Nonsense that will leave you paranoid

Without waiting for a reply from Fred, Tom rushed into the men's room, his breath ragged, sweat dripping down his face as if he had just run a marathon—when in reality, it had only been a short distance from the boardroom.

He shoved the door open, quickly locking it behind him before turning toward the mirror.

He had to flee. Something wasn't right.

Fred's eyes had flickered in the wrong direction—too sharp, too observant. Had he seen what was happening with his shoulder?

It wouldn't be the first time. Other colleagues had asked about the crimson stain, their faces laced with suspicion.

"A wine stain," he had always said, voice clipped and dismissive. A safe bet. A lie easy to believe. They would assume he was a cheating husband, that the stain came from a night of indiscretion. The female colleagues would gossip. The males? They would distance themselves—because associating with someone like him could taint their own reputations.

And that was fine. He had bigger problems.

His reflection was a ghost of the man he used to be. Sunken eyes, dark circles, thinning hair. He had been living in foreign conditions for too long. But today, everything would change. They would return to him—alive. And they could start over, rebuild what had been shattered too soon.

Slowly, he leaned closer to the mirror, hands trembling as he lifted the collar of his pristine white shirt. Crisp. Neatly ironed. A stark contrast to the bloodstains smeared across it.

Beneath those stains lay a wound so deep the bone was visible where flesh and tissue should have been.

He exhaled sharply. "It'll all be worth it in the end."

Wincing, he pressed the wound closed, forcing his body to endure the pain. Then, straightening his tie, he turned and limped out of the bathroom.

---

Less than an hour later, Tom arrived home.

The construction site where he worked wasn't far—just a thirty-minute ride. Stepping out of the Uber, he muttered a quick thanks to the driver before heading down the eerily quiet street.

The town felt abandoned, a shell of what it once was. Stores were dark, their windows hollow and lifeless. The few remaining streetlights flickered weakly, casting hazy reflections against the cracked pavement.

As Tom turned onto his street, an unsettling weight pressed against his chest.

His wound burned beneath his collar, itching in a way that felt almost unnatural. His clothes clung to his skin, suffocating. He loosened his tie, unbuttoning the first button of his shirt.

Then, he heard it.

Rustling. Footsteps.

His heart clenched. He stopped walking, listening intently.

A voice called out in a hurried whisper.

"Nephew Tom!"

Tom's breath hitched. His grip on his bag tightened as he turned toward the fence, where an old man stood shrouded in shadows.

"Mr. Williams?" Tom asked cautiously.

The old man didn't respond immediately, only motioning for him to come closer. A sense of dread settled in Tom's stomach, but he stepped forward anyway.

"What is it?" he asked, voice edged with impatience.

"Well, Tom, nephew, I didn't want to—cough!" The old man broke into a fit of coughing, his frail body shuddering.

Tom glanced at his watch, suppressing his irritation.

Finally, the coughing ceased, and Mr. Williams sighed. "Sorry about that. Just got my new dentures today. Feels like I'm choking on them."

Tom exhaled sharply. "Is that all?"

"No, no." The old man shook his head. "It's your house, Tom. I've been hearing noises. Strange noises."

Tom stiffened. "What kind of noises?"

"I don't know," Mr. Williams admitted. "But they're... unnatural. And considering you've been living alone since your wife passed—"

Tom cleared his throat uncomfortably. "It's probably just rats. Nothing to worry about. But thanks for letting me know."

The old man frowned. "I hope you're right. But still, neighbors should look out for one another."

Tom forced a nod. "Yeah. Good night, Mr. Williams."

He took a few steps before the old man called after him again.

"Tom, nephew…"

Tom turned back, suppressing a sigh. "Yes?"

"The news…" Mr. Williams hesitated. "They spoke of zombies..."

Tom's blood ran cold.

"That's why I thought—your house…" The old man trailed off.

For a moment, silence stretched between them. Then, Tom's lips curled into a chilling smile.

"Don't listen to that nonsense, Grandpa. It'll only make you paranoid." His voice was light, almost amused. "But if you're ever scared, you and Mrs. Williams are always welcome at my place. I'll help."

The old man's tense shoulders relaxed slightly. "You're a good man, Tom. Alright then, I won't keep you. Good night."

As Mr. Williams disappeared into the darkness, Tom stood still, watching.

Only when he was certain the man was gone did he turn toward his porch.

The door creaked as he pushed it open, each sound sinking deeper into his chest.

Then, the stench hit him—thick, suffocating, unmistakable.

Rotting flesh.