Chapter 302

The boy, Thomas, had always talked to the fish. His mother thought it was cute at first. His father, though, never cared for it. He'd often tell Thomas, "They don't talk back, kid. They're fish. Don't waste your time."

But Thomas didn't listen. He'd sit by the tank for hours, his face pressed against the cool glass, talking to them. The goldfish. The tetras. The two cichlids. He said they understood him, that they heard him. His mom would smile when she saw it, even if it was a bit strange. Sometimes she'd walk into the living room and hear him talking softly, his voice filled with an emotion she couldn't name, his fingers trailing along the surface of the water.

"Don't forget to feed them, okay?" she would call, and Thomas would nod absentmindedly, his gaze never straying from the tank.

The tank was old, a bit cloudy, but it had always been there. It was a fixture in the room. The glass, though smudged with fingerprints, seemed to magnify the colors of the fish inside. A soft glow of yellow and orange, shifting around in perfect circles, and Thomas always watching. His parents thought it was a phase. They didn't take it seriously.

But after a while, Thomas stopped going to school. He stopped playing outside. His eyes became heavy. The only time he smiled was when he was sitting next to the tank, his face pressed against the glass. And it got worse. Much worse.

One evening, after dinner, Thomas didn't show up to the table. His mother went to his room, found it empty, then rushed to the living room. She stopped short in the doorway, eyes widening. Thomas wasn't sitting at his usual spot. His parents searched the house, calling his name, opening closets, under beds, until the house was full of their frantic voices.

He was gone.

They checked the yard. The streets. The neighbors. Nothing. Just the empty, cold house. His room felt different. Quiet. So very quiet.

That night, the house was filled with a stillness, a silence that had nothing to do with calm. It was unnatural, oppressive, as if the world itself had stopped turning. His mother sat in the living room, holding her hands tightly in her lap. The fish tank stood in the corner, its water rippling gently. It seemed... off. Something was wrong, but she couldn't put her finger on it. The glow in the tank was duller now, the fish slower than usual. They just swam in circles, back and forth. She thought she saw something—just a shadow, maybe—moving beneath the surface.

Her husband, sitting in the kitchen, barely spoke. His jaw clenched tight, and he stared out the window. "He'll come back," he muttered. "He'll come back. He's probably out playing somewhere. You know him."

But her mother's heart had already twisted into something dark. Something didn't add up.

A few days passed. And still, there was no sign of Thomas. The house felt heavier, like something was pressing in on her chest. And then it happened. On the third day, when the sun had barely crept through the drawn curtains, she walked into the living room again. Her eyes fell immediately on the tank. And then on the fish.

There was a new one.

A large, strange fish. Its scales were dark, black like oil, but flecked with red streaks. A long, thin body, sleek and fast. It wasn't one of theirs. They didn't own that kind of fish. It hovered near the bottom of the tank, its dark eyes watching. She could almost feel its gaze, cold and unblinking. She stepped closer, feeling a strange chill creep over her skin.

The new fish didn't move like the others. Its movements were jerky, unnatural. It twitched, then stopped, and stared.

Her fingers trembled as she picked up the feeding jar. She shook the flakes into the water. The fish didn't flinch. Didn't dart for the food like the others. It just stayed there, watching.

She blinked, then turned quickly, almost running to her husband in the kitchen.

"There's something wrong with the tank," she said, her voice tight.

"What do you mean?" He didn't even look up.

"There's a new fish. It—" She stopped, confused. "It doesn't belong. I don't know how it got in there."

Her husband frowned, set down his coffee, and followed her into the living room. His eyes narrowed at the tank. He hadn't said much in the past few days, but now he seemed... different. His jaw tightened. He stepped closer to the glass.

"That's not ours," he muttered.

"I told you," she said, her voice breaking. "How did it get there?"

"It doesn't matter. It's just a fish," he said, brushing past her. "We've had stranger things happen."

But the words didn't settle. His hands gripped the edge of the table, and for a moment, his eyes locked onto the tank. Something shifted in the air. The fish stared at him. It watched him with those cold eyes. And for a long moment, neither of them moved.

"Just get rid of it," she finally said, pulling herself away from the tank.

Her husband's expression darkened. "No."

The air grew heavier again. She could feel something closing in, like the walls of the room were pressing in on them. She felt suffocated, trapped.

That night, her husband was restless, walking the house in his sleep. She sat up late, staring at the tank. The new fish was still there, swimming slowly in circles. It was hard to see its eyes now. The lights had dimmed, and the water was murky, almost like it was... thickening.

She rubbed her eyes, and that's when she saw it. The fish... wasn't alone.

A faint shape swam in the corner. A shadow, maybe. She couldn't quite make it out at first. But the movement. She saw it clearly now.

A shape, larger, darker, moving just out of sight.

She reached for the light, but the switch didn't work. She cursed softly. It didn't matter. The darkness was already thick in the room, like a suffocating fog. She could still see the outline of the fish, the strange one, and the dark shape circling it. She felt it—no, she knew—her son had somehow... become a part of it.

She rushed to the tank. Her breath caught in her throat. There was something... it was a distorted reflection, an image that shouldn't have been there.

Her son's face.

It was pressed against the glass, just like the way he used to sit. His mouth moved as though speaking, but no sound came. His eyes stared at her, unblinking. Then the fish, the black one, flicked its tail, and Thomas's face vanished.

She backed away slowly, unable to tear her gaze away. The water rippled, bubbles rising to the surface. Then it all stopped.

Her heart pounded in her chest, so loud it hurt. She didn't know what was real anymore.

By morning, Thomas was still gone. But the fish remained. The black one. That strange, haunting thing. And something else was wrong. Something else had changed. It was bigger now. A new shape. Something growing in the tank. But it wasn't just the fish. There was something dark moving beneath the water.

And then, the truth sank in.

They'd never found Thomas. He had never come back. But the fish. That new one. It had come from him. It had taken him.

It always would. And that was the worst part.

The new fish would never stop swimming, never stop growing, never stop.