Sarah lay still in the hush of her room, clutching the thin sheet as if it could shield her from whatever followed her out of that dream. The moonlight painted wavering shadows across the walls, distorting the framed photos she’d hung with careful hands. Her chest rose and fell, slowly, as she willed her mind to silence. But the echo of that voice lingered, threading through her thoughts with an oily persistence.
She pressed her palm to her forehead, feeling the slick warmth of her skin. Was it just a nightmare? But it never felt like just a nightmare. These nocturnal invasions had become more frequent, each one peeling back layers of some deeper truth she couldn’t reach.
Sarah rolled out of bed, bare feet touching the cool wood floor. Her limbs trembled as she moved toward the window, lifting the blinds to let the moonlight pour in. Outside, the world slept—silent houses, the skeletal trees, the distant hum of a city that never fully rests. She searched for something familiar, something reassuring, but instead her gaze was drawn to the garden below. The earth there looked darker than usual, as if something had disturbed it.
A flicker of movement startled her. She squinted, pressing her forehead to the glass. Nothing. Not a soul. Yet the unease rooted itself deeper, tightening in her belly, whispering the same word again: "Ours."
Her phone buzzed atop her nightstand. A message glowed: "Dina: Are you awake?" The timestamp read 3:22 AM.
Sarah hesitated. Dina knew about the nightmares; she was one of the few who believed the dreams meant more than anxiety or trauma. With trembling fingers, Sarah typed back: "Just woke up. Couldn’t sleep. Did you have it again?"
The reply was swift. "Yes. Worse this time. I swear I heard voices from the garden. I think it’s connected."
Sarah’s mouth went dry. The garden—the same patch of earth beneath her window. Her mind replayed the vortex of mist, the robed figures, their hands reaching.
Another message arrived: "Should we check the garden in the morning? Or now? I’m scared to be alone."
Sarah’s thoughts spun in frantic circles. If there were answers, if something truly lingered beneath the soil, waiting, maybe she was ready to confront it. Or maybe, the terror still clawed at her throat, warning her to stay inside.
A cold breeze slipped through the crack in her window, carrying a scent of wet earth and something sweeter—a fragrance she recognized from her childhood, when her mother used to tend the roses under that same moonlight.
Sarah blinked back tears. Her mother’s voice, faint and distant, seemed to whisper from the shadows: "Don’t go alone."
Just then, a soft knock echoed from the apartment door, startling her. It was too late for visitors. The knock came again—gentler, almost pleading. Her phone buzzed once more.
"I’m downstairs," Dina’s message read. "I couldn’t stay at home. Please open."
Sarah’s heart thudded, the air charged with possibility and fear. She moved toward the door, hand hovering above the handle, the silence hanging thick between every breath.
Behind her, the garden glimmered in the moonlight. Outside, Dina waited, desperate and trembling. Inside, secrets pressed against Sarah’s mind, begging to be uncovered.
She stood at the threshold, poised between the safety of her room and the unknown, every nerve alive as the knock came again—louder, more urgent, promising that whatever was out there, the time for answers had arrived.