I was a total mess, depression hitting me like a truck. I reached a point where I couldn’t deny it anymore. Even my dad, who thought painkillers could fix even a broken arm, said I looked bad. My few friends, who only existed online, noticed I vanished from calls and seemed off.

 

So I looked for a therapist. Messaged some friends, posted online, and did some research, but nothing felt right. I wanted something straightforward, and I didn’t have time or money to waste.

 

A week before everything went to hell, I got a message from Kyle. He was a guy I hadn’t seen since highschool, and he was talking about a “miracle” therapist. He replied to one of my posts but in my dm, saying this guy helped him cope with his schizophrenic brother’s suicide and cleared him of the crimes he committed during his manic bipolar episodes after graduating.

 

I forgot about it, I was dealing with too much stuff. But then I hit my limit. I completely lost it when my asshole boss fired me for being late, after months of exploitation and extra shifts. I couldn’t take the humiliation anymore. I broke the bastard’s nose, along with one of the shitty restaurant’s windows, and ended up handcuffed in a moldy police station.

 

No money for bail, no one to call. In desperation, I remembered Kyle’s random message and used my one phone call to dial that cursed number.

 

The therapist answered, said he was on his way, and hung up. He arrived like a dark angel. Tall, imposing, too young to have treated my friend over a decade ago, and with a voice that seemed to hypnotize even the cops. Calm, firm, subtle.

 

In seconds, the same cop who called me a lunatic and shoved me into a cell was uncuffing me and apologizing, like he saw a ghost. The therapist paid my bail, told me to grab my things and meet him outside. As he left, he said I owed him my first session, the next day at 9 AM.

 

Something was very wrong. I had no idea what I just witnessed, but I focused on being free. I should’ve run right then.

 

But I took the paper with the address, and the last thing I remember was getting home, showering, and collapsing on the bed.

 

The next day, I woke up already dressed in a button-up, something I never wear, with no memory of how I gotten home. I thought of my motorbike, it was with him. When I called the station, they said the “doctor” claimed I was a danger to myself and couldn’t drive.

The bastard had shown them a document signed by both my parents, even though my mom had been buried six feet under ground for over 15 years. That fucking paper gave him legal control over my life. To them, I was a freak under his guardianship.

 

What the hell was happening? I was about to lose it and call that motherfucker.

 

But then the message came:

 

“Hope you’re not late, my little sparklite. We need to talk about Ellen.”

 

Ellen.

 

My heart stopped. How did he knew? No one called me that anymore, not even my dad knew. It was my secret. The guilt hit my stomach like a punch, my most rotten and painful regret rising to my throat. I instantly remembered her eyes.

 

I was furious. Blinded by rage. I ran like a lunatic, sweating and crying, asking everyone where the address was. People looked at me like I was a crackhead, but I didn’t give a fuck. Finally, after hours, I reached an old building, Number 777.

 

I got up the narrow stairs to the third floor and opened the door madly, ready to kill him for making me remember her.

 

But there she was.

 

My mother.

 

Sitting, smiling, exactly as I remembered.

 

I nearly collapsed. It was her. The way she sat, her smile, even how she crossed her legs to knit. I almost screamed. I wasn’t thinking about how surreal or impossible it was, I just wanted to hug her and apologize for not saving her life.

 

Then she finished turning to me.

 

The creak of the old wooden chair against the floor made my spine crawl, and I saw his eyes.

 

The therapist.

 

He was imitating her. Moving like her. Talking like her. Even her smile. But his voice was distorted, like multiple people speaking at once, like broken instruments trying to play a song. Her sweet voice was smothered by something deep and guttural.

 

“Hi, my sparklite.”

 

I vomited. My mind shattered, my body couldn’t take it. Everything spun.

 

He lifted me off the floor, like I was nothing, and sat me in the chair so smoothly I barely noticed. I only snapped back when my mother whispered in my ear, now almost perfectly clear.

 

“Why didn’t you take the pills from my hand, baby? Why did you let me choke on my own blood? Alone on that stained carpet.”

 

He dragged me back to the day she killed herself in front of me. I was 11. I came home early from school to surprise her. It was so real, I could hear her swallowing the pills, feel her frantic eyes on me as she spat blood, her trembling hand reaching for me. I was petrified, just like that day.

 

That demon used her voice to torture me.

 

Then her voice dissolved into his rough laughter when he saw my tears, like glass dragged over concrete. He leaned forward, and for the first time, I saw his real face.

 

His skin was smooth, poreless, like a wax mask. His eyes, too black to be human, pupils dilated like a cat’s eyes in the dark, reflected a distorted image of me: a man on his knees, pathetic, covered in vomit and tears.

 

When it hit me, I screamed.

 

“You’re not real!” I scrambled back.

 

He laughed, the sound echoing from every direction at once.

 

“Nothing here is, my sweetie”

 

I grabbed the wooden chair, nearly slipping in vomit, and hurled it at him. It passed through him like mist. He kept smiling like a freak.

That was enough. I ran, stumbling, staggering like I was drunk. At the door, I desperately reached for the knob. It wasn’t there. All I heard were slow footsteps behind me, the soft click of my mother’s heels on the floor.

 

I had to get out.

 

Without looking back, I threw myself at the door. On the second try, I only felt gravity pull me down and the sound of wood breaking. I got up fast, scrambling into the hall, and accidentally glanced back.

 

He was over me, watching like a vulture waiting for its prey to die.

 

I flew down the stairs, nearly tumbling headfirst, but it didn’t matter, I had to leave. But when I reached the hall, the building’s door was locked.

 

“You’re not going anywhere, you're grounded”

 

His voice came from the walls. I wrenched the metal doorknob with all my strength until my wrist cracked. I was screaming in pain and despair. It was all useless.

 

Then I remembered: windows.

 

The hall had one. I recalled a shallow light hitting me when I entered the building. It was at the end, near the stairs but following to the left. As I faced it, I heard a putrid growl, like a lion being gutted. My survival instinct kicked in. I wanted to live. Then came sounds of nails scraping the walls and the ceiling above me.

 

I had to leave.

 

I sprinted and crashed through the window, glass shredding my shirt and skin. I landed in a filthy alley, soaking in a puddle. This wasn’t the same neighborhood that I was in.

 

Bleeding, I heard footsteps and heavy breathing behind me.

 

I didn’t look back. Just ran.

 

That happened three weeks ago.

 

I fled the town, took a night bus with money I stole from a drunk. I’m not proud of that, but I had to disappear.

 

Now I’m in a cheap motel, 200 miles from where it all started. My phone’s dying, glitching. Every time I try to call for help, I only hear whispers in voices I know. My dad. My brother. Kyle.

 

Mom.

 

I’m writing this to register what happened. I don't know how he can play with my mind.

 

Sometimes, I see familiar people. The gas station clerk had my mother’s green eyes. The man at the bar walked just like that monster. I never approach them. I avoid eye contact at all costs. Since I escaped, I haven’t spoken because I’m afraid of what I’ll hear.

 

I know he’s hunting me. Maybe he’s reading this now, over my shoulder or behind a screen, pretending to be someone who wants to help. Maybe he’s already found me, and I just don’t know yet.

 

He knew everything. Even things I buried with her.

 

I don’t think Kyle ever got better. Maybe it wasn’t even him who sent that message. I don’t know what to think anymore.

 

I just don’t wanna die.

 

I need help, I hearing her voice calling me behind the door…

 

Please, I need this to end