Abigail Carlysle's Blog

Hello, my dearest Sweet Shadows,

As this incredible October comes to a close—a time when the veil between worlds thins for one last night—I want to share a final reflection on this powerful year and a necessary announcement for the coming months.

This month was truly a joy. Thank you for following along as we explored all things chilling and psychological!

My favorite part of this October’s theme was recording those spooky short stories. It was a ton of fun bringing those narratives to life with voice and atmosphere. If you haven’t yet, you can listen (and read) to those short audio horrors on my Buy Me a Coffee page. I only have one left to record, and I promise to get that up there soon!

Looking back at this whole year, it’s been an overwhelming, profound journey. It has felt like a literal descent into the depths of the forest and the creation of stories—like From the Ashes, Midnight Chase, and others—that I’m deeply proud of.

But as any character in a Gothic tale knows, sometimes you have to retreat from the storm to survive it.

To ensure I can bring you the very best, most chilling work possible, I’ve made a vital decision:

Starting November 1st, I will be taking a comprehensive hiatus from posting content here on the blog and across all my social media platforms for the rest of the year.

This break isn’t a vacation from writing; it is an act of self-preservation and focus. It’s a crucial time to recharge, dedicate energy to my well-being, family, and friends, and focus entirely on the massive revisions needed for From the Ashes and the edits for Midnight Chase. I need the quiet, uninterrupted space where new ideas (and new horrors) are truly born.

I’ll miss our shared shadow space immensely, but please know I am simply resting my wings until the next storm passes.

I plan to return, refreshed and ready to share new updates and content, sometime in January 2026!

Thank you all for making this journey so profound. Keep the candles lit, keep reading what chills you, and know that your support means the entire world to me.

Until the New Year,

Stay safe in the shadows

When the pain is too much, when the silence of your own mind feels unbearable, there’s always something calling you toward escape. A glass. A bottle. A pill. A screen. A siren song promising just enough numbness to drift away, to forget for a moment what it means to feel too much.

For my protagonist from Midnight Chase, Daniella Torres, that siren song takes the form of rum. It’s her sanctuary not only during a rough period currently happening in her life, but also at the crumbling Starlight Motel, her temporary haven in a world shattered by loss. The bottle hushes the whispers of self-doubt. It makes the darkness tolerable. But like all false refuges, it asks for more than it gives.

When I wrote Daniella into the neon red haze of the Starlight Motel, I knew she wasn’t there to heal. She was there to disappear. Rum became her companion not because she’s weak, but because she’s human. It gives her “a blessed sleepiness,” a pause in the relentless storm of grief and guilt.

It’s the coping we don’t talk about enough. The kind that doesn’t look heroic, but feels necessary when your heart is bleeding out and you don’t know what else to do. Daniella’s drinking isn’t about indulgence; it’s about survival. And in that way, it’s deeply, painfully relatable.

And then—there’s Ray, a character I never thought I’d give backstory to. A friendly stranger with his own troubles, offering her a drink. It should have been the easy decision: another shot of oblivion, another night drowned in alcohol instead of thought. But in that quiet, pivotal moment, Daniella asks for something different.

Water.

It’s the simplest of choices, something that perhaps someone wouldn’t even give a second thought to. However, it’s monumental. In that single act, she chooses clarity over comfort, presence over escape. She doesn’t know yet how to heal. She doesn’t know if she can. But she knows, in that moment, she won’t let herself disappear. That “no” to rum is the first step toward saying “yes” to herself again.

When I wrote this chapter, I realized the most important word in it wasn’t dripping with horror or despair. It was a soft, stubborn “No.”

As a writer who often pulls from personal shadows, this scene became a mirror. I’ve lived through my own seasons of grief and heartbreak, where the temptation to vanish—into work, into noise, into anything but the ache and discomfort—felt overwhelming. Writing Daniella’s refusal to escape wasn’t only for her; it was for me, too. It was my reminder that even in the smallest choices, we reclaim power.

