Strands of Her by Olivia Salter / Short Fiction / Horror

 

Strands of Her

By Olivia Salter

Word Count: 1,963

Kia never intended to buy anything from the street vendor. She was only killing time between the bus and her night shift at the Waffle House. But the velvet-lined table, draped in a sheer purple cloth and surrounded by mannequin heads with cascading waves, stopped her.

The wigs shimmered unnaturally under the flickering lamplight of the abandoned parking lot. Jet black coils, honeyed ringlets, tight 4C curls, bone-straight silk—each one more beautiful than the last. Real hair. Human hair.

Kia’s own hair had been falling out in clumps since her last relaxer turned wrong. She’d been tying scarves tighter and tighter, avoiding mirrors. The ache of self-consciousness clung to her like a second skin. But these wigs? They were radiant. Regal.

“You got a good eye,” the vendor said.

Kia hadn’t seen her approach. The woman was tiny, wrapped in a fur-trimmed coat, her smile slinking beneath hollow cheekbones. Her voice sounded like a cough halfway through a cigarette.

“They come from all over,” she said, gesturing to the display. “India. Brazil. Nigeria. Even some real local pieces. Pure. Untouched. No heat. No dye. Hair full of memory.”

“Memory?” Kia repeated.

“Everything we are stays in the strand,” the woman said, lifting a long, dark curl between her fingers. “Energy. Story. Soul. We only give what the head no longer needs.”

Kia squinted. “Wait, you mean—these are from dead people?”

The woman smiled wider. “Don’t they always say, beauty is eternal?”

Kia should’ve walked away. She should’ve laughed, called the woman crazy. But her hand moved before her brain. It hovered over a curly bob with a deep side part and a shine like oil on water. It was soft. Too soft.

“How much?” Kia asked.

The woman held up five fingers. “But once it’s yours, it’s yours. Can’t give it back.”

Kia paid. It was all the cash she had left for the week, but she didn’t care. Something about the wig pulled her. A magnetism that felt warm, familiar. She took it home and, under the yellow glow of her bathroom light, she placed it on her head.

The fit was perfect. Uncannily so. The curls framed her face like they belonged there. She turned her head left, then right. Ran her fingers through the strands. It didn’t even feel like a wig. It felt… natural.

She wore it out the next day.

And people stared.

But not in the usual way, not like they were judging her for being tired or Black or poor. They stared like she glowed. Like she’d stepped out of a magazine. At the Waffle House, her manager stammered when he asked her to wait tables instead of working the register. Customers tipped extra. Even James, her regular who never said more than “scattered, smothered, covered,” looked at her like she’d grown wings.

Kia felt beautiful. That night, she ran her fingers through the curls and whispered, “Thank you.”

She swore the wig pulsed. Like it heard her.

Then, deep in the quiet of her apartment, a sound slithered through the air. A whisper. Faint, like breath against her ear.

“You’re welcome.”

Two nights later, she started dreaming.

She was underground. Cold. Dirt in her throat. Someone was screaming, but the sound never left their mouth. Nails scratched the inside of a coffin lid. The air was thick—choking—with decay and... grief.

Kia woke up gagging, clutching her throat as if she could still feel the weight of the soil pressing in. Her sheets were damp with sweat, clinging to her body like a second skin. She sat up, rubbing her arms, shivering despite the heat in her apartment.

Then she saw it.

The wig.

It sat on her nightstand exactly where she had left it. But it wasn’t the same.

It looked longer.

The curls were tighter, richer, like they had been freshly coiled overnight. Darker, too, though she hadn’t washed it, hadn’t even touched it since tossing it aside two days ago.

With slow, reluctant fingers, she picked it up.

It was damp.

Heavy with moisture, as if it had been left out in a storm. Droplets clung to the ends of the strands, slipping down onto her fingers. And when she turned it over, she saw something caught in the netting.

A fingernail.

Lavender polish, chipped and cracked.

Kia gasped and dropped the wig, stumbling back like it had bitten her. Her scalp tingled, burned with phantom fingers, as if the wig had been trying to creep back on while she slept.

No. No. It was a prank. Had to be.

Maybe the vendor used recycled burial hair from morticians or something. Maybe this was what the lady meant by “local.”

Still, she wore it again.

She didn’t want to—but the mirror begged her to.

When it was on, she wasn’t just Kia anymore. She was stunning. Radiant. Magnetic. Even her voice changed—silkier, smoother, a sound that made people lean in closer, listen harder. Men followed her home with wide, wet eyes, tripping over their own feet to be near her. Her ex called after six months of silence, his voice trembling when he said her name.

Like he couldn’t believe he had ever let her go.

But something changed.

The dreams got worse.

The woman from the grave began speaking. Whispering. Pleading.

Find me.
Fix me.
Free me.

Kia’s hands moved in her sleep. She woke up one night digging into her mattress, fingernails split and bloodied, clawing at something that wasn’t there.

She couldn’t eat. Couldn’t rest.

