The apartment stinks of damp drywall, old sweat, and stale whiskey, the air thick with the kind of neglect that settles in places left to rot. Mark stands by the window, the cracked glass rattling faintly as the storm howls outside. Rain pools in the alley, shimmering under the flickering streetlamp, its reflection casting fractured shapes across the stained walls. He stares at his own reflection in the water-streaked pane—a ghostly outline, blurred by the storm.

Somewhere beyond the walls, a song plays on a forgotten radio, low and crackling through the static. The melody is old, worn, something from a time when things still had meaning. The notes drift in and out, almost lost beneath the storm.

Through the dark, the road unwinds,

The past don’t sleep, the dead don’t mind.

Footsteps echo, lost in time,

Shadows stretch where ghosts still climb.

Behind him, the bed creaks. A small, high-pitched giggle punctuates the rumbling thunder. He doesn’t turn. He doesn’t need to. The girl is visible in the corner of his eye, flickering in and out like a bad signal on an old TV. Her translucent feet never touch the mattress, but the springs groan beneath an unseen weight. She jumps higher, her laughter rising in eerie, unnatural glee.

Mark lights a cigarette. The lighter’s brief flare carves jagged shadows along the peeling wallpaper, illuminating the filth for just a moment. He takes a slow drag, smoke curling from his lips, mixing with the cold that radiates from her presence. Frost traces thin veins along the mirror, creeping across the dresser like skeletal fingers.

The laughter stops.

The air in the room thickens, the temperature plummeting further. A pressure, unseen yet suffocating, settles over the space like a predator watching from the darkness. The wallpaper ripples as if breathing, the mirror fogging over with something more than condensation. Shadows stretch unnaturally along the corners, pooling in ways that defy the flickering light. A faint whisper, not the girl’s, something deeper, something old scrapes against the edges of hearing, words just beyond understanding.

The radio sputters, the song fading in and out, warped and distant, as though something is pressing against the signal.

Leave the light on, but no one’s home,

The wind still hums an aching tone.

You can pray, but prayers don’t bind,

The past don’t sleep, the dead don’t mind.

Mark exhales and glances toward the dresser. A stack of unopened mail sits beneath an empty whiskey bottle. A cockroach scuttles across the counter and disappears into a crack in the wall. The smell of mildew clings to everything, damp and inescapable.

The girl whispers, her voice barely above the rain.

“He’s coming.”

Mark straightens, sliding into the shadows. His hand finds the silenced .45 beneath his jacket, his breath slowing as the ghost stills. The bed creaks one last time before falling silent.

Keys jingle outside. The doorknob rattles. Then the soft click of the lock disengaging.

The door swings open. A man steps inside, shaking rain from his jacket as he kicks the door closed behind him. He hesitates, his breath fogging in the sudden chill. His eyes flick to the thermostat, brow furrowing.

“Damn heater,” he mutters. He rubs his hands together, turning toward the wall to crank the dial up. The radiator hisses, but the cold remains.

Mark watches from the shadows, muscles coiled. The man’s movements are careless and oblivious. The bastard has no instincts.

The light switch clicks. The bulb overhead sputters, casting the room in an uneven, yellowish glow. The man steps further inside, setting a wet paper bag on the counter. A loaf of bread and a bottle of vodka peek from the soggy brown paper.

Then he sees it: Mark’s reflection in the glass of the cabinet door.

The man freezes, confusion flickering across his face before shifting into something darker.

“Who—”

Mark moves before the man can react. The silenced shot barely registers against the storm outside. The bullet punches through fabric and flesh, hitting the man’s side and exiting through his abdomen. He twists in pain, staggering backward, eyes wide, clutching at his stomach as blood seeps through his shirt.

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He collapses onto the linoleum, knocking the paper bag to the floor. The vodka bottle rolls lazily, bumping against the base of the fridge.

The radio crackles again. The song is still playing, warped and distant, barely audible over the man’s ragged breathing.

Faded names on broken stone,

Whispered truths in undertones.

They don’t knock, they don’t cry,

Just waiting there with hollow eyes.

The man wheezes, his voice breaking. “Why?” He reaches a bloodied hand toward Mark, fingers trembling.

Mark steps forward, leveling his gun at the man but then gesturing toward the girl with a slight tilt of his head. "Ask her."

The man's eyes widen in recognition, his face twisting in horror as he takes in the ghostly figure. He knows her. His breath hitches, his body trembling as the memories crash down upon him. He has seen her before—when she was alive.

