It started when he was sixteen. First, it was the death of his pet dog, Milo. A car accident that could have been avoided had his mother remembered to close the gate properly. The grief hit harder than expected, as if Milo had been more than a pet. The loss echoed through him, deeper than it should have been. His heart ached, and he couldn't shake the feeling that it wasn't his sorrow alone. But that was just the beginning.
Soon after, Roberto, a close friend who had been there ever since he could remember, who he shared invaluable, timeless memories with, was diagnosed with a terminal illness. The doctors called it rare, something that shouldn't have happened, but there it was. His friend's decline mirrored the growing sense of unease that gnawed at his chest. With every passing day, he felt like something was breaking, a fracture he couldn't explain.
By the time he turned eighteen, the tragedies had escalated. His uncle, who had always been a steady figure in his life, died after a stroke. There had been no warning, no reason. Just the cold, brutal finality of it. The fog of emptiness lingered. It didn't make sense. His uncle had been fine, just hours before he was talking to him on the phone about plans for the family holiday to Hawaii. And yet, the void left behind felt all too real, as though his uncle's absence rippled through him, a shadow of grief hanging over his every memory.
And then, at nineteen, it was Noah, his best friend and the closest thing he had to a brother. They had grown up side by side, laughing, fighting, dreaming of escaping their small lives together. But then something had changed in Noah. He grew distant, paranoid, obsessed with a fear he couldn't explain. One night, after weeks of acting strangely, Noah ended his life. He left behind a note full of cryptic ramblings about "chains" and "copies".
The shock was crushing, but the confusion hit even harder. Noah had always been the strongest among them, the one who never lost his grip. And yet, in the final words of his note, there was something chillingly familiar. Something that felt like a warning.
***
It was a chilly Sunday morning, the sky outside a dull grey. His mother stood in the kitchen, humming faintly as she stirred a pot of porridge. Her face looked tired, framed by strands of dark hair that had started to silver at the edges. But her expression lightened when she saw him enter the room.
"Morning, sleepyhead," she said with a warm smile, reaching up to ruffle his hair as he walked by. "You stayed up late reading again, didn't you?"
Edgar gave a sheepish nod, rubbing his eyes. "Just a bit. Lost track of time."
She laughed softly; a sound full of lightness that still managed to pierce through the weight in his chest. "You'll turn into one of those dusty old professors if you're not careful. Breakfast first, then books."
She handed him a short list scrawled on a torn envelope, her handwriting neat despite the rush. "Would you mind popping out to the shop, love? We're out of milk, and I forgot to do a few things yesterday."
"Sure," he said, taking the note.
"Thank you. You're a good boy." She ruffled his hair before turning back to the stove. "Grab yourself a pastry if you see one you like. My treat."
He offered a quiet smile, pocketing the list. It was something small, something routine. And yet, as he stepped outside and the door clicked shut behind him, he couldn't shake this eerie feeling that reminded him of something that he couldn't quite put his finger on.
The corner shop was just a five-minute walk down the street, nestled between a closed-down cafe and a locksmith with a flickering neon sign. The bell above the door jingled softly as Edgar stepped inside, the warmth of the store a welcome contrast to the chill outside.
He made his way past the narrow aisles, grabbed a carton of milk from the fridge, and made his way to the till. The cashier gave him a nod and a look of recognition, and Edgar offered a smile in return.
"Cold day huh?" the man asked as he rang up the milk.
"Yeah," Edgar replied. "Feels like it's only going to get worse."
After paying, he stepped back out onto the pavement, pulling the list from his pocket to check what was next. Beneath milk written in his mother's careful handwriting, was the next task:
Pick up some warm clothes for the orphanage: coats, gloves, anything cosy. Use the card.
Edgar blinked. He hadn't even realized his mother was planning that. He glanced toward the charity shop a few streets down and let out a chuckle under his breath.
"She's too kind," he murmured to himself.
It wasn't a new thought. His mother had always been the type to give, even when they didn't have much themselves. She volunteered when she could, donated quietly, and never asked for anything in return. Sometimes he wondered if she did it to fill the spaces left behind by those they'd lost, as if her kindness was a dam holding back all the pain.
