The rain poured like a relentless whisper against the city streets, drenching everything in a cold, lifeless sheen. Each drop seemed to amplify the loneliness clinging to the deserted sidewalks and the flickering neon signs reflected in the slick asphalt. The air was thick with the smell of wet concrete and exhaust fumes, a grim cocktail that mirrored the city's mood.

Slam.

The glass doors of the police station burst open, their metallic frame groaning under the sudden force. The sound echoed through the otherwise quiet precinct, a jarring disruption of the monotonous hum of fluorescent lights and the tapping of keyboards.

A man staggered inside, his soaked clothes clinging to his trembling frame like a second skin. Water dripped from his matted hair, forming a small puddle at his feet. His breath came in short, panicked bursts, each exhale fogging the air in front of him. His face was pale, almost translucent, and his eyes were wide with a terror that seemed to burrow deep into the bone—like he had just seen something… impossible. He clutched at his chest as if trying to contain a runaway heart.

"They're taking everything… my life, my memories, my past… I don’t know who I am anymore," he gasped, his voice a ragged whisper lost in the vastness of the station. The words hung in the air, dripping with desperation and a chilling sense of disorientation.

The night shift officers exchanged glances. Concern flickered across their faces, quickly followed by confusion. This wasn't the usual drunk looking for a warm place to sleep. This was something… different. The weight of the city's underbelly, the silent suffering that went unnoticed by most, seemed to momentarily solidify in the form of this broken man.

Detective Alan Reeves, a man etched with the weariness of countless sleepless nights and unsolved cases, leaned against his desk, the metal cold against his spine. He sighed, the sound heavy with resignation, and pushed himself upright. Another lunatic off the streets, fueled by cheap liquor and fantastical delusions? Or something more sinister lurking beneath the surface of this city's grimy facade? He'd seen enough to know that nothing was ever as simple as it seemed.

"Name?" Alan asked, his voice a low rumble that cut through the tension in the room. He kept his tone neutral, careful not to provoke the man further. Experience had taught him that empathy, even feigned, could be a powerful tool.

The man swallowed hard, his Adam's apple bobbing nervously. His voice, barely above a whisper, trembled with vulnerability. "Daniel. Daniel Carter."

Alan nodded, his eyes studying the man's every movement, searching for a sign, a tell. He motioned for him to sit in one of the hard plastic chairs that lined the wall. "ID?"

Daniel's face twisted in a silent scream of frustration and fear. He hesitated, his body language radiating a sense of profound unease. Then, with shaking hands, he patted his pockets. His fingers trembled as they searched, rifling through the empty fabric, turning up nothing but damp lint.

His breath quickened, escalating into ragged gasps. The panic in his eyes intensified, reflecting the harsh fluorescent lights like shards of broken glass.

"My wallet… my phone… keys… I swear I—" He cut himself off, his voice choked with a mixture of anger and despair. The realization was dawning on him, a slow, creeping horror that threatened to consume him whole.

Alan's stomach tightened. A knot of unease twisted within him. He ignored the sympathetic glances from his fellow officers and turned to his computer. The cold glow of the screen illuminated his face as he typed the name, his fingers moving methodically across the keyboard.

🔍 Searching...

The cursor blinked, mocking him with its relentless rhythm. He waited, his hand hovering over the mouse, a lifetime of experience telling him to prepare for the worst.

No results.

No birth certificate. No driver’s license. No social security number. No phone records. No credit history. Nothing.

Daniel Carter did not exist.

And yet… he was sitting right in front of them, a living, breathing enigma in the heart of a city that thrived on secrets. The question wasn't who he was, but what he was. And Alan Reeves, the jaded detective, knew, with a chilling certainty, that this was just the beginning of a very long night.

Alan narrowed his eyes. A glitch? A deleted record? He couldn't shake the feeling that something was deeply wrong, a sickening twist in the fabric of reality. "Where do you live?" he asked, his voice tight.

Daniel's face twitched with uncertainty, lines of confusion etching themselves into his skin. He looked like a man straining to grasp a fading dream. Then—like a memory fighting to stay alive, stubbornly clinging to existence—he muttered, "Redwood Lane. Apartment 406."

Alan nodded, a grim determination settling over him. He grabbed his coat, the cheap wool feeling suddenly insufficient against the encroaching unease. This needed to be checked, now.

Minutes later, rain splashed against the squad car as they pulled up to 406 Redwood Lane. The streetlights flickered, casting long, distorted shadows that danced across the building's grim facade.

A dark, crumbling apartment complex loomed before them, its windows like vacant eyes staring into the storm. Paint peeled from the walls like sunburnt skin; weeds choked the narrow walkway leading to the entrance.