This is the turning point where Daniella shifts from victim to agent, from running to resisting. And for me, it’s where the heart of the story beats loudest.

The monsters in Midnight Chase aren’t only the ones scratching at motel doors or lurking in the corners where sunlight can’t reach. They’re the voices that whisper we’re not strong enough, the temptations that beg us to disappear. The real victory isn’t slaying the creature. It’s finding the courage to stay, to breathe, to fight for one more day.

Maybe you’ve been there, too. Maybe you’ve stood at your own crossroads, choosing between escape and endurance. If so, please know this: every “no” to disappearing is a “yes” to your own strength.

Daniella’s story is still unfolding, but her quiet rebellion—the choice of water over rum—is one of my favorite moments I’ve ever written. It’s proof that sometimes the smallest decisions carry the greatest weight.

So I’ll leave you with this question:

When faced with your own monsters, big or small, what’s the glass of water you can reach for today?

October feels like a constant state of “in-between.” The veil between seasons is thin, the light is changing, and everything seems to be waiting for what comes next. I’m drawn to stories where this “liminal space” isn’t only a feeling; it’s a character in itself.

Liminal spaces are those transitional places: the old, grand hallways that lead to a hidden room; the foggy road you can’t see the end of (like some of my wee-early mornings are while on my way to work); the moment between waking and a terrifying nightmare. In Gothic horror, they are where the real terror lives, and they’re exactly the kind of atmosphere I find myself exploring more and more, especially in my ongoing novel, From the Ashes.

If you love stories where the setting itself feels like a creepy waiting room, here are a few Gothic recommendations that capture that haunting feeling perfectly.

Guillermo del Toro (one of my favorite filmmakers and authors) is a master of creating worlds that feel both beautiful and broken. Allerdale Hall is the ultimate liminal space: a decaying mansion literally bleeding into the red clay it was built on. It is a house that holds its inhabitants captive, trapping them between the world of the living and the world of the dead. The film isn’t just about a haunting; it’s about the emotional and psychological state of being stuck in an eerily beautiful place with no escape.

Shirley Jackson is the undisputed master of this genre. The Haunting of Hill House is a timeless example of a liminal space. The house is a character itself, and its purpose is to keep its inhabitants cornered and questioning their own sanity. The terror isn’t a ghost; it’s the feeling that the walls are closing in and you’re losing your grip on reality, all while trapped in a place where nothing is certain.

Daphne du Maurier’s Rebecca is the quintessential Gothic novel, and it’s a brilliant study in psychological liminality. The new Mrs. de Winter is in a constant state of “in-between,” trapped in the shadow of the previous wife, Rebecca. The sprawling estate of Manderley feels like a physical manifestation of her own anxiety and the troubling memory of a woman she never even met. It proves that you don’t need an actual ghost for a place to feel haunted.

The true horror of a liminal space is the powerlessness of being trapped, with no way forward and no way back. It’s a feeling we all know, and it’s what makes these stories so deeply horrifying.

What is a book or movie that you feel captures this feeling of being stuck in an eerie “in-between” place?

As I’ve said before, I’ve been a Katie Alender fan ever since I first stumbled into the eerie corridors of Bad Girls Don’t Die. Her books have a way of taking the familiar—teen angst, family shifts, new beginnings—and draping them in shadows until every corner feels suspect, every whisper a warning.

With Famous Last Words, Alender sets her stage in Hollywood, a place already steeped in illusion, and spins a story where every sequence feels deliberately placed, each page plotting its own heartbeat. Willa Cresky, a Connecticut teen still raw with grief, is uprooted to Los Angeles to live with her mother and stepfather, Jonathan, a well-known movie director. But Hollywood’s glamour hides something darker: a serial killer known as the Hollywood Killer, who stages his victims in uncanny reenactments of classic film murder scenes (Fans of The Evil Within 2 may find shades of Stefano Valentini lurking here—I certainly did).

