I wake up early, every day, to my routine. Coffee brews, and the radio plays softly. The station—96.7 FM—is familiar and predictable. The DJs laugh, and the music flows. But one thing always stands out. Every morning, they pause. Then, they say a name. “David Miles,” they might say. It’s quick, out of place. They don’t explain. Afterward, the show continues, normal as ever. I never thought much about it. Maybe it was a joke or a community announcement. The names meant nothing to me—until this morning. As I poured coffee, I waited. The pause came. Then, I heard it: “Rebecca Gray.” My hand went cold. I managed to catch the cup as it tilted slightly. My entire name echoed around the kitchen. As if the air itself had stopped, the moment dragged on heavily. The station went on. Then came typical, happy weather updates. However, I was unable to let it go. I felt like I was being watched, and my chest clenched. Why my name? Why now? The sensation persisted. My mind was all over the place at w...

I never meant to get a dog. I wasn’t an animal person. My apartment in New Orleans wasn’t a place for a pet. The old building creaked and groaned. The streets were narrow, winding, full of tourists, noise, damp air. But one late afternoon, after a long workday, I came home. There it was, waiting at my doorstep. A scruffy black dog. Thin, dirty, fur matted and wild. Its eyes were wide, dark, unnatural. It didn’t bark. It didn’t whine. It stared. I hesitated. But something—maybe loneliness, maybe curiosity—pulled me forward. I reached out. The dog didn’t flinch. It nuzzled my hand, like it always knew me. I named it Charlie. I told myself I’d care for it until I found its owner. But as days passed, Charlie became part of my life. He followed me everywhere. His presence felt like a weight behind me, constant but never demanding. At first, it seemed harmless. Just a dog. But something was wrong. Charlie didn’t act like other dogs. He never played with toys. He never wagged his tail. I was ...

I moved into the house alone. Not because I wanted to—only because I could afford it. Woods stretched around the property, thick and unbroken. The road, overgrown and narrow, seemed like the forest wanted to take the place back. The landlord rushed to hand me the keys. He called it "perfect for solitude." He didn’t mention tenants before me, the ones who left quickly. Their reasons stayed vague—just shrugs and quiet words. The house had a room. Small, windowless, and stuck at the hallway's end. The wallpaper, faded and floral, peeled at the edges. Roses on it twisted inward, their petals drooping strangely, like they were caught mid-decay. I left the room for storage. It felt too stifling to sit there. The air, dense and heavy, made me uneasy—like breathing deeply might wake something unseen. The isolation felt healing. I came here to write. I wanted to escape the city’s noise. Friends pitied me after my breakdown. Their looks stayed with me. Days passed. Weeks followed. ...