The hallway yawns before me—dark, empty, too still. The air is colder here, like something not human touched it.
My bare feet barely make a sound as I step out.
No movement. No sound.
Until—
Tap. Tap. Tap.
My head snaps toward the end of the hall.
A paper. Folded.
Taped to the wall at shoulder height.
My breath catches.
The same red ink.
I force my feet to move.
Each step feels like a scream.
I reach the note and unfold it.
This time, it’s not a message.
It’s a photocopy.
Of me.
Not a photo.
A psychiatric report.
From the year I stopped speaking for three months.
A red circle highlights one paragraph:
The patient compulsively drew insects, often repeating phrases such as “I see him when I close my eyes” and “he crawls through the light.” Possible hallucinations or suppressed trauma. Suggest observation. No known stalker confirmed.
I shake.
I remember now.
The bugs weren’t spiders.
They weren’t moths.
They were wasps.
They used to crawl under the bed. In my drawings. Down my throat.
And he would tell me?—
“Don’t scream. They don’t like loud girls.”
Suddenly, I hear the sound again.
