I Never Left

By Vidyuth Balaji

Ethan Carter gasped into awareness, his muscles cold and rigid as if he'd emerged from a tomb. He sprang up hastily, drawing shallow gasps of air. The room was sterile, blinding white, and the hum of machines reverberated in his brain. A nurse wheeled into the room, her face expanding in horror.

"You're awake," she whispered.

The last he could recall was a warm family dinner, his wife Sarah laughing, his daughter Emily playing with food. Then nothing.

In an hour, the police were there. They had been waiting. Ten years ago, Ethan and his family were murdered in their home, victims of a spate of killings targeting happy families. He was the first to return. Detective Harold Graves sat opposite Ethan, his deep blue eyes boring into him. "Do you remember anything about the night of your murder?" Ethan shook his head. Harold leaned in. "Try." Ethan tried, but nothing. Just blank.

That night, he slept in his hospital bed, exhausted. His dreams darkened.

A vision: He was standing in his old house. Walls were splattered with blood. His wife's blank eyes stared at him on the floor. A shadow loomed over him. He turned around, but he could not see a face—just a black grin. The shadow panted, "I never left."

Ethan sat up in bed, sweat accumulating at his back. He gasped for air, his heart pounding. His vision had felt too real. Too vivid.

The next day, Harold returned. "Anything turned up?"

Ethan hesitated, then shook his head. He couldn't explain what he saw.

Harold sighed. "We've always suspected the killer had a modus operandi—he murdered only families without any enemies that we knew of. No reason for their murder, they were killed cold-bloodedly. We never caught him."

That night, another vision.

A whisper: "Someone close to you is hiding."

Fleeting glimpses of faces—his best friend Mark, his ex-neighbor Mrs. Fletcher, even his own mother. Then—a syringe. A hand pushing it into his arm.

Ethan woke up screaming.

He started watching everyone. Mark was restless around him. Mrs. Fletcher had this calculating glint in her eye. Even his mother’s concern was staged. One evening, Ethan confronted Mark. "Where were you the night I died?" Mark went white. "I—Ethan, I looked out for your family. I wouldn't—" But Ethan saw something in his friend's eyes. Fear? Guilt?

That night, another vision.

He was tied to a chair. A figure hunched over him, syringe clutched in hand. A voice breathed, "Sleep." Ethan sat up in bed with a start. He felt something was off—his body tingled. His vision became fuzzy. His head swirled round. He dropped back onto the bed, blackness closing over him.

When he woke up, Harold stood over him. "Bad night?" Harold said.

Ethan blinked, his weighty body slumping. "I…I think I'm being drugged." Harold looked shocked. He was aghast. Then—another vision struck, but this time Ethan was conscious.

The room fell dark. The air grew dense.

A memory, an actual one, crashed into him like a wave. His home. That night of the murder. Drunk, leaning. Sarah screaming. Emily crying. Something dark flitting across the house. A voice, a voice that was familiar, whispering, "Shh, it'll all be over soon."

Harold, his eyes alight with something otherworldly, in the shadows of the darkness, his gloved hands closing around a knife. His eyes shining with something not quite human. Pleasure.

Ethan's breath hitched. His body convulsed. "You." Harold's lips curled in a sneer. "What was that?"

"You drugged me," Ethan whispered, his voice rough. Harold lowered himself back into the chair, exhaling slowly. "Took you long enough." Ethan's chest heaved. "Why?"

Harold cackled, the sound cold and hollow. "Happiness is a disease, Ethan. I chose families who had everything—love, laughter, perfect life. It made me sick." Ethan's blood iced. "You weren't meant to wake up," Harold stated, lost in thought. "That was unexpected." Ethan’s fingers curled into fists. “You killed my wife. My daughter.” Harold’s eyes gleamed. “And I’d do it again.”

Rage roared inside Ethan. He tried to lunge, but his limbs refused to move. A burning numbness spread through his veins.

Harold smirked. “It’s already too late.”

Ethan’s breaths came in ragged gasps as his body grew heavy. His heartbeat slowed. His fingers twitched weakly, his strength fading. “No.”

Harold crouched beside him, his voice almost tender. “You should have stayed dead, Ethan. You were a mistake.”

Ethan's eyes went gray, his mind screaming for his wife, for his daughter. He remembered them in his last moment of awareness—Sarah's smile, Emily's laughter. He wished to hold them near. To apologize.

Harold tilted his head, watching as Ethan's chest rose and fell more slowly. "Sweet dreams," he whispered. "Give your family a hello from me.".

One tear trickled down Ethan's cheek as the world went black into endless darkness.

Harold stood up and tightened his tie, walking over Ethan's lifeless body. The door groaned open as the guards walked in.

"Detective?" one of them asked.

Harold sighed, putting on his mask of grief. "He didn't make it. Time of death- 8:47 AM."

The guards nodded somberly, unaware of the monster standing before them.

The following day, the police issued a statement: Ethan Carter's fragile health had deteriorated. His heart failed him in his sleep. A tragedy.

Harold Graves went on to work as a renowned detective.

And somewhere else, another contented family slept peacefully, not knowing that Harold was watching.

Waiting.

Smiling.

“I never left”

By Vidyuth Balaji