At first, he thought it was the wind.
Tom sat at the bar, fingers wrapped around a sweating glass of whiskey. The jukebox wheezed out some half-dead blues song, but underneath it—just below the edge of hearing—was something else. A low hum. Like metal scraping metal.
He turned. The old man in the corner met his eyes, shaking his head slowly.
“You hear it too, don’t you?” Tom’s voice came out cracked.
The man’s lips barely moved. “Ain’t the wind.”
Tom swallowed hard. It was stupid. Just nerves, right? Long week. Too much booze. And yet—he knew. That sound had followed him.
Ever since her.
He tried to drown it out. More whiskey. More noise. But the hum grew sharper, slicing through the air, through his skull.
Then—the jukebox cut out.
Silence.
Then, a whisper.
Tom.
His breath hitched.
A shadow pooled under the barstool beside him, dark as spilled ink, shifting, stretching.
The old man was already on his feet, backing away. “You shouldn’t have ignored the signs.”
Tom turned, slow as rust.
And saw her.
Empty sockets where eyes should be. A mouth too wide, grinning, whispering.
The hum became a scream.
Then, nothing.
Just the wind.
