THE MAN WHO WASN’T THERE
Part 1: The Name That Shouldn't Exist
The morgue felt wrong.
Orion had been working here for years, but tonight, the air was heavier. The shadows stretched too long. The hum of the fluorescent lights had a low, almost imperceptible distortion, as if something unseen was breathing through the walls.
And the worst part?
Every piece of evidence from last night was gone.
No records. No security footage. Not even Halliday remembered being here.
It was as if the entire night had been erased.
Orion clenched his jaw and opened the internal database. If official records were wiped, maybe something old—something buried—still remained.
He typed in a search:
"Unidentified Female - No Records"
The screen flickered. The database hesitated, as if reluctant to respond. Then—
A single file appeared.
CASE #0043 — YEAR: 2004
Orion frowned. That didn't make sense. He had been looking for this week's cases—not one from twenty years ago.
Curious, he clicked it open.
The screen loaded slowly, the progress bar crawling. Then, the report appeared.
His blood ran cold.
At the bottom of the report, beneath the printed text and medical notes—
There was a signature.
His own name.
Orion Blackwood.
Dated twenty years ago.
Part 2: The Man in the Old Report
Orion's breath came slow and shallow as he stared at the screen.
His name.
His signature.
Dated twenty years ago.
That wasn't possible.
Back in 2004, he had been ten years old.
His fingers trembled as he scrolled further down the report.
The case details were vague. Unidentified female. Cause of death: undetermined. But there was something strange—the autopsy was never completed.
The notes abruptly stopped halfway through, as if the person performing the examination had simply… vanished.
Orion's pulse pounded in his ears.
Something about this wasn't right.
He needed to check the physical records. If the digital file still existed, maybe—just maybe—the original autopsy report was still somewhere in the archives.
He grabbed his keycard and turned toward the file storage room.
As he stepped into the dimly lit hallway, the lights flickered.
And from the end of the corridor, barely audible over the distant hum of the city—
Someone was whispering his name.
Part 3: The Missing Footage
The archives were cold. Too cold.
Orion shut the door behind him, his breath clouding in the air.
The room was lined with filing cabinets, floor to ceiling. Decades of records, stacked away in numbered folders. He moved to the older section, running his fingers along the metal tabs.
The file should be here.
His eyes scanned the labels, his pulse quickening. Then—
Case #0043.
He pulled it out, fingers tightening around the folder. But before he could open it, something made him stop.
The security monitor in the corner of the room—the live feed.
It was playing the footage from the hallway outside.
Orion frowned, stepping closer.
The screen showed the empty corridor. The locked morgue door.
And then—movement.
A figure entered the frame.
Someone wearing his clothes.
His breath caught in his throat. He watched as the figure walked up to the archive room door—his door.
The Orion on the screen reached for the handle.
Orion turned—
The door behind him was still closed. Locked.
His eyes snapped back to the screen.
The other Orion was gone.
The screen flickered.
Then—the lights went out.
Part 4: The Handprint on the Glass
Orion stood frozen in the dark.
The silence pressed against his ears, thick and suffocating.
Then—a tap.
Soft. Barely there.
Coming from behind him.
Slowly, he turned.
The glass panel on the archive room door was dark, reflecting only faint slivers of emergency light from the hallway. But something was on it.
A handprint.
Not just any handprint.
His own.
But it was on the wrong side of the glass.
His breath shuddered out of him. His own hand twitched at his side, fingers itching to reach out—
Then—the handprint moved.
The fingers curled inward. As if the thing on the other side was mimicking him.
A slow, deliberate tap against the glass.
Then—the whisper came again.
"Don't let him find you."
Orion didn't stay to see what happened next.
He bolted.
Part 5: The Unfinished Report
He didn't stop running until he was back in his office.
Slamming the door shut, he locked it and pressed his back against the cool wood, gasping for breath.
The folder was still clutched in his hands.
He moved to his desk, flipped on the lamp, and tore it open.
The pages inside were yellowed with age, the ink slightly faded. He scanned the contents, his mind racing.
Then—he found it.
The original autopsy notes.
Whoever had written this—whoever had signed his name—had only managed to record one sentence before stopping.
Orion's eyes widened as he read the words, scrawled in shaky handwriting:
"She wasn't dead."
Part 6: The House That Should Be Empty
He needed to get out of here.
The morgue wasn't safe.
He grabbed his coat and headed for his car, his fingers still shaking as he started the engine. The city lights blurred past him as he sped toward his apartment.
When he reached the building, everything was quiet. Too quiet.
He stepped into the hallway. The air felt… wrong.
He pushed open his door.
The apartment was dark. Cold.
And then—he saw them.
Wet footprints.
Leading from the front door to the hallway.
Leading into his bedroom.
Part 7: The Knock at the Door
Orion didn't move.
His body screamed at him to leave, to run, but his feet wouldn't obey.
Then—a knock.
Slow. Deliberate.
Coming from inside the bedroom.
His stomach twisted. His hands clenched into fists.
He took a shaky step forward, his breath unsteady.
Another knock.
This time—from the front door.
His head snapped toward it.
He was standing right next to it.
And yet—he hadn't heard anyone approach.
His heart pounded against his ribs. He reached for the peephole.
He looked through it—
And saw himself staring back.
Part 8: The Man Who Wasn't There
Orion stumbled backward.
The person outside—the other him—didn't move.
He just stood there, staring.
Then, his lips parted.
No sound came through the door, but Orion could still hear it—a whisper, crawling into his skull like insects burrowing into flesh.
"You were never here."
The lights in his apartment flickered.
His phone buzzed.
His hands shook as he pulled it from his pocket.
One new notification.
A missed call.
From his own number.