The bus ride home was unusually quiet.
Rory sat by the window, her cheek pressed against the cold glass as trees blurred past. The final bell had rung hours ago, but after she came to—half-conscious in the nurse's office with no clear memory of what had happened—time had felt strange. Disjointed. Like someone else was moving her limbs, breathing for her, thinking thoughts that didn't belong to her.
The sky outside was heavy with late autumn clouds. A storm was building, dark and electric. She could feel it not just in the air—but in her blood.
As the bus rumbled to a stop, she stepped down and realized something was…off. Too quiet. The whole neighborhood, usually buzzing with kids on bikes and barking dogs, was still. Windows shut. Cars gone. Even the wind had gone silent.
Rory swallowed hard and turned toward home.
She had only taken a few steps when a **sharp pain jolted through her spine**—quick as lightning, gone in an instant. She stumbled and caught herself on the mailbox. And then, a whisper.
> "You're not safe here anymore."
She spun around. No one.
Her breath fogged the air. She could feel eyes on her, but the street was empty. Her vision flickered—just for a second, just long enough to see the world shift.
The houses…blurred. Warped. One moment they were normal—suburban and dull—and the next, they looked **old**. Ancient. As if they had been there for centuries, rotting behind a veil of illusion.
And then it was gone.
Everything snapped back to normal. Her heart thundered.
She backed up the driveway, fumbling for her keys—but the door creaked open before she touched it.
"Mom?" she called, stepping inside.
Silence.
The lights were off. The house smelled…wrong. Not bad. Not like food or garbage. Just *wrong*. Like burned metal. Like **silver**.
"Hello?"
Something scuttled upstairs.
And then, a voice. A real one this time.
"You're early."
Rory froze.
The voice hadn't come from upstairs. It was closer. **Inside the house**, just beyond the kitchen doorway.
Male. Calm. Unfamiliar.
Her hand slid against the wall, reaching instinctively for the light switch. She flipped it.
Nothing.
The bulb overhead buzzed faintly, then let out a slow *pop*. The hallway dimmed further, leaving only the gray light filtering through the curtains. Shadows stretched across the carpet like fingers.
She called out, softly, "Mom?"
No answer.
Something was wrong with the air. It felt... charged. Like standing near a humming transformer. A thin layer of sweat formed on her back. Every step she took down the hall felt like a choice she couldn't take back.
The floorboards whispered under her weight.
She reached the edge of the kitchen and paused, not yet willing to cross the threshold.
> "You came home early," the voice said again.
It wasn't threatening. But it didn't feel like it belonged.
Slowly, she leaned in.
A man stood in the center of the room. Not doing anything. Just... standing. Like he'd been waiting.
He wasn't dressed like anyone she knew—dark gray coat, heavy boots. His eyes were the only thing clear in the dim light: a pale, almost inhuman silver, watching her with unreadable calm. Something about him was too still. Like he didn't blink enough. Like he wasn't used to blinking at all.
Rory swallowed. Her throat was dry.
"Who are you?" she whispered.
The man didn't move. "You don't recognize me yet. That's good. It means there's still time."
"Time for what?" Her voice cracked. "What did you do to my family?"
He tilted his head slightly. "They're not the ones in danger."
He took a step forward, slow, measured.
And something behind him shifted. Not a movement—more like **a bend** in the space around him. Like the kitchen walls pulsed, just once, breathing in and out.
Rory stepped back.
He held up a hand. "Don't run. Not yet."
"Don't tell me what to—" she started, but then stopped.
Because the room behind him had changed.
The kitchen cabinets—her mother's floral magnets on the fridge, the yellow kettle—were **gone**. Replaced by stone. Stone walls, ancient and dark, slick with moisture. The air shimmered between her and the stranger like heat off pavement, warping the space in fragments. A second reality trying to bleed through.
And then it was gone.
Just her kitchen again. Slightly darker.
Her knees nearly gave out. She gripped the edge of the wall for support.
"What's happening?" she asked, her voice barely above a breath.
"You're waking up," the man said, soft. "But they won't let you do it in peace."
A sound echoed from somewhere deep in the house.
A dragging sound.
Something slow. Heavy.
"Who—" she began.
"Not who," the man interrupted, his expression hardening. "*What.*"
Outside, the wind picked up. The house creaked under the strain. The temperature dropped so fast, her breath fogged in front of her.
Then the front door creaked open on its own.
Not flung, not slammed—just… opened. Like something had been invited.
And standing at the threshold—
**A shape.**
Too tall. Too thin. The wrong kind of still.
The man turned sharply. His shadow twitched again on the kitchen floor, *splitting* for a second before snapping back into place.
"Selene," he said, not to her, but to something *within* her.
"Don't let it in."