The Cassette: Part 2 of 5

 2 

When he went to the nursing home the same night, he did not enter his deceased mother's room right away. Or rather, he could not. He lingered just inside the doorway, trying to clear his mind and gather some courage. He had spent the one-hour drive convincing himself that he wouldn't cry or hesitate, but now that he was here, he couldn't stop the tremor within. 

Mrs Riley stood beside him, one hand lightly gripping his elbow, as if expecting his knees to give way under him. He did not. Instead, he drew a deep breath and took the first of several steps into his mother's solitary room at the end of the drafty corridor lined with several rooms, one of the larger ones, with a view of the ocean his mother had spent decades diving as a sea woman back when they had not yet immigrated. 

Growing up, he felt ashamed of her occupation as a female diver and a single mother. She smelled like the ocean and no matter how many times she washed, the smell lingered and would not clear; it clung to his clothes, seeped into his skin. There was not a single day he wasn't bullied at school. Heck, there was a time when he wanted her to quit so badly that he even thought of running away from home. 

But he no longer felt that way. He missed those days, however strange it may sound. Sure, it had not been an ideal life, nor a kind childhood, but their small coastal town had held a quietness he had never been able to find again, a peace of mind that could not be replicated. 

After immigrating with his mother in search of a better life, that stillness was forever gone. Not that he was ungrateful for the opportunity, he was. But it was simply different. A different kind of life entirely from the one they had lived by the sea; less peaceful and more hectic. Or perhaps it was only nostalgia that made him have these thoughts, the soft distortion of memory making the past seem better than it truly was. After all, anyone who had grown up in the past and become an adult, tended to think it was better than the present, though that might not always have been the case. 

He entered. 

The walls arrested him before the stiff body did. From one corner to the other, every inch of paint had been scored into jagged lines, carved by what he could only imagine was a blunt object or razor. But that was not what made his eyes narrow, nor why he inched closer. The markings were not random, though they would have seemed so to anyone not in the know. They were Chinese characters, so-called Hanzi. What made them eerily unnatural though was the way they had been formed, with each character broken apart and repeated across the walls in fragments, some crooked, some overlapping, as if done in panic. 

It was those words again, and as he drew closer, his mother’s voice rang in his ears in a never-ending loop, making his heart race and mind reel with questions he had no answers to. Bùyào kāimén.  

He swallowed hard and lifted a trembling hand, letting his fingers brush the half-formed strokes. Some lines were barely visible, others gouged so deeply they cut into the wall surface, jagged with flakes of cracked paint and dried specks of brown that could not have been anything but blood. It occurred to him then that the characters had not been scored with a tool at all. They had been dug in by hand. 

His glassy eyes dropped to his mother. She was on the bed, but not in the way the dead were meant to rest. She had not been laid flat; instead, her body sat stiffly upright, shoulders hunched forwards, her jaw stretched into a grotesque rictus, as if her mouth had been forced open until the muscles locked in place. Her neck was rotated upwards and her eyes were wide open, fixed on the ceiling, as though she had been looking at something grotesque at the moment of death. 

Her hands were drawn tightly to her chest in a defensive curl, fingers raised as if to ward something off, some bent backwards at unnatural angles. Two looked fractured, swollen and discoloured, the skin beneath the nails darkened with trapped blood. One nail had been torn away completely. She looked like she had fought something. 

"Did she… really do all this?" 

Mrs Riley's response came too quickly, as though she had been expecting the question the moment they entered. 

"Patients with dementia-related psychosis sometimes act on delusions, Mr Wang," she said. "It isn't uncommon for them to believe they're in danger, even when there's no real threat. And when that fear escalates, it can lead to… drastic actions." 

He looked back at his mother's twisted form, or rather, forced himself to. He understood her condition, and what Mrs Riley was implying, yet he could not stop himself from questioning it. Something about the whole situation did not feel right: the way she had died, and the way she had looked so helpless and terrified in her final moments, as if she had not been alone. His eyes narrowed at the thought. Had she seen something? Someone? 

"You said she hanged herself?" 

"There was a bedsheet tied to the bedpost. She must have used it. The position of the body might seem odd due to this, but rigor mortis can set in quickly depending on the level of stress and—" 

Leo turned to face her, his expression darkening and his features hardening into something unreadable. "Does this look like someone who hanged herself to you, Mrs Riley?" 

"I know this is difficult to accept," she said. "But your mother had been deteriorating. For a long, long time. She believed things that weren't there, heard things that weren't real. That kind of fear can be overwhelming, and sometimes those afflicted cannot cope with it." 

He didn't answer. Not because he accepted her explanation, but because he knew pressing further would lead nowhere. The system had already closed around her death and written it off as delusion-induced suicide. End of story. So, he changed the topic instead. 

"There's something else I wanted to ask you." 

"Sure, go ahead." 

"Ma… did she have access to a phone? One used outside of regular call times?" 

"No. We don't allow personal phones in the rooms, though the patients are free to use the reception line once a week. That said, some of our staff do occasionally lend their phones to patients when they're distressed and want to contact a family member. It's not policy, but… it happens." 

He pulled out his phone and tapped into the call log. The number was still there, the one that had reached him just past midnight. The one his mother used, or something that pretended to be her, before the news of her passing reached him. 

He held the screen towards her. 

"Do you recognise this number?" 

"Let me see." She adjusted her glasses, squinting at the screen, and her expression shifted almost immediately. "Oh—that's Carsten's number. He's our new caretaker. Started about two weeks ago. How did you—" 

"Do you think I could speak to him?" he asked. "In private." 

"In private?" she repeated, her brows lifting. 

"It's no big deal, really," he said. "I just… want to ask him something. Could you help me with that?" 

"Well," she hesitated, "I can check for you. He's off today, but I can see when his next shift is. If he's comfortable with it, I'll let you know." 

"Thanks. I appreciate it." 

"Sure." 

A moment of silence then passed between them before Leo gathered enough courage to speak up. 

"Hey, uh, I'm sorry about earlier. I just—when I saw her like that, I didn't know what to think. I didn't mean to raise my voice or… come off as rude. I hope you don't mind." 

"No worries," she said. "I'm used to these kinds of reactions from bereaved families. My staff and I are trained for it, so don't be too hard on yourself." She paused. "Though, that does remind me, we'll need to go over a few things. Regarding arrangements."  

"Uh, yeah, sure. What… what exactly? This is a first for me, losing a family member I mean, so I'm not really sure how to proceed." 

