharp, and quickly swallowed by the echoing corridors. The other nurse bolted toward the sound. Amanda, moving on instinct, reached under the bed, pulled out a restraint, and shackled Grace's wrist to the frame of the bed.
"I'm sorry!" Amanda cried.
"Don't leave me! Please—I'm scared!" Grace's voice was breaking.
"I'll be back," Amanda said, forcing calm into her tone, though her eyes betrayed her unease. And then she left the child alone in the dim room.
The corridor outside was a long, hollow artery of pale light. Five rooms lined this floor, the central walkway branching into another that led to the lift.
Amanda was passing the second door when another scream tore through the quiet—followed by the violent shatter of glass, as if the air itself had detonated.
A guard came running, his gun already drawn. Something was wrong here—in a way that made the air feel heavier. More glass shattered somewhere ahead, and without speaking, they moved toward it.
They began opening rooms. The first—empty, its bed littered with shards, overturned medicine trays, curtains fluttering as if something had just slipped past them.
What was happening? Destruction without reason, absence without explanation.
Amanda, the other nurse, and the guard split up to gather the remaining ones near the elevator.
Only one room remained—the eighth.
The guard reached for the doorknob, but it wouldn't turn. From the other side came a noise—not the clink of glass this time, but a deep, rhythmic sound, almost like breathing. Then… a faint scrape, dragging against the floor.
Whatever was in there… didn't want the door opened.