And the wig—it moved.

She saw it crawl once, inching across the floor like it had tiny legs, dragging itself toward her.

That was the final straw.

She grabbed it with shaking hands, stuffed it into a trash bag, and dragged it outside. The dumpster behind her apartment reeked of old food, but she didn’t care. She shoved the bag in, tied it tight, and set it on fire.

The flames devoured the hair, twisting it like burning flesh. The air filled with the stench of rot and something worse—something sweet and spoiled, like decay masked by perfume. Kia covered her mouth, eyes stinging.

It was over.

She slept better that night.

But in the morning, it was back.

Sitting on her dresser.

Damp. Perfect.

And this time, there was dirt under its lace front.

Kia went back to the lot. The vendor was gone.

In her place was a small girl, maybe nine, hair shaved down to the scalp, sitting cross-legged on the same velvet cloth. Her eyes were too old for her body.

“She said you’d be back,” the girl mumbled. “She don’t sell to people twice. You ain’t supposed to wear the hair more than three nights. After that, it gets hungry.”

Kia trembled. “Whose hair was it?”

The girl tilted her head. “Used to be a preacher’s daughter. Died in ’92. Buried with her Bible and her mama’s ring. But they dug her up. She was fresh.”

Kia’s mouth went dry. “What do I do?”

The girl didn’t answer. She just stared. And then, almost too softly to hear, she said, “She wants her face back.”

She tried to swallow, but her throat wouldn’t cooperate. “What do you mean, her face?”

The girl didn’t blink. Her eyes, dark and depthless, stayed locked on Kia’s own, unrelenting. “The preacher’s daughter. She wants back what was hers.”

Kia’s stomach lurched. She had thought the hair was just… hair. An extension, a weave, something exotic but harmless. But when she had pinned it into her braids that first night, she had felt something—an odd tingling along her scalp, like the strands were whispering against her skin.

And the dreams.

A girl standing at the foot of Kia’s bed, face blurred like smeared paint, mouth moving in silent rage. A hand reaching—no, clawing—at Kia’s head, fingers sinking into her skull like roots into soil.

Kia squeezed her eyes shut. “I—I can take it out,” she whispered. “I’ll burn it. I’ll—”

The girl shook her head. “It don’t work like that.”

The wind picked up, rustling the abandoned lot, sending dried leaves skittering across the cracked pavement. Kia shivered. “Then what do I do?”

The girl pushed herself to her feet, slow and deliberate. She was small, but her presence was heavy, as if something larger lurked just beneath her skin.

“You give her back what she lost,” the girl said finally.

Kia’s pulse pounded. “And if I don’t?”

The girl’s lips barely moved, but the words cut through the cooling air like a blade.

“Then she takes it.”

Kia’s breath gasped, and she took a stumbling step backward. The evening air had turned thick, pressing against her skin like damp wool. She hadn’t noticed before, but the lot smelled strange—like turned earth and something sweeter beneath it, something wrong.

That night, Kia locked the wig in the freezer, double-bagged. She told herself it was just paranoia, that the strange whispers she’d heard when she wore it were only in her head. Still, she made sure to push it behind the frozen peas and the half-empty tub of ice cream, as if burying it beneath layers of frost would silence whatever had been murmuring against her scalp.

She wrapped her scarf tightly around her braids and climbed into bed, forcing herself to scroll through her phone, watch a mindless show—anything to keep her thoughts from spiraling.

But at 3:33 a.m., something whispered beneath her floorboards.

“You borrowed my beauty. Now give me your body.”

The voice was soft but insistent, slipping between the cracks of her consciousness like a draft of cold air. Kia’s limbs went stiff. Her breath hitched in her throat. She tried to turn her head, to move even a finger, but her body refused.

The air in her room thickened, heavy with the scent of lavender and something else—something damp, something rotten. Then came the pressure. A slow, deliberate weight against her forehead. Cold. Wet. The touch of lace.

No—

The wig.

It pressed down over her scalp, the icy fibers slithering into place. Curls coiled and twisted around her throat, tightening with a slow, merciless patience.

Kia’s chest seized. Her vision darkened. She could feel the weight of the grave in the air, the pull of something unseen but hungry.

Her last breath bloomed against her lips, tinged with lavender and dirt.

The next morning, Kia stood in the mirror, perfectly still. But her eyes looked wrong. They were too far apart, almost as if her face had been subtly rearranged overnight. Her skin was unnaturally smooth, stretched taut over her bones, reflecting the soft morning light in a way that made her seem more doll than human. And her smile… practiced. Too perfect, too precise, like it had been sculpted rather than formed by emotion.

She reached up, fingers trembling, and brushed the wig gently. The strands were soft, silken, warmer than she remembered them being when she first picked it up. It settled on her scalp like a second skin, whispering secrets she couldn't quite understand. It was hers now. Forever.

