Not Alone

The number was real.

That was the thought that wouldn't leave me. It crawled under my skin, echoed in my ribs, nestled somewhere between my lungs like a parasite humming a lullaby. The number—the one from the dream, the one the old man whispered to me so many times—wasn't just a hallucination after all.

I had dialed it twice now.

Once when Dr. Stefan tried to hurt me.

And the second time… when I asked the nurse if I could call a family member.

Both times, it connected.

Both times, he answered.

The voice on the other end wasn't a product of my psychosis. It was someone real. Someone who knew me. Someone who felt terrifyingly close. Like he could peel me open with a single breath.

I sat on the edge of my cot, fingernails digging crescent moons into the thin, scratchy blanket. My brain throbbed with the pressure of all the thoughts I wasn't allowed to have. Jasmine hadn't spoken all day. When I checked her room earlier, she looked dead—skin clammy, breathing shallow, mouth moving in fractured mutters.

"He's here…"

That's all she said before going still again.

Her voice was sharp as a shard of mirror. I wanted to ignore it. I wanted to laugh it off. I couldn't.

Something had shifted in Vesper Hollow. The hallways were quieter than usual. No keys jingling. No Nurse "Itchhead" with her violent perfume and tighter-than-skin scrubs. The mean nurse had vanished, and no one even seemed to notice. Or maybe they were pretending not to.

Whispers traveled through the air like fungus spores.

"Did you hear…?"

"They finally got her to…"

"…not supposed to remember…"

I wasn't sure if they were talking about me, or Jasmine, or someone else entirely. But the walls were suddenly listening, and the silence had teeth.

I sat back down in my room, heart doing that tight, rabbit-paced thumping. I closed my eyes, trying to find stillness, but it was impossible. Every time I blinked, memories I wasn't supposed to have flickered behind my lids.

Who gave me that number?

Why do I remember an old man's voice?

Why do I feel like I've been watched for longer than I've been alive?

I must've fallen asleep.

I don't remember when or how—it felt like one of those naps where you forget your own name when you wake. But something roused me. Something… wrong.

The room wasn't empty.

I could feel him. Not see—feel. The air was heavier, thicker, suffocating. The taste of smoke filled my throat.

Cigar smoke.

My eyes flew open. I sat up so fast my back cracked. The room was dark except for the yellow wash of hallway light bleeding in under the door. My chest seized. I couldn't move for a second.

No one was there.

But someone was there.

My pulse screamed in my ears. I told myself it was a dream. It had to be.

It wasn't.

"You're not real," I whispered, barely able to breathe. "You're not real. You're not real. You're not—"

"But I am."

The voice carved through the silence like a knife through silk.

Low. Male. Familiar.

My stomach dropped. I knew that voice.

The phone.

From the phone call.

My eyes darted toward the corner of the room, where the shadows stretched long and deep. A shape moved there—slow, deliberate. I couldn't see a face. Just the suggestion of someone tall. Still. Watching.

"You…" I choked, throat dry and burning. "It's you."

"You asked me to find you," he said, voice honeyed with something ancient. "And I did."

The smoke curled around my knees, invisible but undeniable. I wanted to scream. I wanted to curl into myself and vanish. But I couldn't. He didn't feel like a stranger. He felt like… home and hell braided together.

"I—who are you?" I stammered.

A long pause.

Then, slowly, carefully:

"Doctors heal. I correct the word."

I blinked. "What?"

"You think you're sick," he said. "But you were never sick. Just rewritten."

His voice was velvet and violence all at once. He stepped closer, and though I still couldn't see his face, I felt it—he was smiling.

"You've been kept in a cage of white coats and clipped tongues," he said. "They told you your memories were delusions. That your name wasn't yours. That the shadows were just side effects."

"What are you talking about?" My voice cracked. "What is this?"

He moved again, a whisper against the corner of my mind. I could feel him dragging a finger along the inside of my skull.

"You remember the number. That means he's still with you. Buried under the fog. Hidden beneath the name they gave you."

My mouth opened, but no sound came out.

"Who is Ezekiel?" he asked suddenly.

I flinched. "W-what?"

"Depends," he said, "Are you ready to know what kind of man calls himself 'father' while sharpening the knives?"

I backed up until my spine hit the wall. "I don't understand…"

"You will."

His words slithered across the floor like liquid shadow.

"Wait—wait!" I called, voice breaking as I lunged forward. "Are you going to hurt me?"

A pause.

"No," he said. "They already did."

And just like that, he was gone.

No sound. No movement. No door creaking open.

Just smoke.

I gasped, body collapsing against the cold wall, fingers trembling uncontrollably. My heart was in my throat, beating like it was trying to escape. I scanned the room again. Nothing. No footprints. No ashes. No proof.

But I knew.

He had been there.

And he was the same voice who picked up the phone.

That number wasn't a hallucination. That man wasn't either. And I wasn't as crazy as they said I was.

A terrifying thought bloomed in my chest like a black rose:

Someone was protecting me.

Someone who knew me.

Someone who had killed for me.

Dr. Stefan was dead.

So were the other four men who tried to hurt me.

This wasn't coincidence.

It was design.

And now I wasn't sure what scared me more—being alone in this place…

…or knowing that I wasn't.