The mansion where Willa now resides becomes a character in its own right. Oddities creep in like cracks in the walls: words scrawled across surfaces with no writer in sight, the drip-drip-drip of water echoing through empty halls, a ghostly sense that something—or someone—is trying to make itself known. It is in this atmosphere of quiet dread that Willa meets Marnie at school and, later, Wyatt, who is obsessed with the Hollywood Killer case. As the puzzle pieces begin to twist into strange shapes, Willa’s life veers from the ordinary to the uncanny.

There’s a particular weekend when Willa is left home alone, and it becomes a turning point: the shadows lengthen, the lines between imagination, haunting, and danger blur, and the sense that the killer may be closer than anyone dares to admit comes crashing in.

Famous Last Words is more than just a teen ghost story or a whodunit—it’s a reminder that things are rarely what they seem. The glamour of Hollywood can conceal rot. A charming smile can mask something sinister. And sometimes the most terrifying hauntings aren’t from the dead but from the living.

I devoured this novel with the same eager dread I reserve for late-night horror marathons. It’s atmospheric, unsettling, and layered with the kind of twists that make you second-guess every character. If you’re looking for a YA thriller that blends the supernatural with a murder mystery wrapped in cinematic sheen, Katie Alender delivers beautifully.

I highly recommend this one—just don’t read it home alone.

My cauldron is brewing, my playlist is eerie, and my stories are restless in their graves. October has officially arrived, and this is our month, Sweet Shadows!

I’m thrilled to finally have a name for our community—one that captures the darkly poetic and mysterious heart of the stories we love. These past several months, I’d been wanting to come up with a name for the people who’ve supported and followed me throughout my journey. I didn’t mind ‘lovelies’ at all, as it does feel authentic, but I wanted something more personal. After receiving some input, ‘Sweet Shadows’ stole the show. So…‘Sweet Shadows,’ it is!

Getting into this month, now, we embrace the strange and dive headfirst into the haunting beauty of the season.

First and foremost, this October will be dedicated to bringing you a new kind of terror.

Every week this month, you can expect a brand-new, original short horror story delivered as a simple, atmospheric voice-over. This will actually be my first try at recording voice-overs, so if any of you get a chance to listen to them, please tell me your thoughts! I’m always looking to see where I can improve. But most of all, I hope you enjoy them.

I’d also thought about adding music and sound, but as an author and a caregiver, I know I need to keep this first audio series manageable. For now, the focus is purely on the clear, expressive narration that brings these tales to life.

And here’s a secret for my Sweet Shadows: each of these four stories started as a tiny piece of flash fiction from a challenge I took part in back in high school (which I’ve mentioned in one of my earlier posts)! I’m excited about two things: the first being finally able to share the long-form versions and give you a peek into how a small, quick idea can grow into a full-fledged haunting. The second, I’m actually proud of the four stories I’d written. Look forward to a brief introduction before each one, detailing how that story came to fruition!

Beyond the weekly terror, I’ll be sharing updates on my current two works-in-progress.

The “Found Secrets” theme for September has wound down, but the process of digging up those secrets is eternal. I’ll also be sharing my journey as I continue to explore the Gothic themes of life, haunting memories, and the relentless search for meaning in my own work.

Finally, a little seasonal mischief is essential. I’m keeping a special Halloween surprise close to my chest, but trust me, it’s going to be a perfect treat for my Sweet Shadows. Keep checking back on my blog and Instagram for the subtle hints I drop throughout the month.

Shadows, secrets, and a little seasonal mischief…it’s time to embrace the strange. I can’t wait to spend this month with you.

Let the haunting begin!

(P.S. If you want to dive deeper into the darkness with me and get early peeks at my writing, check out my Buy Me a Coffee page! This is also where I’ll be uploading my weekly October stories *wink wink*)

September is slipping into memory now, and with it, my month of Found Secrets. When I began this theme, I promised to pull back the curtain on my creative process: to share the muses, the heartbreaks, and the ghostly details that stitched themselves into my stories. Now, as the leaves burn into copper and the air grows sharp, it feels right to gather up what was revealed and offer you one last look before we descend into October’s deeper dark.