Outside, beneath the ancient oak, the girl moved with quiet precision, setting up the deep crimson velvet cloth over the wooden stand. The morning mist curled around her ankles as she placed another mannequin head atop its perch, careful, reverent. A new offering. Another crown.

Her hands hovered over the freshly adorned mannequin, fingers barely grazing the strands of hair before she murmured the familiar words:

“Hair full of memory,” she whispered.

She turned slightly, her gaze lifting to the house, to the window where Kia stood frozen. A knowing smile curled her lips.

“Only give what the head no longer needs.”

Through My Fingers by Olivia Salter / Short Fiction / Anti-Romance

 

Through My Fingers

By Olivia Salter

Word Count: 1,755

The first time Michael saw Naomi, she was slipping between crowds like smoke, her dark curls catching the light of the setting sun. He had been leaving a coffee shop, distracted by a voicemail he didn’t want to hear—his mother’s voice, clipped and urgent, reminding him of a dinner he had no intention of attending—when she passed him. Just a whisper of sandalwood and something sweeter, lingering in the air like the afterthought of a dream.

By the time he turned, she was already across the street, her laughter spilling into the dusk. It wasn’t the loud kind that demanded attention, but something softer, a private amusement shared with the person beside her. Michael couldn’t hear what was said, but the way she tipped her head back slightly, the way the neon signs reflected in her eyes, made him wish he had. The moment stretched—too brief, too fragile—and then she was gone, swallowed by the shifting tide of pedestrians.

For weeks, she existed in glimpses. A silhouette framed against the glow of a bookstore window, fingers drifting over the spines of novels she never bought. Once, he watched her pull a book from the shelf, flipping through the pages with an absentminded curiosity, only to slide it back into place and leave without looking back. Another time, he caught sight of her slipping into a jazz lounge, her figure vanishing behind a closing door just as a slow trumpet began to play. He lingered outside longer than he meant to, listening to the music she was lost in.

She was an echo, a flicker in the corner of his eye, always half a step ahead. A name he almost asked about but never did.

Then, suddenly, she was real.

They met at a party neither of them wanted to be at—he, dragged by a coworker who insisted he “needed to get out more”; she, indulging a cousin who had already abandoned her in favor of someone new. The air inside was thick with bass-heavy music, perfume, and the mingling scents of expensive cologne and spilled cocktails.

Michael had been nursing a drink he didn’t want, scanning the room for an excuse to leave, when he spotted her. Naomi, leaning against the balcony railing, the city stretching behind her in glittering indifference. The amber liquid in her glass caught the glow of a nearby lantern, casting warm reflections against her skin. She didn’t look bored, exactly—more like she existed just outside of everything happening around her, untouched.

For a long moment, he only watched. Not out of hesitation, but because she looked like she belonged there, in that space between presence and absence, as if the world shifted just slightly to accommodate her. And then, without turning, she spoke.

“You’re always looking.”

Her voice was low, threaded with quiet amusement, as if she had been waiting for him to say something first and, when he hadn’t, decided to break the silence herself.

His throat tightened. “At what?”

She tilted her head slightly, finally meeting his gaze, and smirked. “At me.”

A slow heat crept up his neck, but he held her gaze. He wanted to say something clever, something that would make her stay in this moment a little longer, but all he could think about was every time he had seen her before—half-formed memories of a woman who had always been just out of reach.

Michael hadn’t realized he’d been chasing her until he finally caught her.

Naomi was not a woman who could be held.

Some nights, she pressed against him, her body fitting against his as if she had always belonged there. Her fingers traced the curve of his collarbone, delicate and unhurried, like she was memorizing the shape of him. She whispered about constellations, their Greek names rolling off her tongue like poetry, her breath warm against his skin. Orion, cursed by the gods. Cassiopeia, punished for her vanity. She spoke of myths like they were memories, as if she had lived them herself, and Michael listened, entranced, as though holding onto every word might keep her from fading.

Other nights, she disappeared. Days would pass without a word. His messages sat unread, his calls rang unanswered. Then, just as suddenly, she’d return—slipping through his door with the scent of rain in her hair, pressing a fleeting kiss to his cheek as if she had never been gone. If he asked where she had been, she would only smile, shifting the conversation elsewhere. You wouldn’t believe the dream I had last night. Do you ever think about leaving the city? She existed in the spaces between presence and absence, and Michael, despite everything, let her.

He told himself it was enough. That he understood her silences as well as her laughter. That he could accept the way she vanished, the way she never truly belonged to any moment for long.

But understanding something doesn’t mean you can live with it.

One night, she stirred beside him, her breath soft against his shoulder. He had been half-asleep, lulled by the steady rhythm of her breathing, when her voice, quiet but certain, cut through the darkness.

“Michael,” she whispered. “Do you believe in ghosts?”

His eyes opened. He turned his head, but she was already staring at the ceiling, her expression unreadable in the dim light.

“What do you mean?”

She exhaled, the sound barely more than a sigh. “I think some people are ghosts before they die. Drifting, unable to stay anywhere for too long. Always belonging to something else.”

