Whispers Beyond the Glass

The visitation room was freezing.

It was a plain, empty place where thick glass separated visitors from inmates. If you wanted to talk to someone inside, you had to use an old gray telephone. There was no other way to connect. No hugs, no handshakes. Only cold plastic and glass between you.

I sat on a hard plastic chair, waiting for my son, Adam, to walk in. I wasn’t even sure what I was supposed to feel. Ever since he did what he did two weeks ago, it felt like my life had stopped. My body kept moving, but my mind and heart were frozen. I hadn't seen him face-to-face until today.

Then he came in.

He entered the room with his head down. His prison uniform hung loosely on his skinny frame — he looked like he had lost even more weight. A tall guard followed closely behind him, standing like a statue.

Through the glass, I stared at Adam. He didn’t meet my eyes. He was ashamed. A mother just knows these things.

We both picked up the phones.

“Hi, son,” I said, trying to keep my voice steady. “How are they treating you?”

“It’s okay, Mom,” he answered quietly. “I probably deserve it.”

His words punched a hole right through me. For a moment, neither of us said anything.

“I don’t understand why you did it," I finally said, feeling tears prickling in my eyes. "But I want you to know — I still love you. You’re my son. You’ll always be my son.”

The moment I said that, Adam dropped the phone. He buried his face in his hands and started crying — hard. Just like when he was ten years old and scraped his knee so badly he thought he was dying.

He picked up the phone again, his voice shaky.

“Those kids I killed at school, Mom... they deserved it. They needed to be stopped.”

The guard behind him tensed. I could feel the tension through the glass.

“If they were bullying you, that’s awful,” I said carefully. “But... you didn’t have to—”

“They weren’t bullying me!” he shouted, slamming his hand against the glass. His outburst caught the attention of everyone in the room.

The guard immediately stepped forward, grabbing Adam's shoulder. “That's enough. Time's up.”

Adam clutched the phone tightly for one last second and whispered, “Mom... check the glove compartment.”

And then he was dragged away.

I stumbled out of the prison feeling like I was in a dream.

What did he mean? Was Adam losing his mind? Was he just scared?

I rushed to my car and started driving home, my mind spinning. I didn’t even notice at first — but a black car had been following me ever since I left the prison parking lot.

I made random turns. The black car stayed behind me. I pulled into a grocery store. The black car parked too, a few spots away. Inside, I grabbed random groceries just to stay busy. My heart was pounding.

As I stood in line, someone said my name.

I turned around — and almost wished it had been the man from the black car.

It wasn’t.

It was Jenna, the mother of one of the kids Adam killed. Her face was pale and emotionless.

“Hi, Claire,” she said.

I swallowed hard. “Hi, Jenna. How are you?”

“Not great,” she said simply. No anger. Just sadness. It broke me.

“I’m so sorry,” I started. “For everything my son—”

She reached out and squeezed my hand.

“Claire, it’s not your fault,” she said softly. “We both lost our sons that day.”

And then she hugged me.

It was the first real kindness anyone had shown me in two weeks. I could barely breathe through the tears welling up.

I left the store feeling a little stronger. I checked — the black car was gone. Relief washed over me.

Driving home, I remembered Adam’s words. I opened the glove compartment.

Inside was a small flash drive.

At home, I plugged the drive into my laptop, heart racing.

Folder after folder of photos opened up. They were pictures of the three kids Adam had killed — normal moments at school. Eating lunch. Hanging out at lockers. Studying.

Nothing strange at first.

But then, things got darker.

There were photos of one boy kissing a girl behind the football field. Then pictures of that same girl — dead, torn apart, blood everywhere. And standing over her were the three kids, eyes white like empty lightbulbs, faces completely blank.

I clicked through in horror.

More photos: the kids luring strangers into alleys. Bodies left behind. Blood trails.

The last photos made my stomach twist. They showed the three kids walking through dark streets — with glowing white eyes, blood dripping from their hands.

Adam hadn't been paranoid. He hadn't been lying.

He saw monsters in their real form — monsters pretending to be normal kids.

Suddenly, I heard the front door creak open.

I froze.

I wasn’t expecting anyone.

“Who’s there?” I shouted from the hallway. No answer.

My heart pounding, I tiptoed toward the living room.

Standing by the door was Jenna.

Something was wrong. Her face was completely blank. Her body moved stiffly.

“Jenna?” I whispered.

She stepped closer, her voice flat.

“I know Adam showed you something. I can’t let you leave with it.”

Then — her eyes turned white.

Just like the kids in the photos.

I tried to run — but my body refused. I couldn’t even blink. I was frozen solid.

Jenna walked closer, her fingers morphing into sharp, metallic blades.

“Humans are pathetic," she said, grinning.

I wanted to scream. I wanted to move. But I was trapped in my own body.

Suddenly, gunshots rang out. Jenna jerked backward, riddled with bullets.

The man from the black car appeared behind her, holding a smoking gun.

He fired once more, right into her head.

Jenna collapsed, and finally — my body unlocked. I fell to the floor, gasping, sobbing.

The man knelt beside me.

“Ms. Claire," he said gently, "I know this is overwhelming. But you need to understand — what your son uncovered... wasn’t human.”