As he walked toward the shop, his fingers brushed the edges of the list still crumpled in his coat pocket. A strange unease lingered in his chest, though he tried to ignore it. Maybe it was just the grey skies, or the memory of Noah's strange words resurfacing in his mind. Maybe it was nothing.
As Edgar stepped inside, the warmth inside greeted him like an old friend. Behind the front counter sat Mrs. Leary, a woman in her sixties with sharp eyes and a soft voice. She looked up from folding a sweater and broke into a wide smile when she saw him.
"Well, if it isn't Edgar Moore," she said, brushing off her hands and coming around the counter. "I was just thinking I hadn't seen you in a while. University keeping you too fancy for us now?"
Edgar laughed, ducking his head. "Just busy, that's all. Mum sent me. To pick up some clothes for the orphanage."
"Ellen's heart is made of gold," Mrs. Leary said, her expression softening. "She's got half this neighbourhood holding on to hope with both hands."
"She really is something," Edgar said, more to himself than her.
He moved through the racks, picking out coats and scarves, things that looked warm and clean. As he browsed, a small voice called out from the entrance.
"Edgar!"
He turned to see a boy waving from the pavement, a scrawny kid with bright eyes and a woollen hat too big for his head. It was Jamie, the boy from next door, the one who always rode his scooter too fast down the hill and knocked on Edgar's door when his football went astray.
"Hey, Jamie," Edgar called back through the open door. "You staying out of trouble?"
Jamie grinned. "Not even trying!" And then he was off again, speeding down the pavement, his laughter echoing behind him.
Edgar smiled to himself as Jamie zipped away, the sound of the scooter wheels fading into the hum of the street. He gathered the last of the clothes, a thick navy coat, a pair of knitted gloves, and a cheerful red scarf, and brought them to the counter.
"Perfect picks," Mrs. Leary said, ringing them up. "Tell your mother I'll be by next week with that pie dish she lent me."
"Will do," Edgar replied, swiping the card his mum had given him.
She bagged the clothes neatly and handed them over with a nod. He thanked her, then stepped back out into the cold. The breeze was gentler now, and the grey clouds had softened at the edges. It no longer felt like the sky was pressing down on him.
He walked to the orphanage; a modest brick building tucked behind a row of tall trees. Sister Irene met him at the door, her eyes lighting up when she saw the bags in his hands.
"Oh Edgar, you and your mother spoil these children," she said with a warm clasp of his shoulder. "Thank you."
"They're from her," Edgar said with a small smile. "She wanted to make sure everyone was warm this winter."
He didn't linger, just exchanged a few kind words and was on his way. As he made his way home, the familiar rhythm of the neighbourhood wrapped around him. The quiet chatter of a couple walking their dog. The scent of baked bread drifting from the corner bakery.
When he returned, his mother was still in the kitchen, wiping down the counter while humming a song he vaguely recognized from her old records. She looked up with a smile.
"All done?" she asked.
"Yeah," Edgar said, setting the receipt and change on the table. "They were really grateful."
"I'm glad, you hungry?"
He nodded, and she started preparing something warm, the kind of meal that made the house smell like comfort. The day was like any other, uneventful. Edgar spent the afternoon studying for his upcoming midterms, the radio playing softly in the background. His mother pottered about, watering her plants and knitting something colourful with uneven rows.
By the time evening arrived, the eerie feeling from earlier was nothing more than a memory. The shadows in his mind had lifted, replaced by the quiet, steady and peaceful life.
Struck out of his temporary daze, Edgar remembered that he had a lecture on advanced practical physics early the next morning and decided to call it a day. He headed into his room and lay on the bed, thinking about what the next day would be like.
Ah, it'll be like any other day, he thought to himself as he turned on his phone and pulled up the latest chapter of the web novel he was reading. As he reached the final sentence, sleep finally took him, deep and peaceful.
But it wouldn't be like any other day.
He woke abruptly in the middle of the night, his head pounding like someone was using it as an anvil. His chest tightened, as if all his organs were being squeezed together and ripped out of him.
And then, just as suddenly as it came, the pain vanished.
Gasping, Edgar sat up straight, clutching his head with one hand and gripping the fabric of his shirt with the other. He stayed there at the edge of his bed for what felt like hours before finally checking the time. Squinting at his phone, he saw it was half-past two in the morning.