"Well, when a resident passes, we notify the next of kin, which in this case is you. From here, we'll need your direction on whether you'd prefer to handle the funeral arrangements yourself or have us assist in contacting a funeral service. Some families prefer to work with one they know, others ask us to recommend one. It's entirely up to you." 

"Right. How long do I have to decide?" 

"We'll keep her in our facility morgue for up to seventy-two hours. After that, by law, she'll need to be transferred to either a funeral home, crematorium, or hospital mortuary. Also, if you're planning a service or cremation, you'll need to let us know which funeral director to release the body to." 

He rubbed the side of his neck, unsure of what to do, how to proceed, and completely overwhelmed. 

"I guess she wanted to be cremated? She once told me that, long before she, uh, she took ill. I just haven't—I'm sorry." 

"That's all right," she said, "I can give you a list of registered funeral homes we've worked with before. Some offer same-day or next-day services. If you have someone in mind, I can help you get in touch with them." 

He nodded. "Sure. Anything else I need to take care of?" 

"We'll need you to sign some release papers and consent for the body transfer. There's also a death certificate we'll file with the local registry, but that's… uh, something we'll prepare on your behalf unless you'd like to handle it yourself?" She paused, taking in his expression, and quickly added, "It doesn't all have to be done today, of course. Just before the seventy-two hours are up." 

"Right, uh, you think you can email me the list?" 

"Sure, no problem." 

"Thanks. I'll take care of it. Just… maybe just not today." 

"Of course." 

There was another silent moment after this awkward exchange, one that lasted longer than either of them wanted and was comfortable with.  

"We've got coffee downstairs if you need a second or—" 

"No," he cut in, shaking his head. "I'll be fine. Really. Thank you… for everything." 

He exited the room and walked down the unnecessarily narrow corridor, which was lit by a solitary, flickering lamp that cast broken shadows across the walls. The entire place stank of old wood and sour urine, as though it had not been properly cleaned in a long time. Yet, to his surprise, the place was not as empty as it had been when he first arrived. 

An elderly man stood sobbing next to a barred window, a female resident nearby shouted at her own reflection, slapping her face as if trying to wake herself from something. Further down, another elderly man pushed a walker while smoking with his free hand, despite his old age – or perhaps because of it. 

He couldn't tell whether ending up in such a place was a good thing or a bad thing. He knew, for certain, that he wanted nothing but the best for his future partner and children, that he would never want to be a burden to them in old age. And yet, especially now, he couldn't help but feel an immense, gut-wrenching remorse for having agreed to put his mother in this… prison. The gruesome image of her distorted face and crooked fingers then flashed through his mind, sending a sharp pang through his chest. If she had stayed with him, would she have ended up like that? 

He snapped back to reality and looked down at his feet. A slipper had struck him. His gaze followed the corridor until it landed on an elderly man. He was missing one slipper; the other hung loosely on his foot, revealing a bare, bony leg. 

"Get out of here, Chink!" the man shouted through his toothless mouth. A tattoo on his bare arm revealed he had once been part of an extremist group in his youth. "You don't belong here!" 

Leo didn't even flinch. He simply kept walking. These people were too old, too unwell to be taken at face value. He knew that better than most. He had watched his mother change over the years, seen her personality erode in real time. None of them were of sound mind anymore. 

Then he heard it. A voice that pulled him out of his thoughts and stirred something in him, guilt, remorse, or perhaps something else entirely, but whatever it was, it made him come to a full stop. The tone was familiar. Painfully so. Affectionate and soft in the same way his mother's had been, so much so that for a brief, disorienting second, he thought she had risen from the dead just to comfort him. But it wasn't her.  

"Here! Here!" 

Beneath the flickering lamp sat an elderly woman in a sun-faded blouse, of Asian descent. She was smiling, her eyes crinkling warmly at the corners as she eagerly waved him over, as though she knew him. His instinct was to ignore her, to keep walking, to get out of this dim, suffocating place that seemed to have long since lost whatever colour and life it once had. But then the older woman repeated herself, now louder and firmer, as if she dared him to ignore her and carry on. 

"Leo, my son! My son!" 

His hands curled into fists hearing this and the tears pressed in. It sounded so… real. Like it was his mother calling him. Though he knew he wasn't supposed to, he turned to face her and drew closer. 

"How do you know my name?" 

She looked around them as though checking whether anyone was close enough to hear, then beckoned him nearer, her unnaturally twisted, bony fingers curling in a motion that unsettled him more than he wanted to admit. Hesitating, he leaned in slowly, turning his head, close enough to catch the foul odour of her dry mouth. 

What happened next was sudden and brutal. He didn't see it coming, and even if he had, he doubted he would have been able to react in time.  

Her mouth snapped open and she bit down on his ear with a shocking force, clamping onto it as though intent on tearing straight through the cartilage. He screamed as hot blood burst out, staggering backwards, but she held on, thrashing her head side to side with unprecedented intensity, refusing to let go. 

The staff came running just seconds later; two male caretakers grabbed her and yanked her backwards as one of the nurses jabbed her arm with a syringe. Her limbs twitched, and then, finally, slowed. Then she was still again, limp in her arms, the expression on her face returning to a warm, vacant smile as though she hadn't just tried to bite off his ear. 

Leo was on his knees, one hand pressed hard against his ripped ear, the other holding a bundle of tissues someone had thrust into his palm in the chaos. The pain was unlike anything he had ever experienced, too jarring and overwhelming to be captured by plain words. His entire left side was warm and sticky at this point and crimson blood soaked through his collar and sleeve. 

He looked up, still dazed, as they began to wheel the woman away. Her expression changed again at that moment and her chapped, bloody lips parted, just enough for him to see it, as she mouthed something. Something in Mandarin. 

It took him a second to recognise it, but when he did, the hairs on the back of his neck stood on end and his blood turned in his veins, the air in his lungs no longer providing enough oxygen. There it was again, those words that kept haunting him. Bùyào kāimén. 

Then she started to laugh, hysterical, as if she was mocking him; it made his blood run cold and a cold shiver to shoot up his spine. Yet, he couldn't take his eyes off her, not even when a nurse came over to help him rise back to his feet. Even so, the woman did not stop, she kept laughing all the way down the corridor, even as her body slumped against the straps of the wheelchair, even as the staff exchanged frightened glances behind her back. 

For a long while, he remained completely frozen, consumed by a terror that left him unable to move, the paper towel pressed against his torn ear now soaked through. His heart pounded with a growing, suffocating certainty that something wasn't right. First his mother, now this woman. The same words, looping like a broken recorder that wouldn't let him catch his breath. But he could not wrap his head around it. It made no sense. What door? And, moreover, why was he not supposed to open it?  