Michael reached for her hand, fingers brushing against hers. She let him, but her grip was loose, barely there, like the ghost she claimed to be.

“Is that what you are?” he asked.

Naomi didn’t answer. But she didn’t have to.

It unraveled slowly, like the fraying edges of a memory he wasn’t ready to let go of.

The first time she left without answering his calls, he told himself she just needed space. He remembered thinking that everyone had their own battles, their own moments of retreat. It wasn’t the first time she had withdrawn, and he could almost convince himself that it was normal. They’d been together long enough for him to know that Naomi had a way of disappearing into herself when the world became too loud. He could give her that, he told himself. Time.

The second time, the silence stretched longer. His messages went unread, his calls unanswered, but he convinced himself it was just a phase. Maybe she had gotten busy, maybe she was dealing with something she didn’t want to burden him with. He tried to fill the empty space with rational thoughts, telling himself it was temporary. But doubt began to gnaw at him, that small flicker of unease that had once been a whisper now turning into a murmur of worry.

By the third time, he stopped calling. The quiet in the apartment where they used to share small moments felt heavier now. Each unanswered call made it harder to convince himself that this was just another bump in the road. He felt like he was losing her in pieces, and the weight of it pressed down on him, settling in his chest like a stone. He let the silence stretch further, hoping she would break it, but she never did. And in the stillness, he realized he had already given up trying to reach her.

One night, standing outside her apartment, he knocked twice. Then a third time. His knuckles rapped against the door, but it was as if he was knocking on the very thing that separated them—time, space, the shifting currents of something he couldn’t grasp. The hallway smelled of rain and dust, the air thick with the hush of something already lost. His breath came in shallow, measured intervals as he waited for the sound of footsteps, the turning of the lock.

But there was nothing.

He knew she was inside. He knew she wouldn’t open the door. He could almost hear her breathing on the other side, could feel the weight of her presence, the distance between them. He waited, hoping for some kind of sign, some gesture that would tell him she hadn’t completely disappeared. But the moments stretched, and still, there was no answer.

Eventually, he turned away, the sound of his own footsteps echoing in the hallway. It was a hollow kind of walk, one that felt as if he had already said goodbye. But he hadn’t—he hadn’t had the chance.

The last time he saw her, it wasn’t a goodbye. It wasn’t anything. Naomi had stood in his doorway, half-turned toward the night, her expression unreadable, a shadow clinging to her face that he couldn’t place. He wanted to ask her where she was going, what had happened, what had changed, but the words caught in his throat. He had never been good at asking the right questions when it mattered most.

She hesitated, her hand on the doorframe, fingers almost gripping it, as if she was weighing something heavier than the night between them. Then, without a word, she left.

Days later, when he finally went looking for her, she was gone. Her number disconnected, her apartment emptied, the space she once filled now vacant and silent. The emptiness gnawed at him, each step he took through the city streets feeling more like a search for a ghost than a person.

The only thing left was a note slipped beneath his door. It was simple, almost too simple for the weight it carried.

"You were the only thing that ever made me want to stay."

Michael read it twice. Then once more. The words blurred together as his eyes stung. There was nothing more to it—no explanation, no apology, no closure.

The ink at the end was smudged, as if she had almost changed her mind, as if, for a fleeting moment, she wanted to be held. She had been right there, just on the edge of turning back, of letting herself be caught. But she never did.

As if, for one brief moment, she remembered what it felt like to be wanted, to be loved. But that wasn’t enough to hold her. Naomi was the wind—felt, but never kept. Her presence was like the air itself—always around him, but impossible to hold, to contain. And love, however deep, however honest, had never been enough to keep her from drifting away.

Chasing Yesterday’s Mistake by Olivia Salter / Short Story / Anti-Romance / Supernatural

 

Chasing Yesterday’s Mistake

By Olivia Salter

Word Count: 3,129

The first time Jasmine saw her, she was walking home from work—past the towering high-rises of Midtown Atlanta, their sleek glass exteriors catching the last light of day. The sky bled into shades of burnt orange and dusky violet, a striking contrast against the neon signs flickering to life. The warm scent of roasted coffee from a nearby cafe mixed with the metallic tang of the city, grounding her in routine.

Then came the scream.

Not the sharp wail of an ambulance or the distant howl of a siren, but something raw, jagged—a sound that clawed up from the belly of fear itself.

Jasmine stopped mid-step, heart slamming against her ribs. Across the street, just beyond the blur of moving headlights, she saw her.

Herself.

The woman was a mirror image, but distorted. Jasmine’s own high cheekbones, honey-brown skin, and precise locs—except this version of her was wild, frantic. Her hair hung in uneven long locs, she looked like she had been running for miles. A torn blouse sagged off one shoulder, her skin glistening with sweat.

She was sprinting straight for her.

Jasmine’s breath hitched as their eyes locked. The woman’s lips moved, desperate, shaping words Jasmine couldn’t hear over the city’s noise. Her arms stretched out, fingers trembling, pleading.

