Bad Dreams

Pete was your average Joe, if you will. There was absolutely nothing exciting about him at all. He worked a 9-to-5 as a paralegal at the local law firm in Franklin, Illinois. Pete was 5'9 and 215 lbs, with clean, slick-backed brown hair. Most days, you would find him wearing a black suit, a blue button-up, and a black tie. He lived in a single-family home at the end of the cul-de-sac. Even though he lived in a family home, Pete did not have a family to fill that house. He could never keep a girlfriend or a boyfriend; he was awkward, and whenever things started to get serious, he would get scared and break things off.

On Tuesday, August 1st, 2051, at 8:15 p.m., Pete's phone's home screen shone brightly in his dimly lit kitchen. The low hum of the microwave and the smell of instant ramen filled the air. It was a pathetic sight. His pants hung low around his hips, his belt was thrown across the floor, and his shirt was wrinkled from a long day at his desk.

As he reached for his phone, his hand hesitated midair. Sitting next to it was a plain white envelope, slightly creased, with his name scrawled in messy, unfamiliar handwriting. He frowned. The mail had come earlier, and he hadn't noticed this among the usual bills and legal briefs. His stomach twisted with an odd unease.

Slowly, he picked it up and flipped it over. Unfortunately, there is no return address. The paper felt thin and cheap between his fingers. He swallowed and slid a finger under the flap, tearing it open with an audible rip. A single slip of paper fluttered onto the counter. He turned it over and read the words printed in stark black ink:

"You forgot what you did, but I never will"

Pete blinked. His lips parted slightly, but no sound came out. A cold sweat prickled at the back of his neck. He reread the message. Then a third time.

His first instinct was to laugh it off. Some prank, right? But the uneasy feeling in his gut told him otherwise. He tried to think and recall anything that might warrant a message like this. But his mind came up blank.

His pulse quickened. He reached for his phone and unlocked it, ready to call someone, but hesitated. Who would he even call? The police? What would he say? That someone left him an anonymous note with no real threat? He could already picture the eye rolls.

A sudden beep from the microwave made him jump. His heart pounded against his ribs as he exhaled a shaky breath. He shook his head and grabbed the paper again, gripping it tighter, as if squeezing it hard enough might force an answer to come to him.

Then, like a static shock to his brain, something flickered—just for a second—a vague, blurry image, gone before he could make sense of it. A streetlamp flickered. The scent of rain. A muffled voice—his own? Arguing? Shouting?

He squeezed his eyes shut, but the memory vanished, slipping through his grasp like smoke.

The paper trembled in his hands.

Somewhere outside, the wind howled through the empty streets. And Pete couldn't shake the feeling that someone was watching him.

After dinner and a hot shower, Pete stared at the white popcorn ceiling above his bed. The hum of the ceiling fan buzzed in his ears like a gnat that wouldn't go away. It was late, and he had work the next day, but the letter clung to his mind like static. The words repeated in a loop:

You forgot what you did, but I never will—over and over, like a curse, like a promise.

He turned to his side. Then to his back. Then to his other side. The sheets twisted around his legs, and sweat pooled under his arms. He reached for his phone—2:12 a.m.

Finally, in frustration, he threw the blanket off and trudged into the bathroom. He fumbled through the medicine cabinet and grabbed the bottle of Benadryl. He popped two into his mouth. Then hesitated. Popped two more.

He washed them down with a handful of tap water, wiped his mouth, and stared at his reflection in the mirror. The man looking back at him seemed... off. His eyes were a little too wide, and his jaw was a little too tight.

"Get it together," he whispered.

Back in bed, the meds kicked in fast, a warm fog crawling into his brain. As his limbs went heavy, his mind slipped beneath the surface.

And that's when the dream began.

It wasn't a dream, not really. It felt more like a memory that had been buried so deep it no longer made sense. He was running—barefoot—down an alley slick with rain. His heart pounded in his ears, and something metallic filled his mouth, like blood or fear. He heard someone shouting behind him, a voice filled with anger and fear.

Then a flash. A scream. A figure crumpling in the dark. Pete stops running.

He turned.

And woke up—gasping, drenched in sweat, clawing at the sheets like he was still in the dream. His alarm read 4:47 a.m.

He didn't remember falling asleep. But he'd never forget that scream.

Pete sat up, breathing hard, his T-shirt clinging to him like a second skin. The taste of metal still lingered on his tongue. He ran a hand through his damp hair and glanced around the dark room. It felt too quiet—like the house itself was holding its breath.