Those thoughts spiralled as he entered the code to his flat and stepped inside, shutting the world out behind him. 

He threw himself onto the bed and lay there staring at the ceiling, his ear throbbing with every pulse as his body worked to repair itself. Not long afterwards, he dozed off, his mother's voice repeating in his mind like a sinister beat he couldn't get rid of. "Bùyào kāimén." But she said nothing else, offered no explanation – not even in his nightmares – only those words, as though he might understand if repeated long enough. 

He did not. 

The Cassette: Part 1 of 5

1 

Leo shed his jacket at the office door and made it to his designated desk. It had been a hectic month with all the restoration and digitisation works going on, and they were nowhere near the finish line. The footage they were required to restore and categorise were old police evidence files, or in other words, basically stuff that the police needed in order to reopen cold cases. But even with three technicians on duty today, the workload seemed endless and the pile of cassettes only growing by the second. 

"Damn it!" Sam exclaimed, swivelling his chair around. "Dude, take a look at this. Do you see what I'm seeing?" 

"What is it again?" Leo asked as he reluctantly leaned over Sam's monitor. He had just arrived after nearly forty minutes in traffic, and the last thing he wanted was to be dragged into whatever Sam had found. Unfortunately, that was often the case. 

Sam had a habit of pulling him into things at the worst possible time. Sometimes, Leo wondered if Sam was genuinely oblivious or simply liked getting a reaction out of people.  

"See what?" Leo asked. 

"That's exactly what I'm talking about. There's nothing here!" 

"Dude, I'm not following you." 

But Sam had already stopped listening, continuing to rant under his breath. "Fuck! I should've known when I saw the tape. Can't believe I just spent two hours trying to fix this thing." 

On the screen, a black image flickered occasionally, interrupted by what Leo could only describe as some sort of out-of-tune static. But the footage showed nothing. Literally nothing. Just a black screen. 

"Hey, snap out of it. What tape are you talking about?"  

Sam opened his drawer and pulled out an old cassette tape with a battered casing, as though it had been handled roughly or dropped more than once, handing it over. 

What caught his immediate attention as he twisted and turned the casing was not the damage, however, but the label. There was no title, no case identification as one might expect, save for a string of faded numbers printed on a sticker. 

"That's strange," he murmured.  

"Strange? That's one way to put it," said Sam, adding. "You think someone misplaced their stuff and this somehow got mixed in with the case files?" 

Leo donned a glove and studied the tape closely this time, trying to decipher the fading coding on it without much luck, save from three digits. How was this even possible? There had to be something tangible at least, whether that was a case name or label, that could help them categorise it. But just these digits? They meant nothing on their own. 

"Did you look it up, just in case?" 

"No match. What do you think? A misplaced cassette? Should I call those bastards in the Case Review Unit and tell them to get a grip?" 

"Well, we don't know that for sure." 

"You don't think those bastards are pulling our legs?" 

"Not exactly, no." 

"What then?" 

Leo gestured at the monitor. 

"Looks like somebody went through a lot of trouble to tamper with the footage. Look – it's not completely black." 

Sam's eyes widened as he noticed the screen flicker, revealing a brief snapshot of the real footage beneath whatever had been used to obscure it. 

"You think you can recover it?" 

Leo drew a deep breath. "I mean, I can try. But—" 

"Do you, like, think it's some kind of cursed tape or something? Like in that Japanese horror movie? Ring or whatever." 

"What are you, five?" Leo said, already carrying the tape back to his desk. "Grow up, will you?" 

Behind him, Sam threw his hands up. 

"I'm just saying, dude. Better safe than sorry, right?" 

Although recovering the footage was definitely not their priority right now, especially with the piles of cassette tapes getting only higher, he knew he wouldn't be able to concentrate on the task at hand with his mind full of questions. Besides, recovering the footage would take no less than an hour if he got it right the first time around, and then they would be able to correctly categorise the tape and carry on with their routine. 

What he did not take into consideration was the measure the person who had tampered with the tape had taken to make sure whatever the tape showed remained a mystery. After rebooting the system and software more times than he should have, the restoration process finally gave some result, albeit after four or so hours after he started, which meant it was already time for a well-deserved lunch break. 

"You're not coming?" Sam asked as he got up from his chair, ready to join the others waiting for him at the door, exaggerating his accent at the end of his speech. "Hey, talking to you, Leo. Wang Luo." 

With his eyes glued to the screen where the tape was now seconds from being restored, Leo snapped as soon as he heard the exaggerated accent taken directly from some old Hong Kong noir film. The idiot did not even know the difference between Mandarin and Cantonese, and yet still had the nerve to mock him. 

"Stop acting like a douchebag and leave." 

"What? Just trying to keep my Chinese fresh, you know?" 

Leo turned to face him a soon as he heard this, no longer able to contain his annoyance. "It's Leo, damn it! L-E-O. And you're saying it wrong! I'm from the mainland, you son of a gun! We don't say it like that over there!" 

"Main—what? Never mind. So, does that mean you're not coming?" 

"Fuck off, dude." 

"Uh-uh. Scary," Sam said, raising his hands in mock surrender. "Seems like someone's not feeling it today, guys." 

"Leave," Leo said at last, calmer now, not in the mood to entertain the other. "Just... leave me the fuck alone." 

"All right, all right. Whatever. Let's go, guys." 

He sighed, inhaling deeply to calm his nerves. Sam kept doing that, trying to put him down in front of everyone and then acting as the friendliest guy ever. The double standards, man! The double standards!  

Shaking his head, he once again shifted his focus to the monitor, where a pop-up message relayed that the footage was now restored completely and the digitised file compatible with the computer hardware. 

He clicked on the play button. 

A grainy video of what looked like some kind of interrogation room played on the screen. Apart from the constant glitching and buzzing sound from the static, nothing dramatically caught his attention. Had he not been able to hear the recorder in the background, he would have thought this was an image and not a video. 

After watching the still footage for a few minutes, playing and replaying back and forth to catch anything unusual or something that could help him categorise the file, he turned it off and decided to watch the rest at home now that he knew there wasn't anything on it that required his full attention. Thus, he uploaded the digitised file to his private account as well as on the cloud server and then resumed tackling the huge pile of tapes on his desk. 

Fast forwards five hours later, back in the single-room studio apartment, Leo powered on his computer after downing some beer. 

