Tracie Harp’s Possesion

It was bad enough that her costume hadn’t arrived in time for the Halloween party, and now her little brother was throwing a fit about not being able to tag along.

“Everything isn’t about you, Marquis! Everything is not a freaking family activity! Do something with your own friends!”

“Yeaaa, I could do that,” he smirked, leaning against her doorframe, “but your friends are hot and I wanna make life miserable for you. So, ya know…I’m coming.”

Tracie snatched the door shut with such force it rattled the frame, then face-dived into the big, fluffy black pillow on her bed. Halloween was her favorite holiday—besides her birthday—and this year was unraveling into a disaster. She buried her face, let out a long groan, and flipped onto her back to stare up at the ceiling.

Her thoughts twisted. Should she even go to the party? Was it worth the trouble if nothing about the night went right? A tear pricked the corner of her eye, hot and stubborn, but before it could roll down her cheek her phone buzzed.

Package come? Lori had texted.

Tracie didn’t reply. Her fingers twitched over the screen, but she tossed the phone aside. Instead, she slid off the bed like melted wax, hitting the floor in a puddle of disappointment.

She hated how easily she let things drag her down. She’d wallow, complain, then inevitably get so annoyed with herself that she’d force herself into action. Lori knew that pattern well.

Sighing, Tracie picked up her phone and hit FaceTime.

Her room was nearly dark. Thick blackout curtains smothered the daylight, leaving only a dull orange glow from the Himalayan salt lamp on her desk. Above her bed, a string of dim purple fairy lights sagged in loose loops, casting shadows that seemed to crawl across the walls.

Lori answered mid-drive, her phone angled in her lap. The view was of the car ceiling, with faint glimpses of her chin as she talked.

“Oh God, don’t tell me you’re crying,” Lori teased, her tone playful but edged with annoyance.

“Fuck off. You’d be pissed too if you spent three weeks envisioning yourself as Aaliyah from Queen of the Damned, and then FedEx screws it all up.”

“Ouu, so bitchy. Are you on your period?”

Tracie huffed but let out a reluctant laugh. “Anyway. I’ve gotta find something to wear, or I’m not going.”

“You have plenty of stuff,” Lori said, glancing down as her car idled at a red light. “Creepy black outfits are your whole thing. Tights, boots, whatever. Just throw something together.”

“Well that’s easy for you to say. You actually have your costume.”

“Fine. How about I pick you up, and we’ll throw something together at my place?”

Another heavy sigh from Tracie, but she relented. “Fine. Thirty minutes. I’m showering now.”

⸻

The blast of the car horn came sooner than expected.

Tracie pulled on her jacket and headed downstairs, brushing past her family sitting in the living room. They didn’t look up. Didn’t speak. Didn’t even shift in their seats. For a second, she froze on the bottom step, watching them. The TV flickered across their faces, but their eyes were glassy, fixed straight ahead.

“Whatever,” she muttered, shoving past them.

She opened the front door—and the world had changed.

The late-afternoon sun had been replaced by suffocating darkness. Thick fog clung to the grass, curling around her ankles like smoke. The only light cut through from the dim yellow headlights of Lori’s car idling at the curb.

But something about the car was wrong.

It looked…old. The paint was rusted, the metal corroded like it had been dragged out of a swamp. Water dripped steadily from the sides, pooling beneath it.

“What the fuck?” Tracie whispered.

She took a hesitant step forward, her boots crunching against wet gravel. The air smelled metallic, damp, like earth after heavy rain.

As she reached the passenger window, her breath caught. Inside was nothing but blackness. No glow from the dashboard, no faint reflection. Just shadow. And then—movement. A figure shifted in the seat.

“Lori?” Tracie’s voice wavered. “Lori?”

The figure turned. A voice answered, low and wet.

“Why did you kill me, Tracie?”

Her stomach dropped. She stumbled backward, tripping over her own feet and crashing onto the damp grass.

From the car, Lori emerged—but not as herself.

Her skin was gray, bloated, slick with water. Her hair hung in tangled ropes, clotted with mud and weeds. Dirt filled her mouth, and when she spoke, it spilled across her lips. The left side of her skull was caved in, blood and soil oozing together.

Tracie’s scream ripped the fog apart.

She clawed at the ground, scrambling backward, but Lori’s ruined face loomed closer and closer.

Tracie screamed until her throat burned. She screamed herself awake.

⸻

White.

Blinding, sterile white.

Tracie sat bolt upright, drenched in sweat, her chest heaving. She was in a narrow twin bed, its white sheets twisted around her legs. Her skin prickled with cold. Slowly, she looked down.

A band circled her wrist.

Not a bracelet.

A hospital band.

But she wasn’t in a hospital.

The walls were bare. The air smelled faintly of bleach and something sharper, like disinfectant that never fully faded. The words on the band read: Northern Virginia State Mental Health Institute.

Her breath hitched.

She tore the band closer to her face, reading the line beneath.

Patient admitted: Tracie Harp

Involuntary Admission

Her scream this time didn’t wake her. It echoed, flat and hollow, swallowed by the white walls.