This month, I invited you into my vault of hidden things, and together we unearthed:

The Muse Behind the Mask
In my “Meet the Muse” post, I introduced you to one of the figures hiding in the pages of Midnight Chase. Though his name remains a secret (for now), I traced his DNA back to four icons: the lethal precision of John Wick, the philosophical weight of Neo Anderson, and the weary, resolute faces of Alan Wake and Sebastian Castellanos. He’s not the hero—but he is not to be underestimated.

The Chilling Challenge
Chapter 4 of Midnight Chase took me through a storm of personal grief, where the line between memory and fiction blurred. Writing it was both an unraveling and a healing, a reminder that some monsters are born from heartbreak itself.

The Chilling Affirmation
My beta readers gifted me with their feedback on From the Ashes—praise that felt like lantern-light in the fog. They spoke of immersive world-building, characters they rooted for, and dialogue that felt alive. Their words affirmed what I’d hoped: that the story I’ve poured myself into holds power in its shadows.

The Real-Life Secrets
On my Buy Me a Coffee page, I shared something more personal: the long journey of From the Ashes, from its first spark as a haunted doll story to the Gothic tale it has become. I revealed how research, playlists, and personal heartbreak transformed the novel into what it is today (If you missed it, the full post is still there. An invitation to step into Hill Manor before its doors officially open).

If September was a month of secrets found, October is the month when the shadows themselves begin to stir.

This is, after all, horror’s holy season. The time when graveyards seem to lean closer, when fog curls just so around lamplight, when even the air feels aware of you. I have new content brewing—things I can’t quite name yet, because what fun would it be to spoil the haunting? But I will say this: the veil is thinning, and October is when the real scares begin.

Whether it’s more revelations from From the Ashes, unnerving glimpses into Midnight Chase, or something altogether unexpected, I promise the month ahead will hold its share of shivers.

As we step from September’s secrets into October’s shadows, I’d love to know:
Which post from this month lingered with you the most? And what are you most excited (or afraid) to see in October?

Share your thoughts below. I’ll be listening, just like the walls of Hill Manor.

Until then, keep your lanterns close. The dark is only beginning.

There’s a certain vulnerability in pressing “send” and releasing your story into someone else’s hands for the first time. Even if it’s only a handful of trusted readers, it feels like offering a piece of your soul and waiting to see how it’s received. Sharing From the Ashes with my first beta readers was exactly that—both terrifying and exhilarating.

But here’s the secret I’ve found: nothing compares to the moment when their feedback arrives. It’s like standing on the edge of a cliff, heart pounding, and instead of falling—you’re caught. Encouraged. Affirmed. It is one of the most quietly thrilling experiences a writer can have, and it reminded me once again why this craft is equal parts vulnerability and triumph.

When Jennell, Beth, and Brenda shared their thoughts with me, I felt the weight of their words settle in my bones in the best way possible. Let me share a little of what they said—and why it meant so much.

Jennell wrote:
“The hook: There is a fairly good hook as it introduces the main character and the eerie tone of the book. World-Building: The world-building is good. It gives us a good idea of the time frame, the eerie settings, and the Gothic tradition. The supernatural elements were good, as well. Characters: The characters are very compelling, and it was easy to root for Debbie’s success…The secondary characters fit logically into the story and are well-developed. Plot & Pacing: The conflicts are very developed and do a good job of keeping the story interesting and engaging…The story moves along fairly smoothly. There is no rushing towards the end or any lagging in the middle. Dialogue: The dialogue is natural, and it was easy to visualize how each character sounds. Overall thoughts: I really enjoyed reading this story.”