The rest of the footage was the same as the earlier parts, save from one single detail, one he almost missed had he not played the video back for a double-check. Something was wrong with the angle of the recorder. In the earlier parts of the footage, it was situated in the corner of the interrogation room, somewhere on the ceiling or near it, thus giving a bird's eye view of the room. But at one point, the angled tilted, albeit only slightly. It was a miracle he had noticed it at all.  

What he could not make sense of was... the how. The recorder was out of reach due to how high situated it was. No one had entered through the only door visible, either. None. And even when he considered the low possibility of there being another door out of the recorder's reach or a person somewhere in a dead angle behind the recorder, then he would be able to see shadows at least, wouldn't he? 

He rubbed his chin, thinking hard. Was he missing something? Maybe the light source was too weak? That was why it didn't quite reach all corners and, therefore, did not catch any shadows that showed up behind the recorder? But that high up? No human being could reach that high without a ladder, and the angle of the recorder should've shown him at least some parts of the ladder itself had it been used. So, how was this— 

Ring. Ring. 

Leo jolted from where he sat, almost cursing out loud from the sudden ringing. Before he answered the call, he took a gander at the clock on the wall, noticing that it was past midnight. Although the odd hour was unusual in and of itself, it wasn't this that bugged him as he saw the words on the display. An unknown caller. Who on earth would be calling at this hour? Was it from the nursing home? But as far as he knew, the facility's calling hours were between 10 AM and 5 PM. Unless—a lump formed in his throat at the thought that something terrible might have happened to his mother. 

He took the call. 

"Hello—" 

"Leo, my son! You okay? Why you never call me? Always I call you." 

Frowning, Leo changed ears. 

"Where's Mrs Campbell, Ma? How did you—" 

"Shh! Tā yào lái le!" 

"What? Ma? Ma! Who's coming? Who's—" 

"Bùyào! Don't open door! Don't—bùyào! [inaudible]" 

The call ended, cut off by his mother's screams. 

"Ma! Ma!" 

Panicked and drenched in cold sweat, Leo tried to call the number back, but no one picked up. The screen stayed unresponsive and black, the ringing looping into suffocating silence. For a few moments, he didn't move at all. Could not. 

His hand remained locked around the phone, his grip tightening without him realising it and knuckles turning white. Even his breathing came shallow and laboured. He swallowed once, then again, but his throat felt tight and dry, as though something had physically lodged there. What had just happened? Something was wrong. Very wrong. Why would his mother scream like that? Like she was... like she was... 

He forced the thought away before it could fully form, refusing to give it shape. Instead, with a jerky motion, he unlocked his phone again and scrolled through his contacts. 

The ringing went on for a while before Mrs Riley answered. He knew this was not an ideal hour to be calling her, but he needed someone to go check up on his mother, who had recently been diagnosed with psychosis related to the onset of her dementia five years prior. 

"Hello? Mrs Riley, this is Leo. Leo Wang. It's about Ma." 

"Mr Wang, I'm so, so sorry. I meant to call you as soon as I heard the news of Mrs Wang's passing, but—" 

"P-Passing? I'm not—what did you just say? Passing?" 

"You haven't heard yet? Mr Wang, we lost your mother earlier today. I'm sorry for your loss. I truly am." 

His hands shook and his vision became blurry with the suppressed tears now trying to escape. It took him a moment to calm his nerves and regain his bearing. Dead? That couldn't be true. He just—spoke to her?  

"The staff found her on the floor with a bedlinen around her throat. It looks like she couldn't take the suffering anymore." 

These words snapped him out of his bleak mind and the unanswered questions. "What?" 

"I know this is hard to accept. But—" 

"Hold on. Are you saying she... killed herself? But I don't understand! You said—no, you promised that she'd be under strict surveillance once she—" 

"I know you're hurting, Mr Wang. But there's nothing we can do to change the fact that she's gone. For the better or worse." 

"For the better or worse?" he repeated, completely out of his mind. "How do we know she wasn't killed? That someone—" 

"Listen, I'll be in my office tomorrow. Once you've calmed down and can think straight, you're free to come and we can talk over the details. What do you think? Mr Wang? Hello?" 

He loosened his grip on the phone as a sudden thought hit him. 

"It's impossible." 

"I'm sorry? What did you just say?" 

"I just... talked to her. Heard her voice." 

"How long have you gone without sleep, Mr Wang?" 

His grip tightened again at those words. 

"What?" 

"You said you were working on digitising some files the last time we talked? Maybe—" 

"We never did. Why would I tell you something about my private life?" Then, after a brief pause, quieter now, more wary. "Who... is this?" 

The line went dead and the real Mrs Riley called, but he did not answer – just stared blankly at the display until the ringing stopped and he played the voicemail sent seconds later. 

"Mr Wang? I'm so sorry for calling you at this hour. But I just received the news of your mother's passing. Please, come to the nursing home as soon as this message reaches you. I'll be waiting." 

But Leo did not move. Instead, he curled in on himself like a child, shivering, his arms locked tightly around his body. 

His bloodshot eyes then drifted, almost against his will, towards the ajar bedroom door. In that moment, his mother's voice began to repeat in his mind, insistent and forcing itself into place, refusing to allow him to dismiss what just happened as imagination or hallucination. 

It was not. He just knew, if nothing else. 

"Don't... open the door?" 

What door? 

Merida Bell

Photo by Michael Matveev on Unsplash
Merida and I have been friends for as long as I can remember. From childhood crushes to the heartbreaks of adolescence, we went through it all together.

Back in the 1990s, when we were both roughly eleven years old, she and her family moved into the beige mansion across the street. I remember that day vividly and how the warm, sweet smell of baked apple pie wafted through the air as my late mum and I crossed the street to greet our new neighbours.

In those days, people had a greater sense of community and relied on each other for support during trying times. It was customary to welcome a new neighbour with baked pies and friendly conversation. This tradition, once cherished, was now only alive in the world of cinema.

I found the Bells to be reserved individuals who kept to themselves. While my family was very sociable and loved to engage in small talk, the Bells were the opposite. I still remember the way Mrs Bell’s voice trailed off after thanking us, and how she stood in the doorway as if to ensure we wouldn’t insist on getting invited.

My late mum, who was a housewife with traditional values, perceived Mrs Bell as rude and bad-mannered. In these parts of the countryside, it was common courtesy to at least offer a drink to someone who came knocking on your door.

Given the circumstances, my mum cautioned me not to get involved with the Bells. She believed they caught a disease that afflicted only city folk and made them think too highly of themselves. She was worried I might catch it, too. But like many other mischievous boys, I had a weakness for all things forbidden.