Then—

A car horn blared.

Jasmine stumbled back, her heel catching on the curb. The world jolted into motion again—tires screeched, a cyclist shouted, a couple laughed as they passed by, oblivious. Jasmine whipped her head around.

The woman was gone.

Nothing but the rush of traffic and the distant hum of Atlanta’s nightlife surrounded her.

She swallowed hard, pressing a hand to her chest.

Stress, she told herself. Wedding stress.

But as she turned toward home, the phantom of that scream curled around her like a whisper, refusing to let go.

Jasmine sat curled on the sleek leather couch, her fingers distractedly tracing the seam of a throw pillow as she recounted what she had seen. The city skyline glittered beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows, but she kept glancing at her reflection in the glass, half-expecting to see that woman staring back at her.

Grant barely looked up from his whiskey, swirling the amber liquid in his crystal tumbler before taking a slow sip. “You probably saw a homeless woman,” he said, his voice even, dismissive. “Midtown’s full of them.”

Jasmine’s stomach twisted. “She looked like me.”

Grant exhaled sharply, the sound edged with impatience. He set his glass down with a soft clink, then leaned back, stretching one arm across the back of the couch. “Baby, you’re overworked. Between your job and planning this wedding, your mind’s bound to be frazzled.” He slid closer, the warmth of his body pressing against her side. His fingers skimmed her hip, soothing, comforting. “Besides, aren’t you the one who always says the subconscious plays tricks?”

Jasmine wanted to argue, wanted to insist that what she saw wasn’t just some stress-induced hallucination. But Grant’s certainty—his unwavering, effortless confidence—settled over her like a weighted blanket, muffling her doubts.

She forced a nod, her voice quieter than she intended. “Yeah. Maybe you’re right.”

But later that night, as she drifted into uneasy sleep, the dream came.

The woman was back.

And this time, she was screaming her name.

The next warning came through her email.

Jasmine was buried in work, her fingers flying across the keyboard as she juggled deadlines, emails, and staff messages. Her inbox was a battlefield—branding proposals stacked on top of campaign updates, meeting requests squeezed between last-minute client edits.

Then one subject line stopped her cold.

DON’T DO IT, JASMINE.

Her breath hitched. A slow, creeping dread slithered up her spine.

With a shaky hand, she clicked.

The email body was empty. No sender. No signature. Just a void staring back at her.

Jasmine’s pulse pounded in her ears. The office around her buzzed—phones ringing, heels clicking against polished floors, the hum of the espresso machine in the break room—but she felt distant, confused, as if the world had taken a step back.

She reached for her phone, fingers fumbling to take a screenshot. But the second her fingertips grazed the screen—

The email vanished.

Gone. No trace. No record. She refreshed. Checked her spam folder. Opened and closed her inbox twice.

Nothing.

Jasmine swallowed hard. A glitch, she told herself. Just a system error. But when she reached for her coffee, her hands were trembling too much to lift the cup.

The video call came that night.

Jasmine and Grant had just finished dinner—one of their usual nights in, where he picked the wine, the music, the conversation. He had chosen a bold red from Napa, something expensive but impersonal, and queued up a jazz playlist that hummed low in the background. She had barely touched her glass.

Now, standing at the sink, she rinsed their plates under the warm stream of water, watching the soap swirl down the drain. Her phone, propped against the marble counter, lit up and started ringing.

Unknown Caller.

A cold prickle crawled up Jasmine’s spine. She hesitated, her fingers damp as she swiped to answer.

The screen flickered—static crackling at the edges—then resolved into an image that made her stomach plummet.

Herself.

Not a reflection. Not a mirror.

Her.

But this version of her looked hollowed out, like something had scraped her soul raw. Her skin was pale, her eyes rimmed red, and tear tracks streaked her cheeks. Shadows pooled beneath her collarbones, like she had been drained of light.

The woman on the screen parted her lips, and a hoarse whisper slipped through.

"Please listen to me."

Jasmine’s breath caught in her throat. She took an involuntary step back, her hip bumping the counter. “Who—who are you?”

The woman flinched like the words physically struck her. But her voice, when it came, was steady. "You know who I am. And you know what’s happening. Don’t marry him. Please."

A slow, creeping numbness spread through Jasmine’s limbs. The faucet was still running, the distant murmur of Grant’s voice carried from the living room, but all she could hear was the blood pounding in her ears.

“This is a joke,” she said, though her voice barely rose above a whisper. “Who is this?”

Future-Jasmine leaned forward, the screen distorting slightly as if reality itself struggled to hold her image. Her expression was raw, stripped bare, her pain so tangible Jasmine could feel it like a weight pressing on her chest.

"You think you’ll be okay. That you can fix him." Future-Jasmine’s voice trembled, her breath ragged. "You can’t. He will take everything from you. He will break you down, piece by piece. And when you finally understand, it will be too late."

