The moment Dan slammed the door behind him and locked it, the house felt alien. The familiar creaks of the wooden floors, the distant hum of the refrigerator, and the distant rumble of the storm outside all seemed to grow louder, echoing his heartbeat. But nothing felt as wrong as his mother's behavior.
He collapsed onto the edge of his bed, his hands shaking. His thoughts scrambled, trying to make sense of what he’d just witnessed. His mother, the woman he had known all his life, the kind-hearted, simple housewife who barely knew how to use a microwave, had been sitting in the dark, expertly typing away on a laptop. And her words? Her expression? It was as if she wasn’t the same person at all.
Something’s wrong. Something is horribly wrong.
He couldn’t shake the eerie image of her face—the cold smile, the unnerving calm. And the map. The map of the city… his house marked in red. It wasn’t just a strange coincidence anymore. It was a message. A signal. Something far deeper was happening, and it involved him. He knew it.
The clock on his nightstand ticked away in the silence of the room, but Dan couldn’t focus on it. His mind kept replaying the scene from downstairs. He had to find answers. He had to understand what was happening, or he was going to lose his grip on reality completely.
Dan stood up, his knees weak as he moved to his desk, the dim light from his desk lamp casting long shadows on the walls. He grabbed the notebook—his dream journal—and opened it to the most recent pages, the ones he’d filled in the past few nights. The pages were filled with fragmented notes, sketches, and half-formed thoughts. But this time, his mind raced, putting the pieces together in a way he hadn’t considered before.
He quickly scribbled down the details:
Mother's sudden expertise with technology.
The map on her laptop.
The red markings.
Her detached behavior.
The train yard... his house... missing girls.
His breath caught in his throat as he stared at the words. Everything was connected. The missing girls. The serial killings. The strange dreams that were becoming more vivid each night. And now, his mother.
He needed to investigate further. Something told him the answers weren’t just in his nightmares—they were in his waking life too.
* * *
Dan waited until he couldn’t hear his mother moving downstairs anymore. He waited for the sound of her footsteps to fade into silence, the house sinking into the stillness of the night. He had to act fast.
He knew his mother’s habits. Every night, after dinner, she would retreat to her room to watch television or read her books. She was a creature of habit—or she had been. It had been a few years since his father passed away, and since then, she had rarely gone out of the house. But now? There was something different about her. Something cold.
Dan crept down the hallway, his movements slow and deliberate. He reached the door to his mother’s room and hesitated for a moment, his hand hovering over the doorknob. Was it really his place to do this? Shouldn’t he trust her? But everything about tonight screamed that something was terribly wrong.
With a deep breath, he twisted the knob and slipped inside.
The room was dark, save for the soft glow of the streetlights outside filtering through the blinds. His mother’s bed was undisturbed. She wasn’t there.
His eyes darted around, scanning the room. The usual clutter—books, magazines, a few old family photographs—were scattered across the dresser. Nothing seemed out of place, but something felt off. His eyes narrowed as they landed on her closet. The door was ajar, just slightly.
Dan moved toward it cautiously, his heart racing. He could feel the weight of his breath in his chest, the tension building as he reached for the door. Slowly, he pushed it open.
Inside the closet, hanging against the wall, were clothes he didn’t recognize. They weren’t his mother’s. The fabric was sleek, black, almost like something a professional would wear—something that didn’t belong in his mother’s humble wardrobe. He reached in, fingers trembling, and pulled out a sleek black coat.
It was too modern. Too out of place. And the fabric—there was something strange about it. It wasn’t cotton or wool like his mother’s usual clothes. This was something else—something designed to blend in with the shadows, to conceal.
Suddenly, Dan’s mind flashed back to the serial murders, to the creepy figure in his dreams—the one who stalked him in the train yard, the one with the red eyes. Could it be? Could his mother be involved? But how? Why?
The thought was too horrifying to fully grasp, but it wasn’t just a thought anymore. It was a terrifying possibility.
Dan rushed to the desk where his mother’s laptop had been, but the computer was gone. His blood ran cold. Where was it? Why would his mother take the laptop?
The realization struck him like a blow to the stomach. She was hiding something—something big.
Dan’s next move was simple. He had to find the laptop. If it was truly connected to the map he had seen earlier, it was crucial. He couldn’t afford to waste time.
He quickly checked the living room, under the couch cushions, behind the television, and inside the drawers, but there was no sign of it. It wasn’t in the kitchen, nor was it in the hallway closet. His heart pounded as he moved through the house, his desperation mounting with each passing second.
Then, he froze. His eyes fell on the basement door at the end of the hallway.
The basement. The one place he had never gone alone. The one place his mother had always told him to stay away from. The cold, damp room where his father’s old tools and boxes were stored. He could almost hear his mother’s voice in his head: “You don’t need to go down there, Dan. It’s not safe.”
But tonight, the warning felt hollow. Tonight, Dan knew he had no choice.
With trembling hands, he opened the door to the basement, the air growing colder as he descended the stairs. The smell of mildew and old wood filled his nose as he stepped into the dimly lit space.
And there, in the far corner of the basement, he saw it.
The laptop. Sitting on a wooden table, its screen glowing faintly in the dark. Dan approached it slowly, fear building with each step.
As his fingers hovered over the keyboard, he hesitated. What if he wasn’t ready for the truth? What if opening this laptop meant opening a door that couldn’t be closed?
But the answer was clear. He had to know.
With a deep breath, Dan opened the laptop.
The first thing he saw was the same map—the red markings, the train yard, the missing girls. But now, there was a new addition. A new name marked in red—his own.
Dan felt the air in his lungs freeze. His mind reeled as his fingers moved across the keys, pulling up a file that had been saved on the desktop.
The title of the document made his blood run cold:
Project Pandora.
He opened it.
The words that filled the screen sent a chill straight to his spine. It wasn’t just a map. It was a detailed log—a journal. Of everything. His dreams. His nightmares. The missing girls. The serial murders.
And then, his mother’s name appeared at the bottom of the file.
Subject: Sarah Donovan.
* * *
