I learned the truth at exactly 12:03 a.m.
That was the moment I realized the blood on my hands wasn't mine.
I woke up on the bathroom floor, cheek pressed against cold tiles, my head pounding like someone had driven a nail straight through my skull. The light above flickered weakly, buzzing like it might die any second. For a few moments, I just lay there, staring at the cracked ceiling, trying to remember how I'd gotten here.
The last thing I remembered was lying in bed.
Alive. Normal. Whole.
I pushed myself up slowly, my stomach twisting as dizziness washed over me. That was when I saw my hands.
They were shaking.
And they were stained red.
Not a little red. Not a nosebleed red.
Thick, dark streaks dried into my skin, under my fingernails, along my wrists.
Blood.
My breath hitched.
"No," I whispered. "No, no, no…"
I scrambled to the sink, nearly slipping, and turned on the tap. Water rushed out, splashing over my hands. The blood didn't vanish right away—it smeared, thinned, revealed pale skin underneath.
Human blood.
My heart slammed against my ribs.
I looked up.
The mirror stared back at me, and for a second, I didn't recognize the person looking back.
My name is Eli Carter. I'm twenty-two years old. College dropout. Works night shifts at a convenience store that smells like burnt coffee and regret. Average height. Average face.
Someone you forget five minutes after meeting.
But the man in the mirror looked… wrong.
My eyes were bloodshot, rimmed dark like I hadn't slept in days. A thin cut ran along my jawline—fresh, angry. My lips were slightly swollen, split at the corner.
I touched my face.
Pain flared.
"What happened to me?" I whispered.
Then I noticed the time.
12:47 a.m.
My stomach dropped.
That couldn't be right.
I'd gone to bed at 11:58 p.m. I remembered it clearly. I'd checked the time because—because I always did. Midnight had become a line I didn't trust anymore.
I stumbled out of the bathroom and into my tiny apartment. The front door was open.
I never left it open.
Cold night air drifted in, carrying the distant sound of traffic and something else—sirens.
Police sirens.
They were close.
My pulse spiked.
I scanned the room. My jacket was gone. My shoes too. On the small kitchen table sat something that hadn't been there before.
A phone.
Not mine.
Black, unmarked, heavy in a way modern phones weren't. The screen lit up as I approached, as if it sensed me.
One notification.
UNKNOWN CONTACT:
You're late. Don't let this happen again.
My throat went dry.
"What the hell is this?" I muttered.
I picked up the phone. The lock screen wallpaper made my blood run colder than the night air.
It was a photo.
Of me.
Standing in the rain.
Smiling.
I don't smile like that.
There was something sharp in the expression. Something knowing. Like whoever had taken the photo had caught me mid-thought—and that thought had been violent.
The sirens grew louder.
Then I heard shouting outside.
"Police! Don't move!"
My heart nearly stopped.
I rushed to the window and peeked through the blinds.
Two patrol cars were parked outside the building. Red and blue lights washed over the cracked concrete. An officer was speaking into his radio, eyes fixed on the apartment next door.
The apartment of Mr. Harlan.
My neighbor.
Seventy-something. Quiet. Always smelled like old books and mint candies. The kind of man who nodded politely and never raised his voice.
His door was broken open.
And there was blood on the hallway wall.
A lot of it.
My vision blurred.
"No… no, no, no," I whispered.
The phone vibrated in my hand.
Another message.
UNKNOWN CONTACT:
Relax. You didn't kill him.
Not this time.
My legs gave out.
I sank onto the couch, staring at the words until they burned into my mind.
Not this time.
I tried typing back with trembling fingers.
ME: Who is this?
ME: What did I do?
Three dots appeared instantly.
UNKNOWN CONTACT:
You slept.
We worked.
My chest tightened.
"We?"
A sudden memory flashed behind my eyes—sharp and foreign.
Rain.
A different street.
My hands—not shaking, not afraid—gripping something heavy.
A voice laughing softly in my head.
I gasped, clutching my chest.
The phone buzzed again.
UNKNOWN CONTACT:
You really don't remember anything after midnight, do you?
I swallowed hard.
No.
I didn't.
And that was the problem.
This wasn't the first time I'd lost time.
At first, it had been small things.
Waking up with bruises I couldn't explain.
Finding food in my fridge I didn't remember buying.
Texts sent from my phone in the middle of the night—short, cold messages that didn't sound like me.
I'd told myself I was stressed. Overtired. Maybe sleepwalking.
Then came the dreams.
Or what I thought were dreams.
I'd stand in dark places, watching through my own eyes as someone else moved my body like it belonged to them. I couldn't speak. Couldn't scream. I was just… there.
A passenger.
Every time, I woke up before midnight.
And every time, the clock would skip ahead.
12:00 a.m.
Like I ceased to exist.
I thought I was going crazy.
Until tonight.
Until blood and sirens and a stranger's phone told me otherwise.
The police radio crackled outside. I heard an officer say, "Victim is alive. Severe injuries.
Looks like an assault."
Alive.
My breath shuddered out.
Alive.
The phone buzzed again.
UNKNOWN CONTACT:
You're lucky. He fought back harder than expected.
I stared at the screen, rage and terror twisting together.
ME: You used my body.
A pause.
Then:
UNKNOWN CONTACT:
Correction.
Your body is the door.
We are the ones who walk through it.
My hands went numb.
ME: Who are you?
This time, the reply took longer.
Long enough for the sirens to fade.
Long enough for dread to settle deep in my bones.
UNKNOWN CONTACT:
We are what hunts when your world sleeps.
And at midnight, Eli Carter…
your body belongs to us.
The lights in my apartment flickered.
For just a second, I thought I saw my reflection in the dark TV screen.
Still smiling.