Dragging himself out of bed, he shuffled to the kitchen and flicked on the light. It buzzed faintly, casting long, sterile shadows across the tile floor. He poured himself a glass of water, his hand trembling enough to spill some over the rim.

He tried to shake the dream—no, the memory—from his head. But it clung to him like oil. The alley. The scream. The flash of… something. A face? He couldn't quite recall. Just the sense that he'd been running from something terrible—and worse, that it'd caught up with him.

Curiosity—or maybe fear—got the better of him. He padded barefoot to the small home office at the back of the house. The room smelled like paper and dust. He flipped on his desk lamp and pulled open the bottom drawer. Inside, a small, locked box.

He hadn't opened it in years.

The key was taped to the underside of the desk, something he'd done out of paranoia back in law school. He peeled it free with shaking fingers and unlocked the box.

Inside were remnants of a life he had tried to forget: old journal pages, a thumb drive, and photos he had never displayed.

He sifted through them until his fingers landed on something strange.

A second letter.

Just like the one from the previous night—same cheap paper and messy handwriting. Only this one was dated two months ago. And it had somehow ended up in this box, one he hadn't touched in ages.

He unfolded the letter slowly, heart thudding.

"You don't remember her, but she remembers you."

Pete's vision blurred for a moment. His stomach turned. A name fluttered to the edge of his mind—just out of reach.

His phone buzzed.

Unknown number.

No caller ID.

The screen read only one word: NOW.

Pete's breath caught in his throat as he stared at the glowing screen. NOW.

The call ended on its own before he could decide whether to answer. He stood there for a moment, the silence around him somehow louder than before.

Then, almost without thinking, he grabbed his keys.

The streets of Franklin were still and heavy in the early morning hours, streetlights casting orange halos onto the wet pavement. The town was asleep, but Pete's mind was racing.

He didn't know where he was going—he just let his hands guide the wheel. His car turned down side streets he hadn't driven in years, past buildings that had changed names and storefronts a dozen times.

Then it hit him.

The alley.

From the dream.

He wasn't even sure it was real until he saw it: a narrow gap between a boarded-up pawn shop and an abandoned diner with shattered windows. He pulled over and parked, leaving the engine running.

The alley looked precisely as it had in his nightmare—slick, dark, and claustrophobic. As he stepped in, his shoes splashed in shallow puddles, every instinct screaming at him to turn back.

But he kept walking.

Halfway down, he stopped.

There, against the wall, faded but unmistakable, was a dark stain—old, dried, and red.

He stared at it, his pulse pounding in his ears. Another flash hit him—this time stronger.

Rain pouring. His hand shoving someone. A scream, sharp and sudden. Then silence.

Pete staggered back, nearly slipping.

"What the hell did I do?" he whispered.

His phone buzzed again.

A text this time. No number. Just a message.

"Check the drive."

His eyes widened—the thumb drive—from the lockbox.

He ran back to the car and sped home, hands tight on the wheel. The town around him suddenly felt unfamiliar. Wrong.

Back in his office, he plugged the drive into his laptop. The screen flickered, then displayed a single file:

"HER."

He clicked.

A video began to play. Grainy. Night vision. A camera pointed at the alley.

And there he was.

Pete. Arguing with a woman. The recording distorted her voice, but her face was unmistakable.

He didn't know her name—but he knew her.

He watched himself shove her. Hard. She slipped, hit her head on the corner of the dumpster, and went still.

Pete flinched.

On screen, he looked around frantically, then dragged her body out of the frame.

The video ended.

Pete stared at the screen, frozen. His stomach dropped as a new message popped up:

"Now do you remember?"

Pete didn't move. The screen burned into his eyes. The image of himself—how he looked in the video—wasn't the Pete he knew. That Pete was cold. Detached. Like the act of killing her had been… calculated.

But it wasn't possible. Was it?

He slammed the laptop shut, his heart thundering, and backed away as if it might bite him.

He had to see the basement.

It had been years since he'd even thought about The Cork Tree. Mikey's place. The kind of dive bar where time didn't seem to matter, and the drinks were always too strong. Pete used to be a regular—before law school, before the job, before he started pretending he was someone he wasn't.

Back then, the basement was a secret. It was a kind of underground club that Mikey kept for friends, featuring high-stakes poker games, hushed conversations, and favors exchanged. Pete still had the key. He never returned it.

He told himself he would prove the video was fake.

But deep down, a part of him already knew.

The bar was quiet when he pulled up. Closed. The neon sign buzzed faintly in the window. Pete parked in the alley, right by the faded bloodstain. He stared at it for a long time before getting out.

