Chapter 8: The Missing Name
Cass sat at his desk, fingers hovering over his keyboard, staring at the blank email draft that had been sitting there for the past twenty minutes. The overhead fluorescents cast a pale, sterile glow across the office, making everything feel colder than it should. The quiet hum of computers, the distant ringing of phones, the occasional murmur of conversation—it all formed the usual background noise of a normal workday.
Except nothing felt normal anymore.
His reflection had moved on its own. An entire street had disappeared. Rich had spoken to a man who no longer existed. And now… that name. Caleb.
Cass exhaled sharply, rolling his shoulders, trying to shake the stiffness creeping into his spine. He'd barely slept, and it showed. His reflection in the dark screen of his monitor looked as worn as he felt—deep lines settling beneath his eyes, the dull shade of exhaustion in his usually sharp features. His dark hair, normally neat, was slightly disheveled from the number of times he'd run a hand through it this morning. He needed a shave. The stubble along his jaw was getting too thick.
But that wasn't what was really bothering him.
He flexed his fingers, willing himself to type something, anything, but his thoughts were too tangled. The moment he started typing, he knew he'd start searching instead. He could feel it clawing at him—the need to check.
Maybe he was imagining things. Maybe his mind was just—
No.
He clicked over to the company directory.
It wasn't an impulsive move. Something had been gnawing at him ever since Rich mentioned his uncle. The way people—places—were disappearing. As if they had never existed.
Cass hesitated before typing a name into the search bar.
Oakridge Books.
Enter.
The screen loaded.
No results.
His stomach twisted.
He tried again.
Seventh Street Café.
Nothing.
His jaw clenched.
Maybe businesses closed. Maybe they got demolished, rebranded, bought out. But even then—there should be something. A review. A post. A scrap of evidence that they had once been there.
His mind flitted back to Rich's uncle.
If places could disappear, what about people?
Cass hesitated, then typed the name Jonathan Carlisle.
Rich's uncle.
He pressed enter.
The screen blinked once, then returned nothing.
No social media. No obituaries. No news archives. Nothing.
Like the man had never existed.
Cass sat back in his chair, his pulse a steady, insistent pounding in his ears. His hand tightened into a fist on his desk.
This wasn't possible.
Rich had talked to him. He had memories of that conversation. But the records—the proof—was gone.
His mind screamed for an explanation, but nothing logical came.
He needed more proof.
His fingers moved on their own as he typed another name.
Caleb Voss.
The name from the mirror. The one that had sent a shiver down his spine that morning.
Enter.
The screen glitched.
Cass froze.
For a fraction of a second, the screen stuttered, flickering between blankness and something else—a ghost of a record, a piece of text that hadn't fully erased itself.
He only caught one thing before it vanished.
Date of Birth: 1990
Then the screen cleared.
Cass's breath caught in his throat. He lunged for the mouse, clicking back, refreshing the page.
No results.
His vision blurred for a second, a sharp ringing in his ears.
Date of Birth: 1990.
That couldn't be right.
He was born in 1990.
Cass Voss was the only name he had ever used. The name on his birth certificate, his ID, his work records. But the moment he searched Caleb, something had almost appeared.
Like it had been wiped, but not completely.
A cold sweat crept down his back.
Then—
His phone buzzed.
Cass flinched.
Slowly, he reached for it. The screen glowed with a new text message.
Unknown Number.
STOP SEARCHING.
His mouth went dry.
His eyes flicked back to his monitor, then to the phone again.
The message wasn't a warning.
It was a command.
A presence—an unseen force—pressed against the edges of his reality, watching.
Cass's hand tightened around the phone. He turned, scanning the office. No one was looking at him. Coworkers typed, spoke on phones, walked past his cubicle with paperwork in hand.
But it didn't feel right.
The hum of the overhead lights seemed louder. The space around him felt too still.
His pulse thundered in his ears.
His hand hovered over the reply button. He should ignore it. Delete it. Pretend he never saw it.
Instead, his fingers moved on their own.
Who are you?
The message sent.
The moment it did, the screen glitched—just for a moment.
Then, another text came through.
"You're not supposed to remember."
Cass's breath hitched.
His mind screamed at him to stop—to close the conversation, to walk away—but he couldn't.
His fingers hovered over the keyboard.
But before he could type another message, the sender disconnected.
The chat thread was gone. Erased. Like it had never been there.
Cass sat frozen, his pulse roaring in his ears.
The name in the mirror. The vanishing bookstore. Rich's uncle. The street that no longer existed.
And now this.
Someone knew.
Someone was watching him.
His hand trembled as he placed the phone on the desk.
For the first time since this all started, the fear wasn't just some distant thing lingering at the edges of his mind.
It was real.
And whoever was behind it had tried to erase him too.
End of Chapter 8