The ghost stands by the bed now, no longer flickering. Her eyes, once hollow, burn with something deep, something primal. Her lips curl back, revealing too many teeth. Her tiny hands twist into jagged claws.

The man’s breath hitches. He turns his head. His pupils shrink to pinpricks as his mouth opens in a silent scream.

Mark fires again. The second shot catches him in the chest.

The girl lunges.

The room fills with an unearthly wail as she falls upon him. Her small frame twists unnaturally, her arms stretching too long, her fingers sinking into flesh that leaves no wounds but drains the man’s essence. His body convulses, his screams bubbling in his throat, his eyes rolling back into his skull as she feeds.

Mark turns away. He has seen enough.

Outside, the storm rages on, but the song continues, playing somewhere in the distance.

Leave the light on, but no one’s home,

The wind still hums an aching tone.

You can run, but time won’t rewind,

The past don’t sleep, the dead don’t mind.

The rain has slowed by the time Mark reaches his car. He slides into the driver’s seat, the leather groaning under his weight. The air is thick with the lingering scent of gunpowder, whiskey, and something colder, something wrong.

He puts the car in gear and pulls onto the empty road, leaving the ghost, the apartment, and the echoes of judgment behind. The rain falls in steady sheets, drumming against the roof in an unbroken rhythm. The city is asleep, its streets stretching into the gloom, slick with reflections that shimmer and break apart beneath the streetlights. The silence is unnatural, thick and expectant, as if the night itself is holding its breath.

A flickering lamp looms ahead, its weak glow barely pushing back the dark. As Mark passes beneath it, something shifts at the edge of his vision. His gaze flicks to the rain-slicked window beside him. A shape appears for the briefest second, tall and breathtakingly beautiful, wrapped in flowing dark fabric that clings to her in all the right ways.

Then she is gone.

The air inside the car thickens, the scent of rain and old leather swallowed by something colder. The atmosphere shifts, pressing in like unseen hands. His fingers tighten around the wheel. A whisper of warmth brushes his skin, but it is wrong, a phantom heat that carries the weight of something that should not be there. The impression of her presence lingers, the kind that leaves no footprints but refuses to be ignored.

The radio crackles.

Static bleeds into a voice, low and distant, slipping through the speakers like a breath through clenched teeth.

“…intense weather patterns continue, with flood warnings in effect for low-lying areas. In related news, the anomaly near Jupiter is expanding rapidly. Scientists warn that…”

Mark twists the knob. The static surges, swallowing the voice in its hollow embrace.

A sharp chill crawls up his spine. His breath fogs the windshield.

The smell of damp earth and something older, something raw and bitter, fills his lungs. His fingers twitch against the wheel. He turns his head.

The ghost sits in the passenger seat, her hands folded neatly in her lap. Water drips from the hem of her dress, soaking into the seat, though the fabric never darkens. The scent of rain clings to her, but beneath it is something else, something colder, something that does not belong. Her hair hangs in damp, tangled strands over her pale face. Her head tilts slightly, watching him with an expression that is neither kind nor cruel, just patient.

She smiles, her lips barely parting, and then she whispers.

“…Thank you.”

The words do not come from her mouth. They bloom from the spaces between sound, layered and stretched, slipping through the hum of the tires on the road, the slow rhythm of his breathing, the pulse that beats heavy in his ears. The weight of them settles around him, neither warm nor cold, but certain.

Mark exhales. He keeps his hands steady on the wheel.

She leans forward.

Her lips press against his cheek, cold enough to burn, sinking deep beneath his skin, threading through his nerves like needles of frost. His breath catches as the sensation spreads, twisting through his veins, sinking into his bones. The windshield fogs over completely.

The engine sputters.

The rain outside slows, each drop stretching into an unnatural crawl, suspended in midair. The headlights flicker. The static returns, rising and falling like the breath of something unseen, waiting just beyond the edges of the dark.

Mark jerks his head forward, slamming his foot on the gas. The car lurches, tires skidding on the wet asphalt as the world snaps back into motion. The rain slams against the glass. The static vanishes, replaced by a long, empty silence.

The passenger seat is empty.

His cheek still burns.

Somewhere in the distance, the radio crackles again.

The song is still there.

The sky splits wide, the thunder moans,

A song of bones, a hymn of stones.

Nothing ends, it all remains,

Circling back like whispered names.

Mark exhales, gripping the wheel tighter.

Somewhere just beyond the edges of the dark, something listens.

And the song plays on.