The side door was still there, rusted and stiff on its hinges. He used his old key to get in.

The smell hit him first. It was not strong, but it was wrong—like something rotting beneath layers of dust and wood.

He walked through the dark, past the storage racks, to the metal door that led to the basement.

Another key. His hand trembled as he slid it into the lock and turned the key.

The door creaks open.

Stale air rushed past him. Cold. Heavy.

He flipped the switch. Dim, yellow light buzzed to life overhead, casting long shadows on the concrete floor.

The basement was the same—the card table in the corner. The shelf of liquor Mikey kept for special nights. A couch that had seen better decades.

And, in the far corner—half-covered with a tarp—

A shape.

Pete stepped forward, each footfall echoing louder than it should have.

He reached for the tarp, pulling it back like peeling off a bandage.

There she was.

Or what was left.

Time had not been kind.

But the worst part that made Pete's knees buckle—was that he remembered everything the moment he saw her.

Her name was Allie.

They met two years ago. She was new in town. She had a sweet, loud laugh and loved old music. Mikey had introduced them.

She'd gotten too close.

Started asking questions.

Started seeing him—the real him.

And Pete couldn't let that happen.

So, he didn't.

Pete stumbled back from the body, hand over his mouth, stomach twisting. He couldn't breathe. He couldn't look away. It wasn't just the smell or the rot or the unmistakable fact that he had killed her—

It was that he hadn't remembered doing it until now.

Except… he didn't feel like the one who did it.

A word surfaced in his mind—a name.

Patrick.

It slipped in like a whisper through a crack in the wall. It was soft at first, then louder, and persistent.

You didn't kill her.

I did.

Pete gripped the edge of the shelf, his knuckles bone white. "No. No, no, no," he muttered.

But memories didn't lie. And Patrick was part of him. Buried deep. A darker version. One he'd created to keep the urges away. One he thought was gone.

It turns out that Patrick had just been waiting.

Across town, Detective Emery parked outside a faded antique shop on A Fever You Can't Sweat Out Avenue, just a block past Infinity on High Drive. The call had come from a local bartender who said he hadn't seen Pete in weeks and was starting to worry.

When they arrived, the Cork Tree was dark—the early morning sun barely broke over the rooftops. The alley, still damp from last night's rain, smelled faintly of bleach.

"We got a report of something suspicious in the basement," an officer said, lifting the yellow tape.

Inside, the smell hit them immediately.

It didn't take long to find the tarp.

As the coroner wheeled the stretcher up from below, one of the rookie officers leaned against the door frame and shook his head.

"So, they pulled her out from under the cork tree," he said, half to himself.

Emery didn't smile. "Don't get poetic, kid. We're not done here."

Meanwhile, Pete sat in his car, parked on the side of Pretty Odd Lane, his hands shaking. Patrick was awake now, whispering things again.

Told you she'd ruin everything.

You're not built for this world, Pete.

But I am.

He looked in the rearview mirror—and for a moment, the face staring back wasn't his.

Not exactly.

Two Days Before the Basement Discovery

It started with a letter.

Typed. Unfortunately, there is no return address. Delivered directly to the Franklin PD in a plain manila envelope.

Inside was a single sentence:

You'll find her under the bar on Corktree Lane. Basement. She's been waiting."

No name. No fingerprints. But the phrasing was precise. Confident. Almost smug.

Detective Emery had almost tossed it—until curiosity won. They ran the address: The Cork Tree, with basement access only by key.

They questioned Mikey the next day.

The bar owner was visibly shaken, swearing up and down that he had no idea what was in the basement. He said that only one other person had a key besides him.

"Pete?" Emery asked.

Mikey nodded. "Yeah. Pete. "He's harmless, though."

Back in the Present

Pete didn't remember writing anything.

But when he got home after seeing Allie's body, there was a copy of the same typed letter in his mailbox.

Same paper. Same font.

His name was written on the bottom of the pen. Not his handwriting.

Patrick.

That night, Pete had a dream of drowning.

Only, he wasn't the one underwater.

Allie was. And he was holding her down. Smiling.

Thursday, August 3rd. 2:38 a.m.

Pete shot up in bed, sweat-soaked and heart hammering. The dream was gone, but the fear clung to his ribs like smoke.

He rubbed his face, staggered into the bathroom, and flicked on the light.

Then froze.

Even though he hadn't taken a shower, the mirror was fogged up.

And in the center, traced through the mist by a finger:

"Still think you're the good guy?"

