Felix sat quietly in the back of the police cruiser, the city flashing by in a blur of streetlights. His amber eyes stared out the window as the world drifted around him. His clothes were still stained with dried blood. His mind was like a broken record, stuck on replay, looping the same horrific scenes over and over again.

The car came to a stop outside the police station; fluorescent lights illuminating its dull brick exterior. Officer Daniels stepped out, opening the door for Felix. "Come on, son," Daniels said, his voice gentle. "We need to ask you a few questions. It’s just procedure."

Felix didn’t respond, his eyes darting to the door, then to Daniels. He saw the way Daniels studied him, the suspicion behind his calm expression. When he finally came out of the car, it was sluggish, his legs wobbling beneath him, as though his limbs no longer obeyed him. He followed Daniels inside, through the lobby where officers shuffled papers and answered phones, to a small interrogation room. It wasn’t as grim as he’d imagined—more clinical than anything else. Pale walls, a single table, two metal chairs. Felix sank into one of the chairs, feeling the cold steel press against his skin.

Daniels nodded to a younger officer who stood by the door. "I’ll handle it from here," Daniels said. The younger officer left, closing the door behind him.

Daniels sat across from Felix, placing a recorder on the table. He clicked it on with an automated buzz, and then leaned forward, elbows resting on the table. "Alright, son. Let’s start with your full name."

Felix blinked, staring at the table for a moment, his fingers gripping the edge of his notebook so tightly his knuckles felt sore. He hesitated, the pen hovering above the paper, as if writing his name down would make it all real. After a beat, he scrawled: Felix Carney.

"Felix Carney," Daniels repeated, jotting something down in his own notebook. "And where do you live, Felix? We couldn’t find anything in our systems."

Felix paused again. He hadn’t thought this part through, but a story began to form in his mind—something vague, something just convincing enough. His pen moved to his notebook once more: I move around a lot. I don’t have a permanent place right now. I was at an apartment near Broadview Avenue for the past few days.

Daniels looked up from his notes, his eyes studying Felix for a second longer than necessary. "Is there anyone we can contact? Family? Friends?"

Felix shook his head, his expression neutral. That part was true, at least. He had no one left. The family he'd had, the connections—those were long gone.

Daniels nodded slowly. "Alright. Now, let’s go over what happened earlier today. I know this is difficult, but we need as much detail as possible."

Felix took a deep breath, the memory of the blood-soaked street flashing before his eyes, as he stared down at the table. He wanted to be anywhere but here. But he had to play the part. He had to keep it together. He could do this. He’d done worse before. The pen felt like a venomous snake as he wrote down the words in his notebook:

I was walking along Broadview Avenue. It was a normal day. Then… then I saw it.

He paused, gathering his thoughts, carefully writing his words. He had to make it seem like an accident.

The cars—everything just happened so fast. There were two cars, and the first one swerved. I think it tried to avoid something, but I couldn’t see what. It crashed into the second car, and then… it was chaos.

Daniels didn’t interrupt. He kept his eyes on Felix, occasionally scribbling notes, but never pushing him to write faster than he was ready.

Felix continued: There was a motorcycle too. The rider lost control and skidded across the road. The bike smashed into a fire hydrant, and… and then the store. It crashed right through the window. People were screaming. There was… there was so much blood. It was like it just wouldn’t stop.

He left out the part where he had felt utterly untouched by the bloodshed, standing there like a statue while blood sprayed all around him. He didn’t write about the whispers in his mind, the darkness stirring, watching from the corners of his vision. No, he couldn’t write any of that. Not while he was watching.

"And the people?" Daniels asked. "The ones who got hit?"

Felix scribbled his reply quickly: I saw some of them. There was a group on the sidewalk. They didn’t have time to move. The car just plowed through them.

He paused again, images of mangled bodies flashing in his mind.

It hit a streetlight. Killed the driver.

"Did you see what caused the initial swerve?" Daniels asked, narrowing his eyes. "You said the first car tried to avoid something."