Jennell’s words struck me because they touched on so many elements I painstakingly worked to balance: character, atmosphere, and pacing. To know that the eerie tone—the Gothic skeleton beneath the flesh of the narrative—came through so strongly was its own affirmation. World-building in Gothic horror is its own beast: every flickering candle, every warped shadow, every creak of Hill Manor must carry weight. Hearing that the supernatural elements felt seamless, that the pacing didn’t sag, that Debbie’s struggle mattered—it told me my intentions translated onto the page.

Beth shared:
“Right off the bat, I gotta say that your use of imagery is beautifully precise without being overly wordy. Your talent for ‘showing’ and not ‘telling’ is evident, and proves immersive for the reader; sentence structures flow well.”

This compliment made my writer’s heart positively hum. Gothic horror thrives on imagery. It’s a genre of shadows and whispers, of atmospheric details that both immerse and unsettle. My goal has always been to paint sensory pictures that lure readers into the world without overwhelming them. Beth’s note that the imagery was precise, immersive, and fluid was exactly the confirmation I needed. It meant the atmosphere was doing its work, haunting without suffocating.

Brenda reflected:
“I enjoyed the plotline of From the Ashes and the characters, especially Deborah Hill and her little sister Olivia Hill. You can tell their bond to each other is close. I was confused as to why their aunt was standoffish to them at first, but as I kept reading further, I then understood why. I also liked how Hill Manor wasn’t just a manor house but a character of itself, too. I thought it was neat tying the timelines of the 1600s and 1800s into the story. I had fun reading From the Ashes.”

Her emphasis on character bonds, particularly Deborah and Olivia, warmed me. Relationships, especially sibling ones, are the heartbeats beneath the horror. To know that the bond felt authentic made me feel like I’d honored their story well. I also grinned when she noted Hill Manor itself felt like a character. That was deliberate: every stairwell, draft, and echo was written to pulse with its own secrets. And her appreciation of the layered timelines reminded me that the research and historical weaving had been worth the painstaking care.

The best part of this feedback is how it aligns with my purpose as a horror writer. Horror, for me, is not about jump scares or buckets of blood. It’s about atmosphere, dread, and the slow revelation of truths—emotional, historical, supernatural. When readers tell me they felt immersed in the eerie world I’ve built, when they notice that the manor itself lives and breathes, when they sense the emotional tether between characters—it means I’m accomplishing what I set out to do.

If my readers feel unsettled yet compelled, unnerved but invested, then I know the story has done its work. Every flicker of fear, every shiver of recognition, was placed there with intention.

To Jennell, Beth, and Brenda—a HUGE thank you. Your willingness to step into my unfinished world and share your thoughts is a gift I don’t take lightly. Your insights are not just feedback. They’re affirmations, guiding lights in the fog of creation.

And to anyone reading this: if you’ve ever wanted to peek behind the veil of the creative process, to see a story while it’s still raw and in motion, consider becoming a beta reader! It’s more than just reading—it’s becoming part of the story’s bones, helping shape the haunting that lingers when the final page is turned.

On September 10th, I posted a brief note on Instagram about a difficult scene in Midnight Chase:

“This was a tough one to write. Chapter 4 of Midnight Chase delves into some deeply personal territory, and the unfiltered grief hit a little too close to home. But I truly believe that the most terrifying monsters are born from our most profound heartbreaks. Sometimes, the hardest scenes to write are the ones that burrow deepest into your own heart. It was a journey through shadows and sorrow, but I’m proud of where this story is headed. On to chapter 5.”

That post was only a glimpse. Today, I want to go deeper. I want to talk about what it means when grief—your own grief—slips its hands around your writing desk and forces you to look at it head-on. I’ve always thought of myself as someone who seeks out the things that scare me. But this time, the monster wasn’t in the shadows. It was in my memories.

Chapter 4 revolves around Daniella Torres, my protagonist, losing her loyal dog of ten years to cancer. For her, it’s the moment the world cracks open. For me, it was a mirror.

The inspiration was drawn from my own family’s loss—our first dog, Myla. We’d brought her home when I was just starting middle school and my younger sister was starting elementary. I can still see it: two Boxer puppies left from a Craigslist ad. One mellow, the other a wild fireball chasing shoelaces. We knew instantly the fireball was ours. At first we named her Bella, but later changed it to Myla (Bella stayed as her middle name, naturally).