Pete backed out of the bathroom, breath caught in his throat.

In the hallway, he noticed something else.

The attic hatch was cracked open.

He didn't remember opening it.

His legs moved before his mind caught up. He pulled the string and climbed the stairs, every step groaning under his weight.

A small shoebox sat in the middle of the floorboards.

Inside: A knife. A burner phone. And a photo.

Pete and Allie. Smiling.

She looked scared.

His arm was around her, but it was too tight. Too forced. His smile was wrong.

At the bottom of the box was a note torn from a yellow legal pad.

"You're welcome." —P

Pete dropped the box and stumbled back, hitting his head on the beam behind him.

He saw stars. For a second, everything went black.

When he came to, the attic was dark again.

And the box was gone.

August 10th, 2051

Franklin Law Offices – 9:12 a.m.

Pete stared blankly at the deposition file in front of him. The words swam. His pen hovered over the paper, unmoving.

He hadn't slept in two days.

Or maybe he had. He didn't know anymore.

He blinked, and suddenly, the office was empty. Afternoon light slashed across the desk. The clock read 4:16 p.m.

He'd lost seven hours.

On his phone were two missed calls from his boss, a voicemail, and a note written in the Notes app:

"Handled it. You're free. No need to thank me. – P"

Pete's stomach churned. He opened the voicemail.

"Pete, this is Walter. You missed the Hartman meeting and didn't submit the brief. Again, this isn't like you. Come see me first thing tomorrow—we need to talk."

He dropped his phone. In the reflection of his screen, for just a split second, he swore he saw someone else's face.

August 11th – HR Office

"Pete, this isn't a punishment," Walter said carefully, fingers laced on the desk. "But something's changed. You're not… present."

"I'm just tired," Pete lied. His hands trembled in his lap. "I'll get back on track."

Walter slid a sheet across the table.

Mandatory Psychological Evaluation.

Therapy required for return to active duty.

"You've got paid time off. Use it. Get some help."

Pete wanted to argue, but part of him was relieved.

The other part—the part that called itself Patrick—was laughing

August 12th – Therapist's Office.

Dr. Halpern was kind. Calm. The room was quiet, safe, unnervingly soft.

"Do you ever feel like you're losing time?" she asked gently.

Pete hesitated. "Yes."

"Do you ever feel… like someone else is making decisions for you?"

His fingers clenched. Sometimes, I wake up and find that things have moved. Notes I didn't write. Photos. Voices. I think—"

He cut himself off. He could feel it. That pressure behind his eyes. Like someone was listening.

Dr. Halpern tilted her head. "You think what, Pete?"

Pete looked up slowly.

His voice came out low. Measured. Wrong.

"He thinks I'm not real."

The doctor froze.

Pete blinked—confused.

"What… what did I just say?"

Her smile was gone.

She clicked her pen. "I think we need to meet more than once a week."

Later That Night

Pete awoke on his kitchen floor.

Blood on the tiles.

Not his.

He followed the trail to the sink. Inside: a pair of scissors. A tooth. And a crumpled receipt from a Too Weird to Live Blvd hardware store.

Written on the back:

"One more won't hurt. –P"

August 19th – Session 4

Dr. Halpern's Office – 6:04 p.m.

Pete sat stiffly on the couch, wringing his hands. His eyes were bloodshot. Sweat dotted his collar. His voice was distant.

"I hear him now. Even when I'm awake."

Dr. Halpern nodded, scribbling in her notes. "What does he say?"

Pete swallowed hard.

"Things I'd never say. About Allie. About you."

He glanced toward the mirror in the corner.

"I think he knows I'm here. I think he hears what we talk about."

Dr. Halpern set her pen down. "Pete… I need to be honest with you."

He flinched.

"I believe Patrick is a dissociated personality. He's more than a voice. He's been making choices. Big ones. Dangerous ones. You may be experiencing a rare case of dissociative identity disorder—brought on by past trauma or sustained repression."

Pete shook his head. "No. No, he's not me. He's someone else doing things I don't even know about."

Dr. Halpern gently pushed a folder toward him.

"I've started writing my conclusion. I will submit it to your employer on Monday. I've recommended you take a leave of absence until you can get help in a controlled setting."

Pete stared at the folder. A chill slid down his spine.

You shouldn't have done that.

The voice was inside him. Deep. Clear.

He looked up—eyes wide.

"Doc," he whispered. "You shouldn't have written that.

August 22nd, 2051 – Submission of the Therapist's Report

Walter's Office – 9:00 a.m.