Daniel stepped out first, his movements hesitant at first. Then, as he took in the surroundings, his pace quickened, a desperate hope flickering in his eyes. He strode towards the building, only to abruptly stop a few feet from the entrance.

His hands clenched into fists, knuckles white against the dim light. He swayed slightly, as if struck by a blow. "No… no, this isn’t right." His voice was a hoarse whisper, barely audible above the rain.

The building was… empty. Devoid of life. A husk.

🔹 No furniture cluttered the dimly lit rooms. 🔹 No belongings hinted at a past resident. 🔹 Just dust, thick and suffocating, coating every surface, and a pervasive darkness that seemed to seep from the very walls.

Alan, his unease mounting, checked with the landlord, a greasy, unkempt man who reeked of stale cigarettes. The response was flat, devoid of any helpful information. No record of a Daniel Carter renting the unit. Ever.

But Daniel’s face twisted in horror, a visceral wave of despair washing over him. "This was my home. This was… everything." The words were thick with disbelief, bordering on panic.

Love what you're reading? Discover and support the author on the platform they originally published on.

He rushed inside, his feet dragging against the bare floorboards, each step echoing eerily in the silent space. He stumbled through the empty rooms, a ghost searching for a lost life.

His fingers clawed at the wall, brushing against faded outlines, ghostly rectangles where picture frames once hung, memories fading into the plaster. He dropped to his knees, his breath catching in his throat, and yanked open a loose floorboard, ripping it free with a desperate strength.

Empty. Only more dust and the cold, hard earth beneath.

Then…

He saw the writing on the wall. Scrawled in what looked like dried blood, the letters jagged and unsettling, a stark contrast to the faded wallpaper.

🔴 “IF YOU’RE READING THIS… IT’S ALREADY TOO LATE.”

Alan’s spine stiffened. A cold dread washed over him, colder than the rain soaking through his coat. This wasn't a simple missing person case anymore. This was orchestrated.

𝘚𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘬𝘯𝘦𝘸 𝘩𝘦’𝘥 𝘣𝘦 𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦. They knew exactly what Daniel would do, what he would look for.

𝘖𝘳… 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘺 𝘬𝘯𝘦𝘸 𝘋𝘢𝘯𝘪𝘦𝘭 𝘸𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥 𝘣𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘴𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘰𝘯𝘦. And that someone was Alan. He was a pawn in a game he didn't understand.

Then Alan’s radio crackled, shattering the oppressive silence. The voice on the other end was urgent, laced with a frantic edge.

"Unit 47… We have a Code Red… Officer Alan Reeves is missing. Last seen an hour ago."

Alan frowned, his mind reeling. What? This was impossible. He was right here.

He pressed the receiver, his thumb fumbling with the button. "Dispatch, repeat that?"

"Detective Alan Reeves is missing. Last seen an hour ago. All units be on the lookout."

Alan’s hands clenched around his radio, the plastic digging into his palm. His pulse pounded in his ears, a frantic drumbeat against the silence.

"That’s impossible. I’m right here. This is Reeves. I'm at 406 Redwood Lane." He spoke clearly, forcefully, hoping to cut through the confusion.

Daniel… smiled. A slow, chilling smile that stretched across his face, devoid of any warmth or sanity. His eyes, previously filled with despair, now shone with a disturbing, knowing light.

"It’s happening to you too."

The apartment felt heavier, a lead weight pressing down not just on the air, but on Alan's very being. The air… thicker, viscous like honey, making each breath a conscious effort. It clung to him, a suffocating shroud woven from unease and a chilling premonition.

Alan’s phone buzzed, a weak, pathetic vibration against his thigh. He pulled it out, hope flickering, only to be dashed. No signal. Just a dead screen reflecting his own growing panic.

The mirror on the wall flickered, not like faulty wiring, but with a deliberate, unsettling rhythm. His reflection lagged—like a broken video feed, a distorted caricature struggling to keep up with his movements. A horrifying premonition clawed at the back of his mind: he wasn't seeing himself.

Then, new words bled onto the wall in dark, dripping ink. The script was shaky, almost frantic, as if the message was being forced into existence. The crimson liquid pooled at the base of each letter, staining the pale wallpaper a macabre dark red.

🔴 “YOU WERE NEVER HERE.”

Alan’s breath caught in his throat, a strangled gasp that did nothing to alleviate the pressure building in his chest. The words were an accusation, a condemnation, a brutal denial of his very existence.

His body trembled, a tremor that started deep within his bones and radiated outwards. His mind screamed for logic, for a rational explanation, but the suffocating reality of the room pressed in on him, smothering any attempt at reason.

I’m Alan Reeves. The thought was a desperate mantra, a lifeline in a sea of uncertainty. I have a wife. A job. A life. He clung to these concepts, these cornerstones of his identity, as the room began to spin.