Myla grew up with us, became our anchor through moves, vacations, heartbreaks, transitions. For twelve years she was family. In 2021, she was diagnosed with cancer. We cared for her through the sickness until, in 2022, she couldn’t move without pain. Letting her go was the most brutal, loving choice we could make.

When I wrote Daniella’s scene at the vet—the unbearable moment of choosing release for her beloved companion—I had to stop multiple times. Sometimes I walked away from my desk. Sometimes I drowned in music until I could breathe again. More than once, I cried. My memories of Myla—bright with joy, tinged with sorrow—flooded the page. There was the genuine laughter of her puppy antics, tangled now with the darkness of her absence.

But this wasn’t just memoir, it was horror. The challenge was twisting my grief into Daniella’s story, allowing her pain to take shape as something both personal and monstrous.

In Chapter 4, her loss leaves her raw and vulnerable. It is precisely this fracture that one of the creatures, her monster, exploits. Its accusations echo her guilt: “You let me die.” “You were too busy.” These lines are horror, yes, but they are also the whispers of any grieving heart. The monster is grief itself, sharpened into claws.

It was in this moment that I felt the truth of what I’d written in my post: the most terrifying monsters are born from our most profound heartbreaks.

Writing Chapter 4 was excruciating. But it was also an act of love. For Daniella, it was a final, heartbreaking gesture toward her companion. For me, it was a way of honoring Myla—keeping her memory alive in the fabric of a story where love and horror intertwine.

Even after finishing, the dull ache of loss remains. It always will. But in crafting that scene, I confronted a shadow that had been clinging to my soul since 2022. Writing didn’t erase the grief, but it shaped it, gave it form, and in doing so, gave me a little strength back.

Grief is a ghost we all carry. Sometimes, the only way to face it is to write it into the story, to let the monster speak, and then—to let the words become a light in the dark.

Welcome to September, my fellow wanderers of the dark. The days are slipping shorter, the air carries that first delicious bite of chill, and the trees seem to whisper things they wouldn’t dare say in summer. For me, a writer of shadows and secrets, this is the most wonderful time of the year.

This month, I’m pulling back the curtain on my writing process and inviting you deeper into my world. My theme for September is “Found Secrets”: a celebration of the strange inspirations, hidden characters, and chilling plot twists that surface when I’m lost in the labyrinth of my stories. Both Midnight Chase and From the Ashes have been brimming with whispers lately, and I can’t wait to share the goodies with you.

This September brings a little shift. Normally, I gift you a short story each month, a standalone fragment from the darker corners of my imagination. But this time, my creative energy is wholly tethered to my WIPs.

There won’t be a new short story in September. Instead, I’m pouring my focus into the next big milestones for both Midnight Chase and From the Ashes. These works demand my full attention—they are living, breathing things right now, and they’re hungry for completion.

So what does this theme mean in practice? It means you’ll be seeing me peel back the layers of my creative world across my blog and social media. Here are the kinds of secrets I’ll be sharing:

Some of my most haunting characters began with something fleeting: the curl of a lyric, the flash of an expression, the echo of a stranger’s voice. I’ll be revealing the strange and often surprising muses behind certain characters, the hidden sparks that grew into something much larger on the page.

Writing is never just words on paper. It’s blood, memory, and marrow. Certain chapters have demanded I dig into experiences I’d rather keep buried. I’ll share how I’ve navigated writing emotionally raw scenes, and how personal truths often slip their way into fictional wounds.

Every shadowed street and blood-stained hallway in my stories has its origin. Atmosphere doesn’t come from nowhere. It’s made of sensory details, whispered images, and secret histories. I’ll be unlocking some of those inspirations, sharing the little things that turn a setting into a living, breathing haunt.