Walter sat at his desk, the thin pages of Dr. Halpern's diagnosis report in front of him. He had read it over three times already, and the words felt like they were twisting into something darker each time.

Diagnosis: Dissociative Identity Disorder

Pete Henson: Repressed trauma and psychological distress from past events have led to the emergence of a secondary personality: Patrick.

Patrick has been responsible for actions that Pete does not recall and has become a primary driver of Pete's behaviors. The treatment plan recommends immediate inpatient care and ongoing therapy to address the trauma

"I'll do it," Walter muttered, signing the form and preparing to send it off. He knew Pete needed help. This wasn't the same man who had walked into the office months ago.

What Walter didn't know was that sending that report was a mistake—a deadly one.

August 22nd, 2051—Therapy Appointment.

Dr. Halpern's Office – 5:15 p.m.

Pete sat on the leather couch, nervously rubbing his hands together. He hadn't heard from Dr. Halpern in a few days—she was supposed to submit the final diagnosis to Walter, but she hadn't returned his calls. Maybe she was busy. Perhaps the report was taking longer.

But the room felt different today. The air was thick, charged with something Pete couldn't place.

His heart pounded in his chest. The door creaks open.

"Pete, I'm glad you came in. We need to—"

But it wasn't Dr. Halpern's voice that came through the door. It was Patrick's.

"You should've stayed out of it, doc," Patrick's voice echoed, icy and cruel.

Pete's body stiffened. No, no, no. Not now. Not again.

The door slammed shut behind her. Dr. Halpern froze, her eyes wide with disbelief.

"What's going on? Pete—"

But Patrick was already in control, a smirk spreading across Pete's face. He stepped forward, voice dripping with malice.

"You were getting too close. You should've known better."

Dr. Halpern reached for the phone, but it was too late. Patrick was already moving toward her, grabbing the lamp from the desk. In one swift motion, he swung it down.

The room went silent. Pete could feel the thick, suffocating silence as Patrick made the decision.

Patrick stood over the therapist's body, a twisted grin on his face.

"She was going to make me disappear," he whispered, almost to himself. "No one can stop me now."

Pete's voice—his authentic voice—was screaming, but it was trapped inside. Patrick was too powerful now. The walls were closing in.

August 23rd, 2051 – The Discovery

Dr. Halpern's Office – 8:45 a.m.

The receptionist at Dr. Halpern's office arrived to find the door locked. Her key didn't work. She knocked, but no answer.

She checked the window, but the blinds were drawn. Something didn't feel right, so she called security.

Inside, the room was pristine. Too pristine.

Then she saw it—the blood. Dr. Halpern's body was lying crumpled beside her desk, the cold, empty eyes staring up at the ceiling.

And in the corner, a note.

It wasn't written in Dr. Halpern's handwriting.

"I warned you. You were never meant to figure it out. Now, he belongs to me."

August 23rd, 2051 – Pete's Office

Franklin Law Offices – 11:00 a.m.

Walter was sitting at his desk, staring at the screen, waiting for the phone call. He had received a report about Dr. Halpern's disappearance. The receptionist had called the police, but they weren't making any progress.

His phone rang. It was Pete.

"Pete, where have you been? I've been trying to reach you."

Pete's voice on the other end was shaky, almost too calm. "I... I don't know. I didn't mean it. I didn't mean for it to happen."

Walter frowned. "What happened, Pete?"

"She... she was going to ruin everything. She was going to report me. I had to stop her."

The line went dead

August 23rd, 2051 – The Trial Looms

The investigation into Dr. Halpern's disappearance soon led back to Pete. The pieces fit together too well: his diagnosis, the report that had been filed with Walter, and the pattern of behavior that mirrored the therapist's observations.

Pete was arrested.

Pete's Trial – The Courtroom

Franklin, Il March 12th, 2052

The courtroom was quiet, but inside Pete's mind, everything was chaos.

Pete was sitting in the defendant's chair, eyes wide, looking lost. The jury watched him with pity, but Pete wasn't there. Not anymore.

Patrick had taken over, fully.

"The defense rests, your honor," the attorney said softly.

Patrick stood, a cold smile curling his lips.

"I didn't do it. Pete did. But I'm the one you should fear."

The prosecutor's eyes narrowed. "What do you mean, Mr. Henson?"

Patrick tilted his head, voice dripping with something almost affectionate.

"Pete's been hiding. But he's not the one who decided to kill Dr. Halpern. I did."

The courtroom fell into silence.

