The night began the way most hauntings do—quietly.
So quietly, in fact, that I almost convinced myself nothing would happen.
Almost.
The apartment felt heavier than usual, like the air had thickened into something dense and wet, something that clung to my skin and made breathing feel like work. The walls seemed too close, the corners too dark, and no matter how many times I pressed the switch, the hallway light flickered before reluctantly staying on.
I tried to keep my hands busy—washing dishes that were already clean, rearranging books that didn't need rearranging—but dread curled in my stomach like a coiled serpent. Something was coming. I could feel it. And this time, it wasn't hiding.
It didn't need to.
Kian's visit had shaken me, left a residue on my skin that felt like cold breath. Since he left, every room in the apartment had felt watched. Observed. Studied. And the envelope—God, the envelope—felt alive whenever I got too close to it.
By midnight, the silence broke.
It began with a soft clink.
Barely audible.
Barely real.
I turned toward the sound, eyebrows furrowed. On the kitchen counter, my spoon lay still. But the mug next to it… was moving.
Slowly.
Deliberately.
Like an invisible hand pushed it across the counter.
I blinked hard. "No," I whispered. "No, not tonight."
But the mug slid further—then tipped over the edge. It didn't fall normally. It dropped straight down, hitting the floor with a sharp crack that echoed through the kitchen.
I jumped.
My breath came fast, shallow. I stared at the broken ceramic shards scattered across the tile.
Then the lights flickered.
Once.
Twice.
Three slow, pulsing beats like the apartment had a heartbeat.
I stepped back, bumping into the wall. My chest tightened. Sweat trickled down my spine. The buzzing from the lights grew louder, harsher, almost like they were straining under some unseen pressure.
And then the shadows moved.
Not subtly.
Not the way shadows shift when a light flickers.
They crawled.
The dark shape in the corner stretched, pulling itself along the wall like it was dragging a long, black limb. It peeled itself from the darkness, trembling with anticipation, then snapped back into place when I gasped.
I swallowed hard. My throat felt raw.
"Karma," I whispered. The word tasted foreign—powerful. Dangerous.
Because I knew what it was now.
I could feel it.
It wasn't a ghost.
It wasn't a hallucination.
It wasn't even a memory.
It was consequence.
Something ancient.
Something righteous.
Something that had followed Kian straight into my home and now refused to leave.
The lights flickered again—this time violently, strobing fast enough to turn my reflection in the window into a jerking, disjointed silhouette. The air froze, cold enough to sting my lungs. A low whisper drifted through the living room, slithering across the walls.
I couldn't understand the words, but I understood the intent.
Anger.
Punishment.
A name forming without sound.
His name.
"Kian…" I breathed.
As if responding, the shadows convulsed. The lamp beside the couch flickered, sparked, then went out completely. A cold wave rolled through the apartment, bursting across my skin like icy fingers.
Then the hallway door slammed shut.
Hard.
I screamed.
My legs carried me backward on instinct, heart pounding so violently it felt like my ribs might crack. The whispering grew louder, layered, like a dozen voices speaking at once but none of them human.
I clutched the arm of the couch for balance. "Stop," I croaked. "Please—just stop."
But the darkness didn't listen.
Objects began shifting—rattling first, then sliding across surfaces.
The remote flew off the table.
The curtains billowed though the windows were closed.
The picture frame on the wall trembled violently, tilting, tilting—
It fell, shattering on the floor.
My breath stuttered. My arms shook. The apartment was alive, restless, furious.
I spun toward the bedroom—but stopped.
Mid-step.
Frozen.
He was there.
Not Kian.
Not Daniel.
Something else.
A silhouette stood in the doorway, tall and misshapen, its edges rippling like smoke. It didn't have eyes but I felt it looking at me. Pinning me in place. Holding me in its cold, dark attention.
This was karma.
Not the poetic kind.
Not the reassuring kind.
The real kind.
The kind ancient cultures feared. The kind whispered in myths and nightmares. The kind that didn't follow moral lines—it followed truth, pain, and balance.
And it had followed him here.
I stumbled backward until my knees hit the couch.
"Why?" I whispered. "Why show yourself to me?"
The figure tilted, head-like shape shifting. The whispers swelled until they formed one distinct word that chilled me to my marrow:
"Witness."
Witness.
Not victim.
Not target.
Witness.
My chest tightened. The air thickened again, heavy as concrete. I struggled to breathe. The silhouette stepped closer, each movement bending the shadows around it unnaturally. The lights flickered with each shift, synchronized with its slow approach.
I tried to speak but my voice stuck in my throat. The air grew even colder, curling around my toes, creeping up my legs like frost.
It stopped two feet in front of me.
The room fell silent.
Then, slowly, deliberately, the figure extended a hand-shaped stretch of darkness. It hovered inches from my face, and though it didn't touch me, I felt it—pressure, like a storm front rolling across my skin.
Images flashed in my mind—
Daniel's body broken on the pavement.
Kian's eyes empty and angry in my doorway.
Mara's trembling hands as she returned the envelope.
Sixteen-year-old me crying in the stairwell.
Bruises.
Lies.
Promises that rotted into threats.
And behind them all—
A ledger.
Invisible but real.
Tallying every wound.
Every betrayal.
Every consequence.
Karma didn't choose randomly.
It came to settle debt.
The shadow's voice whispered again, softer this time:
"Closer."
Not to me.
To him.
To Kian.
I exhaled shakily. "You're not here for me."
The darkness rippled in confirmation.
"You're here because of what he did."
Silence.
Then another flicker—this one sharp, convulsing the entire apartment. The shadow pulled back abruptly, dissolving into the corner. The air warmed slightly, just enough for me to take a full breath.
But the danger wasn't gone.
Karma wasn't leaving.
It wasn't finished.
It was simply waiting.
For the next strike.
The next act.
The next piece of truth to fall.
I sank onto the couch, shaking so hard I thought my bones might rattle out of my skin. I pressed my palms to my eyes, trying to anchor myself.
Hours passed—maybe minutes, maybe days; time meant nothing in the dark.
And when the lights finally steadied, and the apartment fell quiet again, I understood something with brutal clarity:
Nothing would be the same now.
The darkness had moved.
The shadows had spoken.
Karma was no longer lurking at the edges.
It was inside.
With me.
Waiting.
Watching.
And the next time Kian showed up…
He wouldn't be alone.