Right? Doubt, insidious and corrosive, seeped into his thoughts. The fear was a living thing now, gnawing at the edges of his sanity.

Then why can’t I remember her face? The question echoed in his mind, a deafening silence where a memory should have been.

Or my home? Panic flared, a desperate scramble for familiar landmarks in the crumbling landscape of his memories

Or anything… before tonight?

Daniel stepped closer, his presence radiating an unnatural calm that was more terrifying than any visible threat.

"Welcome to the other side, Detective." Daniel’s voice was a silky smooth venom, laced with a knowing amusement that made Alan’s stomach churn.

Alan spun toward the window, desperately searching for something, anything, that felt real, that felt normal.

The street was empty. No cars. No people. No movement. A desolate tableau painted in shades of grey and black, devoid of life, devoid of hope.

The stars above… flickered, not twinkling with celestial brilliance, but sputtering like static on an old TV screen, threatening to fade into nothingness.

Alan’s breath hitched, a painful, ragged sound in the oppressive silence.

"What… is this?" He whispered, the question barely audible, a desperate plea lost in the void.

Daniel smiled, a slow, deliberate curve of his lips that didn't reach his eyes. It was the smile of someone who held all the answers, the smile of someone who had won.

"I remember now."

Alan stepped back, fear clawing at his throat, choking him.

"Remember what?"

Daniel turned to him, his gaze unwavering, his eyes glinting with a malevolent light.

"I was never real. Neither were you."

Alan’s heart stopped, a terrifying cessation of life that somehow, impossibly, didn't kill him. He was trapped, suspended in a horrific limbo, devoid of both life and death.

He turned to the glass of a car window, a desperate attempt to confirm his existence, to anchor himself in reality.

🔴 There was no reflection. Just the cold, empty void staring back at him.

A chill sliced through his spine, an icy blade that severed his connection to… everything.

He was investigating Daniel… A fragmented memory, a flickering image dredged up from the depths of his dissolving past.

And in doing so… The horror dawned, a slow, agonizing realization that threatened to shatter what little remained of his sanity.

He erased himself.

Alan dropped to his knees, the pavement cold and unyielding beneath him. His memories slipped away like sand through his fingers, his past vanishing like whispers in the wind. Faces, places, emotions… all fading into the void.

Daniel smirked, a gesture of smug satisfaction.

"Don’t worry, Detective. Someone else will find your case file soon… and then they’ll disappear too."

One week later. The fluorescent lights of the precinct hummed, an irritating but constant reminder of the long hours that stretched into the night.

Officer Miller, barely a year out of the academy, sat hunched over his computer, the glow of the screen reflecting in his tired eyes. He'd volunteered for the graveyard shift, hoping the quiet solitude would allow him to catch up on the mountain of paperwork that seemed to grow exponentially each day. He’d also hoped to dig into the cold case files, a morbid curiosity pulling him towards the unsolved mysteries that haunted the department's past.

He scrolled through the digital archives, a seemingly endless list of names, dates, and summarized tragedies blurring before him. Most were mundane: robberies gone wrong, domestic disputes turned fatal, petty crimes lost to time.

But then, one caught his eye. An anomaly, a digital ghost in the system. The stark simplicity of the entry was unsettling.

🔹 Case #406 – Disappearance of Detective Alan Reeves

The digital ink seemed to bleed a little darker than the rest. Miller leaned closer, a prickle of unease creeping up his spine.

🔹 Last seen investigating Daniel Carter

The next line sent a chill through him.

🔹 No records of Daniel exist

That was strange. Unusually so. He tried searching the name in the internal database himself, double-checking for typos, variations, anything. Nothing. Daniel Carter was a phantom.

He continued reading, his apprehension growing with each line.

🔹 No records of Alan exist

The blood ran cold in Miller's veins. No Alan Reeves either? A detective vanished, expunged from the system? That was beyond strange; it was impossible. He ran the name himself, again and again, through every database he could access - personnel, payroll, even the archived phone logs. Nothing. It was as if Alan Reeves had never existed.

The young officer frowned, his brow furrowed in concentration. He felt a growing sense of foreboding, a weight settling in his gut. Something was deeply, profoundly wrong. He stared at the screen, the silence of the precinct amplifying the pounding of his own heart. He was about to click away, to write it off as a glitch, a corrupted file, when… he saw it. A single line, buried at the very bottom of the file, almost invisible against the dark background.

🔴 “IF YOU’RE READING THIS… IT’S ALREADY TOO LATE.”

The words hung in the air, a digital curse. Miller felt a jolt of pure fear, his hand instinctively reaching for his weapon. He wanted to scream, to alert someone, anyone, but the words had paralyzed him. The hum of the fluorescent lights seemed to intensify, morphing into a deafening roar. The screen flickered, then went dark.

BLACKOUT.