"I've been the one controlling him. He didn't know it. He thought he could keep me out. He thought he could win. But I'm in charge now."

Pete's voice—quiet, faint—fought to emerge. He whispered through clenched teeth.

"Please... listen..."

But Patrick's voice swallowed him whole.

"It's too late for him now."

Final Twist

March 20th, 2052 – The Trial's End

The trial had dragged on for weeks. The courtroom, once filled with whispers of confusion and dread, now seemed almost hollow. The jurors were restless, unsure of what they were witnessing—whether it was a man losing his mind or a calculated murderer hiding behind a fractured identity.

Pete sat at the defendant's table, silent. Patrick had controlled everything—his movements, his words, his actions. It was the same story every day. Patrick's smirk was permanent, his eyes cold and calculating.

Pete had all but disappeared.

"Ladies and gentlemen of the jury," the prosecutor spoke grimly. "We've heard enough. The facts are clear. Pete Henson is responsible for the deaths of Dr. Halpern and others. But this trial isn't just about his guilt—it's about the terrifying implications of his dual personality and the damage it caused."

The defense had tried to argue that Pete wasn't entirely in control of his actions, that he was simply a victim of a severe mental disorder. But it was no use. Patrick was too convincing. Too real. The courtroom was convinced.

Pete's hands trembled slightly on the table, but Patrick's presence was overwhelming. "This is it, Pete. You lost." Patrick's voice whispered inside Pete's head. "You'll never escape me again."

The Final Day – The Jury's Verdict

Pete's heart raced as the jury filed back into the courtroom to deliver the verdict. Patrick's laughter was growing louder in his mind.

"You can't fight me anymore," Patrick whispered. "They're going to lock you away, and you'll never get out."

The judge called the room to order. The jury foreman stood up, holding the verdict slip. There was a moment of breathless anticipation.

"We, the jury, find the defendant, Pete Henson, guilty of all charges."

The gavel slammed down

The Final Twist

Hours later, Pete sat in his cell, drowning in the aftermath of his trial. Patrick's voice—now constantly in his mind—taunted him with every thought. "It's over, Pete. You've lost. There's nothing left for you."

But Pete couldn't shake the feeling that there was something else, something deeper that had yet to come to light. A hidden piece of his fractured mind that he couldn't understand. And this time, it wasn't Patrick. It wasn't him.

The door to his cell creaks open. The guard, as usual, dropped off an envelope without a word. Pete froze, the weight of the moment crashing down on him. The handwriting on the envelope was unfamiliar—precise, almost mechanical. It was not his, not Patrick's.

He opened it, his heart pounding in his chest, and read the letter aloud to himself:

"You thought you could run from the truth, Pete. You've been running your entire life. But you never saw it, did you? The pieces of you that you've never known. Patrick was just the beginning. And now you'll meet the others. You've never been in control, Pete. Not since the beginning."

The letter was signed:

"Andy."

Pete's hand shook as he dropped the letter to the floor, his mind reeling. Who was Andy? Where had he come from? And more importantly, if Andy had been watching him all along, who else had been hiding inside him?

As Pete tried to process the letter, his eyes caught something else on the page—a faint, almost invisible mark under Andy's signature. It was a name, barely legible:

"Joe."

A cold shiver ran through Pete. Joe? Who the hell was Joe? His pulse quickened as a new wave of dread washed over him.

"Patrick... do you know who Joe is?" Pete whispered to the silence of his cell.

Patrick's voice responded but was different—a subtle crack of uncertainty. "I don't... I don't know, Pete. I didn't leave that message."

Suddenly, Pete wasn't sure if Patrick still had the answers. The letter from Andy had unsettled him, but the mention of Joe... that was something new. Something far more dangerous.

"This isn't over," Patrick muttered. "If Andy's here, then..."

Pete's thoughts blurred. He wanted to scream, to break free from the suffocating weight of it all, but he couldn't. His mind was unraveling at the seams, and he had no idea who or what was controlling the strings.

And then, as if to confirm his worst fears, he heard another voice in his head—a whisper, deep and cold.

"They're all watching, Pete. They always have been. You thought you could escape us? You'll never be free."

This new voice—Joe—was different. Stronger, colder, more menacing than either Patrick or Andy. It was the voice of something final that had always been waiting in the wings.

As the realization hit him, Pete's body tensed. The pieces of his fractured psyche were falling into place, but they were more terrifying than he could ever have imagined. Patrick, Andy, Joe—he didn't even know who he was anymore. Who had he been? Who was in control?