I rounded up my friends Dani, Mark, and Carlos after school, and we set out to pull a prank on the Bells. We couldn’t help but feel giddy with excitement at the prospect of what was to come.

We planned to ring the doorbell and then scamper away before Mrs Bell could answer. We’d made a habit of it – knocking on doors around our usually serene neighbourhood and then hiding from plain sight.

We crouched behind the bushes, feeling the dampness of the grass beneath us as we waited for the perfect moment to strike. Dani and I had a clear view of the front door and garden, but Mark and Carlos had to strain their necks to see the fun from their spot in the thorny bush.

Things didn’t go as we planned. No one answered the door. I could, however, see some movement through the window reflected on the curtain. The Bells were at home; I had no doubt. So, I rang the doorbell again. This time, I stood in front of the front door, nervously tapping my foot as my friends giggled from the nearby bushes.

The sound of the doorbell echoed through the entire house for several seconds. But there was no sign of anyone coming to answer it. I strained to hear any noise from the other side of the door to no avail. I couldn’t hear anything except the sound of my shallow breathing.

We presumed the Bells were out after all and played football in the nearby park instead. As the sun set and the sky turned dark, my friends headed back to their homes a few blocks away, leaving me to walk alone past the beige mansion.

The closer I got to the Bells, the more aware I became of the eerie silence that hung in the air. The mansion was cloaked in deep slumber, not a single light piercing the pitch-black murk.

The beige mansion weighed heavily on my mind during supper. I almost asked my mum about the Bells, but her piercing stare made me change my mind. I left my plate half-eaten and retreated to my room.

Although the beige mansion was barely visible from my bedroom window, I could still make out the intricate details of the architecture with a little effort. It was remarkable how such an old building managed to withstand the test of time – without a single crack, at that.

The wind howled that evening for hours. It carried the sound of creaking branches and rustling leaves as I stood frozen and stared at the imposing mansion. The darkness was absolute. I couldn’t even see my own hands on the windowsill. It was like a thick blanket covering everything and everyone – like a black hole swallowing the world.

I turned around and checked the clock behind me. It read fifteen minutes past ten in the evening. Where were the Bells? Returning my gaze to the beige mansion, I caught a fleeting movement out of the corner of my eye. A figure darted around the side of the mansion with such speed, they seemed to disappear into the shadows.

Scowling, I leaned against the window frame, frustrated that my view was obstructed by the overgrown bushes and the towering walls of the mansion. The cool breeze brushed against my skin as I leaned forwards.

Footfalls.

I whipped around and nearly lost my balance and toppled backwards. With my heart racing, I could literally feel the sweat on my palms as I turned around in a heartbeat. The heavy, rhythmic thud of footsteps grew louder and louder as someone climbed the stairs and drew closer.

My heart felt like it was going to burst out of my chest as I closed the ajar window and dived under the covers. The door handle twisted not long after and my mum stepped inside. She asked if I was asleep. I didn’t respond. She switched off the light before she left my room. I lay there for a few more seconds, eyes closed, before finally tossing the covers aside and opening the window.

The beige mansion stood empty and still as death itself, like a ghostly spectre haunting the night. The sheer beauty of it took my breath away. Something about it arrested me and I couldn’t explain what it was. I had to take a closer look.

I cracked open the door and listened to the quiet hum of the house before advancing. The floorboards creaked beneath my feet as I tiptoed down the hallway. My eyes were fixed on my mum’s bedroom door the entire time. Thankfully, she did not wake up.

I hurried downstairs, grabbed my jacket, and stepped out into the chilly night. The lampposts cast a soft glow on the deserted pavement. The only sounds were the chirping of crickets and the occasional hoot of an owl at this hour of the night.

My house was just across the narrow road, so I could always retreat to safety if anything should happen. However, what I didn’t consider was the intricate nature of life, which my child’s mind couldn’t yet grasp.

It was a terrible idea. I knew that very well. Of course, I did. But something compelled me to act the way I did that night. It was like my mind was a tangled ball of yarn, and I couldn’t find the end to unravel it. Looking back on it now, I realise I was just a kid – a dull kid who didn’t know any better.

Turning around the side of the mansion, the rustling of leaves in the dense bushes startled me way more than I wanted to admit. Rooted to the spot and unable to move an inch, I perked up my ears. But whatever had caused the sudden noise faded away.

Something else caught my eye. One of the lace-curtained windows was slightly ajar—not a huge gap, but enough for a breeze to slip through and brush against me.

I was never one to snoop around, but my curiosity got the better of me. I took a glance in, assuming there was nobody at home. That one mistake set off a chain of events that led me down a path of ruin. If only I had turned around and returned home…

The drawing room was a sight to behold, with its opulent decorations and gold-dusted ornaments. A chandelier hung in the centre, its crystals catching what little light there was and sending faint rainbows dancing across the walls. Looking around, I couldn’t help but notice the oblong table across the cherry settee. The table was covered with china plates and gleaming silverware, and in the centre was a steaming turkey that looked mouthwatering.

Sensing a strange presence, I looked behind me. My heart raced as I scanned the area. No one was there – yet I couldn’t shake the feeling that something was watching me. That was when I figured it was time to go back home.

But as I turned my back to the ajar window, a loud clatter echoed through the air, like the sound of silverware crashing to the ground. My initial thought was that a gust of wind had knocked the dishes off the table or something. None of the plates or silverware, however, were toppled over or shattered into pieces. Where had that noise come from?

As I let my darting eyes search every nook and cranny for an answer, they soon settled on the redwood door in the far-left corner. It was closed moments before, I was pretty sure, but now the door was gaping wide. I squinted to see it more clearly, intently trying to recall whether the door had been left open this entire time or cracked open just recently. That was when I saw it. The shadowy figure.

The ground slipped beneath my feet and I stumbled backwards. Panic gripped me as the shadow grew larger with every breath. Everything around me came to a sudden halt as if by magic, even time itself, and I covered my mouth to stifle a gasp. I didn’t even realise I was holding my breath. Not until the shadowy figure locked eyes with me and crawled out of the window.

I struggled to get up from where I had fallen on my buttocks, but once I did, I charged across the road like a maniac. Sprinting home with all that I had, I locked the door and collapsed.

I gasped for air, my heart pounding like it would tear through my chest. When my mum ran downstairs, she found me in a daze. No words escaped from my lips. It was like I had lost the ability to speak.

I cried my heart out, shuddering from the peril I’d just escaped, and my tears soaked into the fabric of her nightgown. But there was no reason for me to cry.