Jasmine’s throat was so dry it ached. “Why should I believe you?”

A broken laugh escaped the woman on the screen, a sound so brittle it sent a shiver through Jasmine’s bones.

"Because I didn’t believe myself either."

The screen glitched, warped—her own image stretching and twisting as if something was pulling it away—then the call dropped.

Jasmine stood motionless, her pulse hammering. The water still ran, sending steaming swirls of soap down the drain. From the living room, Grant called her name, his voice smooth, expectant. The sound blurred against the rush of blood in her ears.

She should tell him. Should tell someone.

But deep in the pit of her stomach, a sickening certainty settled.

She already knew exactly how that conversation would go.

The next morning, Jasmine tried to convince herself it was stress. She really did.

She blamed the late nights, the wedding planning, the pressure of making everything perfect. She told herself she was overworked, overstimulated—that her brain was just playing tricks on her.

But at 3:00 AM, her phone vibrated on the nightstand.

The sound yanked her out of a restless sleep, her body rigid beneath the silk sheets. Grant stirred beside her but didn’t wake. Heart pounding, Jasmine reached for her phone.

One new voicemail.

A tight knot coiled in her stomach as she hesitated, thumb hovering over the screen. The room was dark except for the faint glow from the city outside, the high-rise windows reflecting back nothing but black.

She pressed play.

At first, nothing. Just breathing. Harsh. Panicked. Uneven, like someone had been running for their life.

Then—her own voice.

Shaking. Desperate.

"You have to listen. You have to leave. You have to leave before—”

Static. A choked sob. Then silence.

Jasmine’s breath strangled in her throat. Her fingers went numb, and the phone slipped from her grasp, landing on the comforter with a muted thud.

She didn’t move. Couldn’t move. The stillness of the room pressed in around her, the silence thick and suffocating.

She wanted to wake Grant, to tell him, to do something—but she already knew what he would say.

It’s stress, baby. You’re overthinking. Go back to sleep.

But her body knew the truth. The tremor in her hands. The cold sweat at the back of her neck.

This wasn’t stress.

It was a warning.

The wedding was in two days.

Jasmine stood in the bedroom, wrapped in a silence so thick it pressed against her ribs. The city outside moved as usual—car horns, distant laughter, the hum of Atlanta just beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows—but in here, time felt frozen.

The wedding dress hung from the closet door, a ghostly silhouette in the dim light. Layers of ivory silk cascaded down like a waterfall, delicate, pristine. It was beautiful. It was suffocating.

Her breath came shallow as she stared at it, fingers curling into her palms.

She hadn’t told Grant about the email. Or the video call. Or the voicemail.

She hadn’t told him because he wouldn’t believe her. Because she barely believed herself.

But as she stood there, the weight of it all pressing down on her, she realized—this wasn’t about the visions anymore.

It was about what she already knew.

The way he dismissed her fears with that easy, condescending smile.
The way his love felt like a performance, something she had to earn rather than something freely given.
The way she had already begun shrinking for him.

This was her last chance to stop it. To stop herself.

Her pulse thundered in her ears.

She had to leave.

She made it halfway to the door before she heard it.

His voice.

“Where are you going?”

The words cut through the air, low and measured, sending a jolt down her spine.

Jasmine spun around.

Grant stood in the doorway, blocking her exit. His arms were crossed, his posture casual—but his eyes weren’t. They were locked onto her, unreadable, calculating.

She swallowed. Her heart thundered against her ribs.

“I—” Her throat felt tight. “I need to think. I need space.”

Grant exhaled slowly, stepping closer. “You’re just nervous,” he murmured, tilting his head slightly. “It’s normal.”

No.

It wasn’t just nerves. It wasn’t cold feet. It wasn’t the wedding.

It was him.

“No,” she whispered. “It’s more than that.”

A flicker of something—something dark—passed behind his eyes. His jaw clenched, so briefly she almost missed it.

“So, that’s it?” His voice was even, controlled, but his fingers twitched at his side. “You’re throwing everything away?”

Jasmine’s pulse pounded in her ears.

“I’m not throwing anything away. I just—”

His hand shot out.

Fingers wrapping around her wrist. Hard.

A sharp breath caught in her throat.

His grip wasn’t tight enough to bruise. Not yet. But it was firm. Unyielding.

A silent warning.

Jasmine’s skin went cold.

Because suddenly, she knew.

This was the beginning.

The moment Future-Jasmine had tried to warn her about.

The moment where it all started—the slow unraveling, the suffocating, the feeling of being trapped in something that wasn’t love but looked too much like it to question.

She should have ripped her arm away.

She should have run.

But just like before, just like always—

She didn’t.

Jasmine stood at the altar, her hands locked in Grant’s grip, her fingers numb, ice-cold.

The church was warm, filled with soft candlelight, the scent of roses thick in the air. A string quartet played something elegant, something meant to sound like forever.

But inside, she was frozen.