Still dazed by the sudden pain, he decided to get a glass of water before trying to go back to sleep. After all, he still had a lecture in the morning. As he tiptoed downstairs, careful not to wake his mother, something caught in his peripheral vision. The light in her room was on.
How odd, he thought, pausing. Maybe she'd fallen asleep without turning it off. He moved toward the door, the creak of the floorboards beneath his feet unnaturally loud in the silence of the house. As he approached, that same eerie feeling from earlier, the one he'd ignored during the day, crept back. But this time, it didn't just linger. It grew heavier and thicker.
Each step toward the door made it worse. His breath became shallow and uneven. His hand hovered near the doorknob, but something deep inside him screamed not to touch it. That something was wrong. Impossibly wrong.
The light spilling out from the thin crack beneath the door looked warm, familiar. But everything else, the air, the silence, the pressure told him the exact opposite.
Still, he reached for the handle.
The door creaked open with a soft groan. At first glance, everything looked normal. His mother lay on the bed on her side, her back to him, one arm resting above the pillow like she'd simply fallen asleep while reading, illuminated by the faint glow of the bedside lamp. The blankets were pulled up around her, slightly askew.
He was filled with relief; he had been worrying for no reason.
"Mum?" he whispered. "You left the light on."
She didn't stir.
He took a few steps closer, intending to turn the lamp off himself. That's when he caught it, that smell. Faint, metallic. Like rust and something else.
His eyes dropped to the floor. A single dark stain had spread from beneath the bed, spreading into the carpet. Then he noticed how the sheets looked wrong. Dark patches bled through the fabric like shadows. He stepped closer, almost against his will, and gently pulled back the edge of the blanket.
His breath caught. His stomach dropped.
Her clothes were soaked red. Thick, heavy crimson soaked into the cotton like ink into paper. His eyes travelled up-
And he saw it.
Her throat had been slit clean across. A wide, deep gash that had nearly severed everything. Her eyes were closed, her expression calm.
He stumbled back, hands shaking, a scream caught in his throat as he struggled to gasp for air.
Everything inside him went silent.
"Mother!" he managed to croak, still in shock. He violently shook her, as if it would wake her up. When she didn't respond, he himself also began to shake, sobs coming out in between breaths.
WHO COULD HAVE DONE THIS TO HER! I'LL FIND YOU!
Amidst a burst of hysteria, he began desperately searching for something, anything even. And that's when he saw it. On the bedside table, a kitchen knife soaked in blood next to a note with messy handwriting, like it had been written in a rush. With a shaking hand, he picked up the note.
He's watching you, Edgar. He's always been watching. I tried to hold it back. I'm sorry I had to do this my love. This is the only way. Don't trust the ones who hide behind their smiles. Don't follow the sound of your name. Don't
The message ended abruptly, trailing off into illegible scribbles as if she had lost control of the pen.
He stared at the paper, the jagged scrawl blurring as hot tears welled in his eyes. His breathing grew shallow, rapid. Every corner of the room felt like it was closing in. Her words wouldn't stop repeating in his head.
He's watching you, Edgar. He's always been watching...
His mother, kind, steady, warm, was now a cold, blood-soaked figure in her bed. And yet her final thoughts weren't of herself. They were of him.
His fingers clenched around the note, crumpling it as the sobs gave way to something else. Something sharper.
Snap.
A soundless crack, like a cord snapping inside his chest. The world seemed to slow down. His breath caught. His body went cold.
His eyes stayed locked on the blood-stained sheets. His mother's lifeless form. The note, shaking in his trembling hand.
Roberto. Noah. His uncle. And now her.
"How many more!?" he screamed in outrage, his voice threatening to tear even the universe apart. "How many more do I have to lose!?"
His heart pounded harder, like it was trying to burst out of his chest.
Who is 'he'?I'll find him and make him pay. "WHERE ARE YOU!?" he screamed with every inch of his being.
As his mind raced, the air thickened, like it had turned to syrup. A low hum rose around him, deep and vibrating through his bones. The lamp flickered once. Twice.
Then-
Reality tore.
A jagged line split the space just inches in front of him, like glass cracking under pressure but leaving no shards behind. Behind it: blackness, but colour. Nothing, but everything.
He had no time to react.
The rift widened with a sudden pull. A violent, sucking force yanked him forward like a vacuum. His scream was lost as everything he knew was ripped away from him.