His chest tightened as the thought screamed in his mind: Tell them the truth. Tell them about the curse. You’re the one responsible and you know it. His breath faltered for a split second, and for a moment, the room seemed to tilt around him. His pen trembled in his hand, threatening to betray him, but he fought the urge to scribble out what he really wanted to say.

Felix held up his notebook: I didn’t see it. Maybe it was an animal or something. I don’t know. It all happened too fast.

He lied smoothly, knowing the traffic cams hadn’t recorded the initial part of the accident.

Daniels scribbled something else down, his expression thoughtful. Felix knew he was buying time, considering whether to push harder. But after a few more moments of silence, Daniels simply nodded and stood up.

"Okay, Felix," he said, his voice calm. "We’ll verify your statement with the traffic cams. You’ve been through a traumatic event, so we’ll have someone come by and talk to you about what happens next. For now, I’ll have an officer escort you out. We’re not holding you as a suspect, but we might need to contact you again."

Felix stepped out into the hot afternoon sun, the rays feeling hot against his skin. He shoved his hands into his pockets, walking down the sidewalk with no destination in mind. His feet moved on autopilot, his mind drowning in memories of the blood, the broken bodies, and the screams. He could still see it—everything. Every detail was clear.

He looked down at his hands—blood still stained his fingertips. Not his blood. It never was. The blood of people who had died around him, and here he was again. Walking. Breathing. Existing.

I should just die in a ditch somewhere. Somewhere far away from others. Somewhere no one can find me.

Tears welled up in his eyes as the yoke of the past few hours settled on his shoulders. He closed his eyes, trying to block it all out. "The ocean," he whispered softly. "I should go to the ocean."

He could picture it in his mind—its calm, its cold, blue waves washing everything away. But instead of the fresh scent of seawater, all he could smell was blood. Thick and metallic, choking the air around him.

Felix opened his eyes, blinking rapidly, trying to shake the feeling. He kept walking, his pace quickening. His thoughts were spiraling, dark tendrils creeping into his mind, whispering to him, telling him things he didn’t want to hear.

He snapped out of his thoughts and suddenly looked up. He didn’t know why—his body just reacted. His gaze drifted across the street, landing on a window. There, standing behind the glass, was a man. Pale gray eyes locked onto Felix’s amber ones.

The air froze in his lungs. Something about the man—his expression, his stillness—sent a chill down Felix’s spine. Then, as if triggered by that gaze, Felix began to hear something—screams, faint at first, but growing louder. The screams of children. And then the flash of a knife cutting through tender flesh, the sickening sound of steel tearing skin, the warm, thick scent of blood filling his nostrils.

Felix’s body trembled, his knees nearly giving out beneath him. He gasped for air, his eyes wide with terror as he stared at the window. The man with the pale gray eyes looked worried now, watching him intently. But it wasn’t the man Felix saw anymore.

It was himself.

A twisted version of him grinned, his amber eyes dull and lifeless, as if all the light had been sucked out. Blood dripped from hands that weren’t his but should have been. A knife glinted in the twisted reflection’s grip, the blade slick with fresh, warm blood.

"We’re gonna flay them again, Felix," the twisted reflection whispered, the words crawling under his skin like parasites. "Oh, yes we are. Like we flayed the kids."

Felix stumbled backward, his heart pounding in his chest, cold sweat dripping down his face. His breaths came in short, panicked bursts, and he couldn’t look at the window anymore. The twisted image of himself was burned into his mind, the sick grin, the blood, the knife. It was all there, waiting for him to slip up, waiting for him to fall back into the abyss.

Without thinking, he stumbled forward, walking faster, desperate to get away from whatever that was. He was losing it. He could feel it slipping away. The control, the calm exterior—it was all a facade, crumbling under the heavy anvil of what he had seen, what he had done. And he couldn’t stop it.

Ivan had been hunched at his desk, hands trembling slightly as he worked, the light bulbs cast a brilliant white light over everything. He had always been careful, meticulous even, but now more than ever, he had to be cautious. By now, the police ought to have already figured out the areas where he operated in. Every seven minutes, Ivan would stop whatever he was doing, no matter how absorbed he was, and make his way to the window to check the street below.