Yes, I saw something, at least I thought I did, but at the same time, I didn’t. Was it a person? A ghost? I couldn’t even tell. All I knew was that something really terrible would’ve happened had I not regained my senses and fled.

From that day on, I avoided the beige mansion like a pest. The boys stopped hanging out with me; they mocked me for chickening out, saying I was acting like a scared little girl. Maybe I was. A scared little girl, that is… All I knew was that I would never set foot there ever again. But my friends ditching me wasn’t even the scariest part.

No one ever laid eyes on the Bells after that night. They vanished without a trace. It was almost like they had been erased from existence – as if they had never been alive, to begin with. But that was hardly possible. My mum and I both saw Mrs Bell. I didn’t make all these things up in my mind. Everything I saw was real – even if I couldn’t prove it.

Time slipped by unnoticed, and before I knew it, several months elapsed. Little did I know, things were about to take a turn for the worse.

The world froze in time as the winter morning frost settled, and the only sound was the crunch of footsteps on the icy grass. The hills of powdery snow rose all around me, and there she was, standing tall amid it all and beckoning me to come closer to the beige mansion.

A wintry princess in black, surrounded by snowy hills – like a macabre painting from a distant past.

That was the first time I saw her. Merida. Merida Bell. Even after all this time, the mere mention of her name made me shudder. She haunted my mind like a parasite, feeding off of my memories of her. From sunrise to sunset, she consumed my thoughts.

I was on my way home from school when I spotted her for the second time. She sat on the porch. Her head was buried in her pale, slender hands. I recognised her immediately, but she seemed oblivious to my presence. I decided to watch her some more. Was she crying?

She lifted her head, and her eyes locked onto mine. But this time, I stood my ground instead of backing away. Surrounded by the hustle and bustle of people, I knew I had nothing to fear. She tilted her head to the side and her pearl-black eyes narrowed. I tried to be friendly and waved, but she ignored me and slipped back into the beige mansion.

The third time I saw her was at school. We were part of the same batch. But she ended up in a different class than me. She spent the entire day staring out of the window, lost in her thoughts and oblivious to her surroundings. My friend, Ryu, told me that her name was Merida Bell and that she had transferred to our school from a city that was a 40-mile drive away.

It didn’t take long before everyone was talking about her. The rumours spread like wildfire. It was blatantly obvious that she came from an affluent background, but no one knew why her family moved to the countryside. Hearing the nasty stuff the other kids came up with, I kind of felt bad for her. But who was I to butt in and make myself a target? And it didn’t exactly look like Merida cared for these rumours, anyway.

Leaving the classroom that same afternoon, I slung my backpack over my shoulder and made my way back home. It was then that I saw Merida’s curly hair bouncing in the wind a few steps ahead of me on the pavement. She dragged her foot as if she was too lazy to walk properly.

Some neighbourhood kids threw things at her, shouting insults, but she kept advancing without even once glancing at them. I chased the kids away and followed closely behind her, staying out of sight as much as possible while keeping a watchful eye on her. How could she be like this? So oblivious to those around her.

Halfway down the street, however, she paused and turned around. Embarrassed, I dropped my eyes and felt a rush of heat on my cheeks. Did she catch me staring? I didn’t mean to come off as a creep, but I think I did.

Taken aback and unsure of what to do, I looked up to see her making her way towards me. My heart skipped a beat when she called me by name. My mind went blank, and I was left stunned. How come she knew my name?

Her black eyes seemed to hold all the secrets of the world, sparkling like the moon reflecting off the surface of a shimmering lake. The colour of her plump lips was so vibrant that it was almost as if they were painted on – a perfect shade of cherry red. She was beautiful.

“What do you want?”

I stood there, searching for the right words to say, unsure of how to explain myself and not come off as a weirdo. I must have looked more confused than I thought I did – or wished – for she repeated her question and added one more.

“Why are you following me?”

“I think there’s a—”

“I saw you looking through the window that night. You’ve been watching our house ever since.”

“That night?” I racked my brain before the gravity of her words finally settled. That night! That meant she saw me? But I didn’t see her. How did she—I looked up.

“Why are you doing this? You do realise stalking can get you in juvie, right?”

 “I… I didn’t mean to go to your house, it just… I thought I saw something and I wanted to—”

“Saw something? You’ll have to do better than that to fool me!”

“I- I did see something! I swear! Or… at least I think I did.”

“Right,” she said, adding nimbly. “You seriously expect me to believe that?”

I resigned myself to the situation with a sigh. She wasn’t going to believe me no matter what I told her.

“Forget it; shouldn’t have said anything.”

She rushed up to me. “Are you being serious?”

“Never mind what I said…”

“What… what did it look like? The thing you saw.”

I looked at her, my mind churning as I tried to process her words. She repeated her question, each syllable clearly pronounced so that there was no room for misunderstanding. Seeing my bewildered expression, she looked around us before dragging me along.

“I know a secret place where we can be alone. Follow me.”

She’d just accused me of stalking, and now she wanted me to follow her. As I broke free from her firm grasp, she slipped away into a dark alleyway a few blocks away from our neighbourhood. Despite the bright daylight, a sense of unease crept over me as I approached her.

“So, what did it look like?”

She stressed the word ‘it’, drawing out the vowel sound as if trying to make a point. I shut my eyes for a moment and tried to recall the past I tried to forget. She repeated herself.

“Honestly, I have no idea. It… it was pitch-black. I couldn’t see a thing.”

“You said you saw it.”

“I said I thought I saw something.”

“What’s the difference?”

“Look, I don’t have a clue, all right? Can I go now?”

Just as I was about to leave, she clamped onto my arm with an unearthly force. I winced as her nails dug into my flesh.

“Just… just tell me what it looked like.”

“I told you – I don’t know!”

“Please, just say something – anything!”

My words caught in my throat as her desperate voice cracked. What was up with her? Why did it even matter?

“All I saw was a table full of food and—”

“Table full of food? What are you talking about?”

“What do you mean? You said you saw me! Then you must’ve seen the table as well!”

“No… no, I did not.”

By this point, my patience was wearing thin. The images from that night replayed on repeat in my mind and haunted me. I knew what I saw, and none of it was a hallucination.

I wrenched my hand free from her grasp and retreated. She shouted something, but the distance between us made it impossible for me to catch her words.

My jaw was clenched, and my fists were balled up as anger coursed through every fibre of my being. Being accused of being a creep was bad enough, but now I was being accused of being a bloody liar as well.

I lay in bed that night and listened to the sound of the rain tapping against my window. Her words echoed in my mind over and over again. I couldn’t tell if my memories were real or just a product of my mind any longer. But if they were real, then why did her words get to me so much?

