The News Report Described the Crime Scene.

The news anchor spoke in that flat, rehearsed tone — details stripped down to facts, no emotion, no weight.

A break-in.

A struggle.

A body found in the bedroom.

Then they cut to the footage.

The camera panned across a room barely lit by flashing red and blue, the grainy quality doing nothing to hide the mess.

Blood streaked the walls. A shattered lamp lay in the corner. The bed sheets, tangled and dark with something I didn’t want to name.

And behind it all, the wallpaper. A deep green pattern, curling at the edges, just like the one in my old apartment. My stomach dropped… breath hitched in my throat.

It wasn’t possible. That place was gone. Torn down. Demolished years ago. I hadn’t been there in — how long? Months? Years?

I TRIED TO PIECE IT TOGETHER BUT EVERYTHING HIT ME AT ONCE HANDS GRABBING CLAWING NAILS SINKING IN DEEP SOMETHING WARM RUNNING DOWN MY WRISTS SOMEONE CRYING BREATH ALL RAGGED LIKE LIKE THEY’D BEEN SCREAMING FOREVER LIKE THEY WANTED TO STOP BUT I WOULDN’T LET THEM I COULDN’T STOP MY FINGERS BURNED THE SMELL FILLED MY NOSE SWEAT BLOOD BLOOD EVERYWHERE MY KNUCKLES ACHED LIKE I HAD SLAMMED THEM INTO SOMETHING OVER AND OVER LIKE THE BONES HAD STARTED TO BEND BUT I KEPT GOING I HAD TO KEEP GOING

The anchor kept talking, the bunny ears on her head flopping rhythmically.

Police were searching for a suspect.

No forced entry.

[ LEAKED REPORT ]

- extensive bruising over the victim’s body

- deep contusions lining the ribs, wrists, and thighs

- wounds indicative of prolonged restraint

The face was unrecognizable, swollen past the point of easy identification, with fractures suggesting repeated, systematic blows.

There were defensive wounds, but they had faded, suggesting hours between the first strike and the last breath.

I looked down at my hands. My nails were clean, but my fingers trembled and ached. The wallpaper on the screen stayed frozen in place, its familiar pattern burned into my vision.

But then, the screen flickered. Just once. The anchor’s voice, distorted. It stretched in a way that didn’t match the movement of her lips.

I blinked.

The screen was dark. No news. No broadcast. Just my own reflection staring back at me in the black glass.

The whispers started. Soft at first, like static in the walls, curling through the empty spaces of the room.

A familiar voice — mine, but not mine — repeating the same phrase over and over.

“You were there. You know you were.”

I squeezed my eyes shut entirely and clutched my head with my hands.

A drumming hum infiltrated my mind, my vision. It emanated from the air around me. When I opened them again, it stopped. The television, off. The room, silent. No news report. No footage. Nothing.

Blood lingered in the air around me. Sharp and metallic.

Unmistakable.

It was fresh.

It was as if someone had just been standing beside me, watching.

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