Somewhere, in the depths of her mind, she could still hear herself screaming—raw, desperate, clawing at the edges of her consciousness.

But the echoes had faded.

The veil settled over her shoulders. The vows left her lips. The ring slid onto her finger.

And the cycle began again.

Jasmine sat at the long dining table in their sleek Buckhead condo, staring at the untouched filet mignon Grant had ordered. The scent of rosemary and butter filled the air, but she couldn’t bring herself to lift her fork.

The candlelight flickered between them, its glow casting jagged shadows across his chiseled face. The room was quiet, save for the occasional clink of silverware against porcelain.

Grant swirled his wine, watching her over the rim of his glass. “You’ve been quiet all night.” His voice was smooth, measured—too measured. He set the glass down with a deliberate clink, the sound slicing through the silence.

Jasmine forced a smile, her fingers twisting the hem of her dress beneath the table. “Just tired.”

His eyes narrowed. “Again?”

There it was. The shift. Subtle, but unmistakable.

It was always like this now. The wrong answer, the wrong tone, and his patience would thin, unraveling into something sharper. He would remind her, softly at first, how much he had done for her—the apartment, the wedding, the life she was so lucky to have.

And if she didn’t answer right, the warmth in his voice would cool.

She knew where this was going. She had seen it before. Lived it before.

The cycle had started, just as her other self had warned.

This wasn’t love anymore. It was control.

Her stomach twisted, bile rising in her throat.

And yet, she stayed.

Just like before.

The warnings never stopped.

Emails from addresses that didn’t exist. Muffled voicemails of her own voice crying—begging. Messages vanishing the moment she tried to show them to someone.

At first, she deleted them. Ignored them. Convinced herself they were stress-induced hallucinations, figments of an overworked mind. But no matter how many times she tried to erase them, they always came back—like echoes from a future she didn’t want to believe in.

One night, the glow of her phone screen pulled her from sleep.

Another email.

IT NEVER GETS BETTER. LEAVE.

Jasmine’s breath hitched, her fingers tightening around the sheets.

Beside her, Grant lay still, his breath deep and steady. The dim light from her phone screen cast long shadows across his face—the face of the man she had promised forever to.

His arm was draped over her waist, heavy and possessive.

The weight of ownership.

Her pulse thundered in her ears. She closed the email. Turned off her phone.

Rolled back into the cage of his embrace.

And tried to sleep.

The first slap came a year later.

It wasn’t loud. It wasn’t dramatic. No raised voices, no shattered glass—just a swift, casual motion, his palm cutting across her cheek like an afterthought. A flick of the wrist, a correction, as effortless as straightening his tie.

Jasmine barely registered it at first. The sting came second, the shock third. She blinked, frozen in place, fingers drifting to her cheek where the heat of his touch still lingered.

Grant exhaled, already turning away, as if the moment didn’t matter. As if she didn’t matter.

“Don’t overreact,” he muttered, his tone bored.

Jasmine stood there, rooted, the weight of the moment pressing down on her. Something inside her cracked.

In the silence that followed, she could still hear herself screaming in the distance— a voice lost in time, warning, pleading.

She closed her eyes.

And let the silence swallow her whole.

The rain poured in sheets, soaking Jasmine’s nightgown, clinging to her skin like a second layer of cold regret. She didn’t know how long she had been standing there—barefoot in the mud, the city skyline blinking behind her, the storm washing over her like some kind of baptism that refused to take.

She looked down.

Her reflection rippled in the puddle at her feet—distorted, unfamiliar. Her eyes were hollow, her lips pressed thin. She didn’t recognize herself.

Then—a whisper.

“You know what you have to do.”

Her breath hitched. Slowly, she turned.

Her.

Future-Jasmine stood a few feet away, rainwater streaming down her face, her arms wrapped around herself as if holding together something fragile. Her expression was raw—pleading.

“I know you’re scared,” she said, voice barely audible over the storm. “But listen to me this time. RUN.”

Jasmine’s chest tightened, her pulse hammering against her ribs.

“I—I can’t,” she whispered, the words barely making it past her lips.

Future-Jasmine shook her head, stepping forward, her soaked dress dragging against the pavement. “You’ve said that before. And you’ll keep saying it. Over and over, until there’s nothing left of you. Until you wake up one day and realize you’re just—gone.”

Jasmine shuddered. The words felt heavy, sinking into her bones, pressing against the deepest parts of her she had tried to ignore.

“I don’t know how,” she admitted, voice breaking.

Future-Jasmine studied her, something soft and knowing in her gaze.

“Yes, you do.”

Jasmine swallowed hard. The rain dripped from her chin.

And then—she vanished.

Leaving Jasmine alone in the storm, staring at the space where she had stood.

That night, Jasmine moved like a ghost through the dimly lit condo, her breath shallow, her pulse a steady drum in her ears.

She didn’t pause. Didn’t let doubt creep in.

She stuffed clothes into a duffel—just enough. Just what she could carry. No hesitation. No second-guessing.