Even though it was obvious she was lying, one way or the other, I couldn’t help but feel like there was some truth in what she said. Was I mistaken about everything? How? Why? Was my mind playing tricks on me? No, that couldn’t be it.

That night, I was completely awake and alert. The opulent table was right there in plain sight, I was sure. Merida must’ve seen it too, or at least, caught a whiff of the dishes. But she said I was wrong, she said there was no table. Nothing made sense. It was driving me up the wall.

With a grunt, I sat up in bed, feeling the weight of my thoughts pressing down on me. It was like I was losing my grip on reality, unsure if I was being gaslit or if my brain was meddling with my memories and showing me things that never happened.

When I arrived at school the next day, I was surprised to find a note on my desk. I snuck into the boys’ restroom to read it. The message used a strange mix of capital and lowercase letters. It was so short that it could hardly be called a letter.

I Know wHat yOu dId

Why did she feel the need to tell me this? I couldn’t wrap my head around the way her mind worked. I tossed the note, watching it swirl down the toilet bowl and vanishing from sight. With the note gone, I decided to invite Ryu over for a game night. I wouldn’t have been able to sleep anyway.

We were so engrossed in playing games we lost track of time, and before we knew it, my mum returned from work.

The smell of exhaust fumes filled the air as Ryu’s mum pulled up an hour later to take him home. As much as Ryu’s presence helped me forget about the beige mansion, I couldn’t help but feel drawn to it again as I gazed across the road.

I stood in the doorway, listening to the sound of my mum’s footsteps as she went back inside, while Ryu’s car disappeared around the corner. The beige mansion loomed before me – its eerie grandeur impossible to ignore.

I squinted. What was that? A person? It moved closer to me, whatever it was. I blinked and stared down at my feet, feeling the weight of the world as I stood there in silence. My feet felt glued to the ground. Why couldn’t I move?

With each step, the shadowy figure moved more erratically, its body contorting in unnatural ways. I felt my body tense up as panic flooded my senses, leaving me gasping for air. I shut my eyes. The weight of dread settled in my stomach as I prepared for what was to come.

Then I felt the rough grip of two hands pulling me back into the hallway before the door slammed shut. Collapsing on my knees, I heard the click of the lock as my mum peered through the peephole. It was real. I wasn’t hallucinating. But the thing we saw couldn’t be explained by science or reasoning.

My mum yanked me up, and we dashed up the creaky stairs. She opened the hatch to the attic, and I reluctantly climbed up. She followed, trying to ascend as quickly as possible, but her efforts were cut short by a loud bang on the locked door.

She put a finger to her lips, warning me to be quiet before descending the wooden ladder. Peering through the gap in the hatch, I could see her fingers gripping the doorknob as she stood there, trying to keep whatever was on the other side locked. Not once did she turn around and look back.

I could hear my heart pounding in my chest as she finally twisted the doorknob and opened the door. The echo of her footsteps faded away, and I knew deep down that this was the last time I would see her. Tears streamed down my pale cheeks.

The sound of my mum’s screams reverberated through the empty hallway. I blocked my ears. I didn’t leave the attic. I couldn’t. That night, my mum disappeared without a trace. The police found no evidence of foul play. They believed she left on her own.

I lived with my grandmother afterwards. Ten years went by. Merida and I stayed in contact. She believed me, she was the only one who did. The tragedy that befell her family also affected mine.

The creature, she said, was fuelled by curiosity, and the more I tried to uncover its secrets, the more it yearned to be noticed. I summoned it, she said, and now my mum was no more. But it wasn’t like that. It never was. In the end, it was the moment I stopped grieving that made it angry, only I learnt this too late – far too late.

Night after night, I witnessed my mum lock me in the attic and disappear down the hallway. It was driving me mad. I couldn’t shake off the guilt that was eating away at me, and waves of shame kept hitting me time and again.

To break the vicious circle, I fell asleep to the image of her smiling face. It was the only thing that kept the nightmares at bay. Merida told me to stop dwelling on the past and to focus on tomorrow instead.

Try as I might, I couldn’t do it. It was always on my mind, the shadowy figure, and I couldn’t help but think about it. My heart yearned for its arrival. I wanted it to take me to my mum. But it never came.

Merida and I developed a romantic relationship in our twenties. She said she liked me since the first time she saw me but couldn’t confess her feelings until our late teens. I didn’t feel the same way about her. For a long time, all I felt was a sense of pity. But I needed her friendship and I couldn’t bear to see her leave me.

When she gave me an ultimatum – either her or no one – I chose her. She was in love, madly in love, which surprised me. I sort of always knew she had a crush on me but I never knew it was this deep and this persistent over the years.

Our first night… I couldn’t go through with it. I told her I couldn’t. I saw her more as a sister than a lover, and my complex feelings for her led us into this awkward position. She left in the middle of the night and didn’t return my calls for several weeks.

Without her, as strange as that was, I found myself in a more stable place. I was feeling better, much better. The heavy weight in my chest lifted, the nightmares ceased, and my mum no longer disturbed my sleep.

When Merida returned, I broke things off with her and decided to take a break and heal my scars. She didn’t take it well. A neighbour had to step in as she screamed and cursed at me. I had never seen this side of her – never imagined she could be so violent, so unhinged. It felt like I had dodged a bullet. A big one.

Soon afterwards, I landed a job as a butcher, just a short ten-minute walk away from home. Life started improving. It was the best decision of my life – at least while it lasted. But sometimes, I’d find myself staring too long at Gin, wondering if her laugh had always sounded quite like that. Or if the colour of her eyes had shifted. I chalked it up to paranoia. But was it?

Mr Jekeil was the one who hired me. We worked together most of the time, taking turns between the butchery downstairs and the counter.

Gin, the girl I fell in love with, was Mr Jekeil’s only daughter. She was out of my league in more than one way. Gin was a university graduate and had a 9-5 office job in a world-renowned investment bank.

It is kind of funny I think about this now, but she had the most beautiful smile I had ever seen. When she beamed, time came to a halt.

I confessed to her on the day we strolled down the street aimlessly – young, reckless and madly in love. With her in her arms, I was another person. She was the drug I needed to heal, the calm after the storm, and she was real.

We kissed. The rest is history.