These secrets will be scattered across September like breadcrumbs. You’ll find them here on my blog, as well as on Instagram, Medium, and BMC. If you’re curious about what lurks behind the veil, follow along. I promise the revelations will be worth it.

I can’t wait to hear your thoughts as I open the locked doors of my process. After all, secrets only stay powerful until they’re found.

All Mark wanted was to cut through the alleyway—just a quick shortcut, a narrow passage between two decaying buildings that would shave ten minutes off his walk. The night had stretched long and loud, full of laughter that didn’t belong to him, and he craved quiet. Familiar walls. His bed.

But the alley wasn’t quiet.
It was too quiet.

The moment he stepped into its mouth, the air shifted—cooler, stiller, like walking into a room after the last candle had been snuffed out. The hum of distant traffic thinned behind him, replaced by something heavier. The sound of silence… listening back.

He quickened his pace, hands buried in his pockets, trying not to look at the graffiti-smeared walls or the puddles that reflected the streetlights like blind eyes. He just needed to make it through. Just needed to—

Stop.

At the far end of the alley, a silhouette stood motionless. Perfectly centered. Unmoving.

Mark’s steps halted. His breath hitched.
His heart thudded against his ribs like it wanted out.

It was probably just someone waiting for a ride.
Someone checking their phone.
Someone… harmless.

Still, the air thickened around him. It pressed against his skin, sticky and cold, like cobwebs. He tried to will his feet forward, but they didn’t move. The silence between him and the figure stretched, brittle and sharp.

Then, with the slow, deliberate grace of a puppet on a string, the silhouette’s head tilted sideways.
Not curious. Not confused.
Knowing.

There was no sound. No shuffle. Just that one gesture—and it shattered something deep inside him.

A hand rose. Pale. Gloved in white. Two fingers pressed to its temple in a mock salute. A silent, theatrical acknowledgment.

A taunt.

Mark’s throat tightened. His body screamed to run, but the figure took a step first—gliding instead of walking, its feet skimming the ground like it was made of shadow instead of skin. It was closer now. Closer than it should’ve been.

He whipped around. The alley behind him stretched long and empty, a tunnel swallowed in fog. His exit might as well have been a mile away. He turned back, but the figure was still mid-path. It hadn’t moved again.

And yet it felt right there.

The cold truth settled in his bones like a sickness:
He was not going to make it out the way he came in.

The figure raised its hand again, slow as molasses. In it was something small. Something that caught the flicker of a weak streetlamp above.

A key.

Not a weapon. Not a threat. A simple, silver key.

But there was no door. No lock. No explanation.

It held it aloft like an offering.
Or a command.

Mark staggered back, his spine colliding with the damp brick wall. His hands splayed against it, searching for something to hold, some way to ground himself. He was trapped—couldn’t go forward, couldn’t go back.

The figure moved again. A second glide.
Then a third.

Each step erased the space between them.
Each step devoured the sound from the world.

He blinked.
The figure was gone.

No.
Not gone.

It was right in front of him now.

He hadn’t seen it move. Hadn’t heard a thing. But the gloved hand hovered just inches from his chest, the key dangling between pale fingers.

Up close, the figure wasn’t just cloaked in shadow—it was shadow. No face. No eyes. Just a void in the shape of a man, outlined by the streetlamp’s twitching glow.

Mark’s breath caught as the key was pressed into his hand.

He didn’t reach for it. He didn’t want it.
But he held it now. Cold. Real. Heavy with meaning he didn’t understand.

The figure leaned forward, slow and soundless. Mark’s skin crawled, every nerve alight with dread. It didn’t speak. It didn’t have to.

He knew.

This key… it wasn’t for a place.
It was for a choice.
One he didn’t know he’d made.

The next moment shattered like glass.

The alley behind him vanished, swallowed in black. The sky above twisted into smoke. The world folded in on itself—and Mark, clutching the key like a lifeline, fell into the darkness without ever moving his feet.

And the alleyway,
which was supposed to be his shortcut home,
had never existed at all.