The author's narrative has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

Fifty-seven… fifty-eight… fifty-nine… sixty.

He had already been there, standing just inches from the glass, peeking through the blinds. His heart pounded steadily as he scanned the sidewalk for any signs of trouble. The usual cast of neighborhood characters shuffled along—elderly couples walking their dogs, kids riding their bikes, people heading to and from the corner store. Everything seemed normal.

Relieved, Ivan had turned back to his desk. But something had made him pause. Just as he was about to return to his task, his eyes caught something strange in the street below. A young man—barely out of his teens—stood frozen on the sidewalk, staring directly at his window with wide, fearful amber eyes. Felix. But of course, Ivan didn’t know his name.

Did he know? No, that couldn’t be. But why was he staring?

Ivan's breath snagged. Nobody should know about it. He had made sure of that. For years, Ivan had lived a quiet, uneventful life, blending in with the neighbors, working at the high school, keeping to himself. His routine was flawless. But the way the young man looked at him, like he had seen something—something terrible—set Ivan on edge.

What if he had seen something suspicious? What if he wanted to go to the cops? He couldn’t let that happen. Not after all this time.

The boy’s eyes darted around nervously before he stumbled forward and hurried down the sidewalk, moving as if he had just seen a ghost. Ivan watched him go, but the uneasy feeling didn’t leave. He leaned forward, his face nearly pressed against the glass, as the young man disappeared into the distance. Ivan's heart raced, each beat a reminder of how precarious his situation was.

"He's probably just one of the…"

Ivan hesitated, searching for the right word.

"…One of the troubled folks around here. There are plenty of them."

Still, he couldn’t afford to leave anything to chance. Ivan had survived this long by being careful, by never letting anyone get too close or notice too much. He let out a shaky breath and closed the blinds, blocking out the view of the street. His pulse still thrummed in his ears, but there was no time to dwell on the boy. He had to check on his “friend.”

Ivan turned and crossed the room to the bed where Bob Bush lay, motionless, bound to the bedpost. The boy couldn’t have been more than thirteen, his school clothes rumpled and stained, his eyes closed in a drugged slumber. Ivan stood over him for a moment as he watched his shallow breathing. He had to leave and check if the young man was still outside, still watching. But he couldn’t just leave Bob here alone. What if he woke up? What if someone found him?

A soft and familiar voice slithered into Ivan’s mind.

It’s alright. I’m here. Remember?

Ivan turned his head to the left. The monster stood there, just as it always had, its shadowy form blending into the corner of the room, its eyes glinting with darkness.

I’ll watch him. I promise.

Relief washed over Ivan like a wave. Of course, there was nothing to worry about. The monster would take care of Bob. The monster always took care of things.

"Thank you," Ivan whispered. "Please, watch over him."

He left the apartment hurriedly, his feet barely touching the stairs as he descended, heart still thudding in his chest. When he burst out of the front door, the young man was gone. Ivan looked to the left—nothing. He turned to the right—no sign of him. Panic flared in his chest again. Where could he have gone?

Ivan stayed outside for exactly seven minutes, pacing up and down the street, scanning every corner, every alleyway, but the boy had vanished. There was no trace of him. No answers. He returned to the apartment, a bit frustrated, and made his way back to the bedroom.

The monster was still there, watching over Bob’s still form, its sharp teeth glowing in the white light. As soon as Ivan returned, it turned to look at Ivan.

You’re back! Yay! Let’s continue playing. Let’s continue playing, the monster sang, its voice playful but with an edge of hunger.

Ivan chuckled softly, shaking off the worry. "Sure. Sure. We’ll play. I’ll wait for him to wake up first."

How long is that gonna take?

Ivan walked over to his dresser, picking up his blue watch—the one he always checked on Sundays. He glanced at the time. 3:58 p.m.

"We have two hours left," he said, his voice flat.