Mr Jekeil had seen it coming for he told me one night to take good care of her. I intended to do that. Gin made my past non-existent. All those miserable events that shaped my life and my personality vanished in a puff of smoke. Yet, sometimes, I’d wake in the night gasping for air – not from nightmares, but from the absence of them. Like something was missing. Something that had fed off my sorrow for so long it couldn’t stand my happiness…

And like this, another decade passed in bliss. I was now the father of a three-year-old daughter, Emma, and I finally understood what my late mum must have felt when she locked me in the attic and faced her demise. I felt the same way. I would do anything to keep my baby girl safe.

I had no father of my own but I tried my best to be a good dad for my daughter and the best husband for Gin who made dreams come true. It was a miraculous feat, and I was fearing its collapse.

The past no longer haunted me, I swear it did not, but sometimes I found myself looking across the street and shuddering. The paranoia eating my heart out hadn’t consumed me yet. But both Gin and I sensed it – growing deeper, bolder, with every passing year.

She suggested we consult a psychologist – a former friend of hers from university. We arranged a session just two weeks later. I never went to that consultation. I never had the chance to.

It was the dead of night. Gin slept with our daughter in the next room in the hallway while I was still wide awake. We went to bed early that day since Gin had to go to work at half past six to finish a report. We woke up three hours later to a bone-chilling scream. I was the first to find our daughter hiding under her draped bed.

The window was open, the whistling wind chilling the inside of the room and rocking the window like it was singing a sombre lullaby. We were on the second floor by the way and the window was secured just in case. I still can’t wrap my head around how it became unlocked. It shouldn’t have. Gin slept with our daughter that night and asked me to wake her up at five o’clock.

I lay on the side and hugged the pillow I rested my head on, watching the moaning wind from our bedroom window as it forced the crooked trees to sway in a macabre dance in the middle of the night. I must have dozed off not long after.

I awoke to the alarm I set up and noted that it was still dark outside. After putting on my clothes, I dragged my feet across the hallway and opened the door to our daughter’s bedroom.

I was still groggy, but I knew the gruesome sight before me wasn’t a dream. The wallpaper was shredded, the rug torn down the middle, the closets stood wide and empty, and the lamp was crushed into shards of bloody glass.

I stopped breathing and backed away. There was blood everywhere. I pulled the ripped covers down and frantically tried to find a sign of life. When I didn’t find any, I looked out through the open window and out into the darkness, which was about to turn azure. No one was outside.

A shard of glass cut into my feet as rushed out of the room and downstairs. My eyes grew wide. There, right there, in front of the cracked front door, I saw a grin I knew too well.

I took a step forwards, holding my breath. The shadowy figure carried my little girl. It was as still as the rigid mountains, lifeless and stiff like the undead, just like how I remembered it.

I stepped forwards, my hands reaching out, desperate to stop it. It grinned wider than before. Had I brought it here? No, I stopped being curious about it the day I met Gin. I just wanted to live. I just… How did it find me?

I glanced to the left and noticed a wooden block with a knife on top of the marble counter. It was a gift from Gin so I took care of it like a baby, so that it would never become stale and useless. But it was too far away from where I stood. It would be safer to charge forwards than seize the knife. Still, it was the only thing that made sense at the moment.

I snatched the knife and lunged at it. The figure didn’t budge. I raised the knife and drove it through its hollow chest. Its wolfish grin turned into a horror-stricken expression, and the dark and hollow eyes turned brown.

I pulled the knife out of my wife, who collapsed with our daughter in her arms. It was first then that I noticed the pool of blood beneath my feet and found my little girl stabbed more times than I wanted to count. Her tiny head hung by a thread from her severed neck.

I collapsed beside them.

The bloody knife fell through my trembling fingers and my laboured breath came in short, ragged bursts. As I turned my head and peered out of the open door, I noticed a dark figure amidst the downpour.

I couldn’t discern its face at first, but I knew who it was. It spoke to me. A wretched shriek escaped from my lips as I grabbed the blood-stained knife and tightened my grip around the shaft. Merida. Merida Bell.

Running into the brightening darkness, I stabbed her until she bled to death and the rain washed her away. Only a trail of blood on the pavement remained as evidence of her existence. Every fragment of her presence in my mind evaporated with the prattling torrent.

That was when I knew Merida lied to me. The shadowy figure didn’t feed on my curiosity, it fed on my grief. The happier I became, the more I forgot the past and the hungrier it became. Mrs Bell didn’t invite us in out of rudeness. It all made sense now. She acted the way she did to keep us safe. Because once grief took root, it opened the door. And once it opened, it never shut again. And I had kept it open, all these years, without knowing…

That night, when I went out to explore what was hidden in bushes, Mrs Bell had already been murdered. Now I knew she was also the one who took away my mum. She wanted me to be all alone and hers only – her prey. She fed on me like the parasite she was. In the end, it was my fault – all of this.

I covered my eyes, my hands trembling out of control. I was still holding the bloody knife. But the trail of blood was no longer in the current. I don’t know if it was really her I killed. Maybe she was just another mask it wore. Maybe she never existed at all…

A car door opened behind me. Someone yelled at me to put the knife on the ground and raise my hands. As the police handcuffed me, I looked over my shoulder to bid farewell to my family. Dejected. Without hope. In despair.

I frowned. My heart skipped a beat. The woman on the floor wore Gin’s robe, but it hung differently, shorter than I remembered. Her hair was parted the wrong way, too. The little girl’s socks were green, not pink. Gin would never have let her wear mismatched socks.

That’s when it hit me. These weren’t my family. I had never seen these people before!

I shoved the officer aside and frantically searched the deluge, trying to find a trace of my missing family. The officer shoved me to the ground. I turned my head and looked into his eyes, pleading with him.

“It’s not them! These people, I-I don’t know them!”

He followed my eyes, I think he could see the last bit of good in me, then forced me up and into the police car. Something in his gaze told me he knew I was telling the truth, but he feigned ignorance, or so I thought. I’ll never forget the terror in his eyes as he looked into mine. Never. Like I was some kind of monster…

I wasted away in prison for over a decade. I was placed on death row for the murder of my family. But I didn’t do it. I saw it – clear as day! Those people weren’t my family! I had never seen these people before – not once in my life! The officer knew I was telling the truth – I could see it in his eyes. But no one believed me – no one wanted to believe.

As the injection took hold and darkness crept in, all I could think about was my wife and daughter. Where were they? What happened to them?

Mr Jekeil was there too, watching me, although I couldn’t see him through the glass. He would never forgive me – nor should he. I failed to protect my family. I promised him I would, but I failed.

The last image that burned into my fading mind was her.

Merida. Merida Bell.

Merida and I have been friends for as long as I can remember. From childhood crushes to the heartbreaks of adolescence… we went through it all together.

I wish we didn’t.