That’s so long, the monster whined, its voice like nails scraping against the inside of Ivan’s skull.

"Good things come to those who wait," Ivan replied with a bright smile.

But when he wakes up, we’ll play with him just like we played with all the others, won’t we?

Ivan nodded, his smile growing wider, almost splitting his face. "Yes. Oh yes, we will."

Ivan stood by the window, staring outside into the dimming light of the evening. He glanced down at the blue watch now clasped around his wrist. The time read 5:54 PM. The air outside was cool, a biting chill creeping in as nightfall approached. Not surprising—it was Briarcliff after all. The city was known for its weather, gloomy in the morning, blazing in the afternoon, and always bone-chillingly cold by the time the sun dipped behind the horizon. The fading daylight painted the streets in a dull, lifeless gray.

He checked the street below, scanning for anything out of place. It was a habit, one he couldn’t break. He needed to be sure. Always sure. Only after confirming that everything seemed as it should, did he close the blinds again, the room falling back into its peaceful quiet.

Turning from the window, Ivan walked over to the bed where Bob was. Surprisingly, the boy was already awake, his soft brown eyes wide and confused, still bound to the posts. He blinked several times, his lips trembling as he looked at Ivan.

"M-Mr. I-Ivan? W-What are…? H-How did you…?" Bob stammered, his voice trembling with fear.

Ivan raised a finger to Bob’s lips, with a calm smile on his face. He shushed the boy gently before speaking, his voice cool.

"Confusion is the welcome mat at the door of creativity."

He let the words remain in the air for a moment, savoring Bob's wide-eyed bewilderment. It was a quote he remembered reading somewhere, though he couldn’t place where.

Bob blinked, his small body trembling slightly as he looked up at Ivan. He looks like he wants to play. He wants to play, Ivan. Remove the restraints, Ivan. Remove the restraints. The monster's voice was giddy, almost playful, as it practically bounced around the room with glee. It was careful, though, careful not to touch Bob—at least, not yet.

Ivan chuckled softly, his eyes gleaming with amusement. "We’ll play. We’ll play."

Bob’s face paled, his young voice breaking. "M-M-Mr. I-Ivan? P-Please."

Ignoring the stuttering pleas, Ivan gently removed the restraints from Bob’s wrists and ankles, never once breaking eye contact with the boy. He could see the cold sweat forming on Bob’s face, dripping down his brow. The boy’s fear was intense, and yet, Ivan interpreted it as excitement. Yes, Bob was excited—he had to be, right? After all, who wouldn’t be thrilled at the idea of a game?

By the time the last restraint was undone, Bob shot up from the bed like a startled rabbit. He didn’t even try to hide his panic. He bolted for the door, desperate to escape the hunter’s snare.

He’s excited! He’s running!

Ivan moved faster. He lunged forward, his hand grabbing Bob roughly by the collar, yanking the boy back with such force that Bob’s body crashed into the bedpost with a loud thud. His ankle twisted painfully beneath him as he slumped down, groaning.

Bob's chest heaved with ragged breaths as he tried to sit up, the pain in his ankle now making him wince with each movement.

Ivan grinned brightly as he watched the boy writhe in pain. "‘He who fights and runs away lives to fight another day,’" Ivan’s voice was calm, but there was an edge of madness beneath it, barely contained.

He sat down on the floor beside him, crossing his legs, as though this were a casual chat between friends. He tilted his head slightly, looking at Bob curiously. "What’s your favorite story from history, Bob?"

Yes, Bob. Yes, Bob. Your favorite story. Tell us, the monster crooned, no longer bouncing around but sitting quietly against the wall, watching them both with dark, glinting eyes.

Bob’s pale face trembled as he thought for a moment, his small hands shaking. His voice was barely a whisper as he replied, "T-The one you told the c-class on F-F-Friday… The o-one about…"

Ivan smiled warmly, remembering. "Oh, the story about the fall of Julius Caesar?" Bob nodded slowly, his body stiff with fear. "Such a tragic tale of betrayal. Stabbed by those closest to him in the Senate."

Bob’s lips quivered as he tried to stay calm. Ivan leaned forward, gently brushing the boy’s hair away from his forehead. "What was your favorite part of the story?"

Bob swallowed hard before whispering, "T-The part where… where h-he didn’t know w-which f-friend to t-trust..."

Ivan’s grin widened, the boy's answer hitting just the right nerve. "That’s a good part. A very good part. But my favorite part is when they finally plunged the knife into him, and Caesar looked into Brutus’s eyes and realized…" Ivan’s grin turned cold. "That no one can be trusted. Especially not the ones you love."

Bob’s whole body began to tremble now.

Mine too, mine too! The monster exclaimed with jagged teeth. Let’s show him, Ivan! Let’s show him!

Ivan glanced at the monster, giving it a bright, almost playful smile before turning back to Bob. "He wants me to show you. May I?"

Bob didn’t respond. He was frozen, paralyzed with fear. His lips parted as if to scream, but no sound came out.

Ivan took his silence as agreement.

Standing up, Ivan walked over to a nearby table, opening a drawer. He began pulling out items reminiscent of ancient tools used in Caesar's time—an ornate dagger, a coil of rope. The items gleamed in the dim light of the room, their edges sharp and cruel. He laid them out on the table carefully.

He won’t run away, Ivan. Don’t worry, the monster whispered encouragingly. I’m here with him. He wants to play. He really does.

Ivan turned to check on Bob, and sure enough, the boy hadn’t moved. He sat on the floor, his face pale and clammy, but he hadn’t run. Of course, he wouldn’t. The monster was right, he wanted to play just like all the others before him.

Ivan took his time, admiring the sharpness of the dagger as he slowly approached Bob. The boy’s breath came in shallow gasps, his wide eyes fixed on the blade in his hand. Ivan smiled, savoring the anticipation, his pulse quickening with each step. "Seven minutes," he whispered, glancing at his wristwatch. "We’ll play for seven minutes. It’ll be fun."

Bob opened his mouth to scream, but Ivan was faster. He quickly stuffed the cloth into Bob’s mouth, gagging him before the sound could escape.

Oh, he really is excited, but please, Bob, don’t scream, the monster whispered soothingly, reaching out as if to stroke Bob’s hair. It will attract people who don’t want to play. People who will hurt us. And we wouldn’t want that, would we?

Bob tried to stand, but his sprained ankle betrayed him. His face contorted in pain, but Ivan didn’t see it as pain. No. No. No. It wasn’t pain. The monster twisted the truth. He was excited. He wanted to bounce around the room, but he didn’t want to attract attention. He wanted to play.

Ivan smiled again, this time more brightly than ever, as he bent down near Bob’s ear. "‘Et tu, Brute?’" he whispered, but the words felt strange in his mouth—like someone else was speaking for him. But the monster hummed its approval, and Ivan's hesitation vanished. He was doing the right thing. Wasn’t he?

Bob’s muffled screams intensified as Ivan began. The dagger gleamed in his hand as Ivan violently stabbed the boy at least twenty-three times. Bob’s body stilled under Ivan’s grip, his eyes wide and glassy as the realization dawned. He wasn’t fighting anymore—he was frozen, trapped in the final moments of his life. But Ivan didn’t seem to care. To him, it was all part of the game.

He’s excited! He’s excited! Oh yes, he is! The monster screamed, its voice occupying all of Ivan’s thoughts.

The blood flowed freely, staining the bed, the smell of copper filling the room. Ivan’s heart raced with the thrill of the moment, his mind buzzing with excitement. As Bob’s movements slowed, the room became still. Ivan stood back, admiring his work. The monster, standing beside him, was grinning from ear to ear, its dark form almost shimmering in the aftermath.

"History has been made, once again, hasn’t it?" Ivan turned to face the monster, a bright smile on his face.

Yes, Ivan. Yes. We did it again. And it was beautiful. The monster replied, with its own devious smile.