Grant stirred once in his sleep, murmuring something unintelligible. She froze in the doorway, heart hammering, but he didn’t wake.

The key turned smoothly in the ignition.

As she drove, the city lights blurred past, but for the first time, she wasn’t looking back.

Years later, in a sunlit apartment in Savannah, Jasmine stirred beneath soft linen sheets, a faint breeze whispering through the open window.

A feeling brushed against her skin—a presence.

Her breath hitched, muscles tensing, the old instinct returning. She turned, half-expecting to see her—the version of herself that had once chased, pleaded, warned.

But the room was empty. Only morning light pooled on the floor, golden and warm.

For the first time, the past was truly behind her.

Jasmine inhaled deeply.

And finally, slept without ghosts.

Love in the Key of Us by Olivia Salter / Flash Fiction / Twin Flames

 

Love in the Key of Us

By Olivia Salter

Word Count: 938

Celeste was halfway out of her seat when the first chord stopped her cold.

It wasn’t just any song. It was theirs.

Her breath hitched, fingers tightening around the edge of the bar. Her body knew the melody before her mind caught up, before she even turned to confirm what she already felt deep in her bones.

And then—

His voice.

Rougher now, threaded with time, but unmistakable.

She turned slowly, as if moving too fast would shatter her.

Amir stood on stage, his head tilted toward the mic, his fingers drifting over the guitar strings with the same ease that once sent shivers down her spine. The low stage lights bathed his skin in amber, casting shadows along the sharp cut of his jaw, the set of his shoulders.

She hadn’t seen him in ten years.

Yet here he was.

Singing the song he wrote for her.

Celeste’s pulse slammed against her ribs. The air in the room thickened, the noise of clinking glasses and murmured conversations fading into nothing.

Kai, her best friend, nudged her. “You okay?”

Celeste forced a nod, even as her chest tightened.

Because this wasn’t just a song.

This was him.

And the past was no longer buried.

Her body screamed it—her legs already shifting, fingers itching to grab her purse.

But she didn’t move.

Because she felt him coming.

The moment the song ended, Amir’s gaze swept the room, searching.

Finding.

Locking onto her.

Celeste inhaled sharply.

He didn’t look away.

Neither did she.

Then—he moved.

His guitar was handed off, his steps deliberate as he weaved through the crowd. People clapped him on the back, spoke his name, but his focus never wavered.

Within seconds, he was standing in front of her.

Close enough that she could see the flecks of gold in his deep brown eyes.

Neither of them spoke.

Finally, Amir exhaled.

“Cel.”

It wasn’t a question.

It wasn’t a greeting.

It was something heavier.

Her name had never been just her name with him.

She swallowed. “Didn’t expect to see you here.”

“Same.” His voice was rough, but steady. “And yet…”

Here they were.

Here they always seemed to end up.

She glanced at the empty stage. “Still playing?”

He shrugged. “Only ever stopped when I lost the reason to.”

The words landed somewhere deep, cracking through a place she had spent years keeping sealed.

Her fingers curled into her palms. “I heard the song.”

Amir tilted his head, watching her carefully. “Did you?”

“Don’t do that.” Her voice came out quieter than she meant.

“Do what?”

“Pretend it wasn’t about me.”

He let out a small breath—almost a laugh, but not quite.

“Celeste,” he murmured, “I haven’t even pretended to be over you.”

Her heart stumbled.

Because neither had she.

“Sing for me.”

The words left her before she could stop them.

Amir’s brows lifted slightly, his expression unreadable.

A challenge.

A test.

Then, without a word, he reached for her hand.

The moment his fingers brushed hers, a spark shot up her arm, igniting something deep in her chest.

She should have pulled away.

She didn’t.

Because she couldn’t.

Without hesitation, Amir led her toward the stage.

The singer had just stepped off, but with one look from Amir, the band nodded.

This was his moment.

But somehow, it felt like theirs.

He settled onto the stool, adjusting the guitar strap, fingers brushing the strings like they were second nature.

Then—

The first note.

Soft. Unfinished.

A breath.

And then his voice—deep, warm, undeniable.

"Have you ever needed something so bad, you can’t sleep at night?"

The room stilled.

Celeste barely noticed the crowd anymore.

All she could hear was him.

All she could feel was every unspoken thing between them.

The song built, the melody swelling, wrapping around her like a memory too strong to ignore.

Her throat tightened.

Because she had needed him.

She had needed him so much it terrified her.

And she had walked away.

Telling herself it was for the best.

Telling herself that if they were truly meant for each other, the universe would find a way.

Now, a decade later, he was standing right in front of her.

And the universe was handing her a choice.

Again.

The last chord faded.

Silence.

Then, applause.

But Celeste didn’t move.

Neither did Amir.

He set the guitar down, gaze locked onto her.

She stood, breath unsteady, pulse hammering.

“Cel…”

Her name wasn’t just her name. It was a question. A plea.

And she—who had spent a decade pretending she didn’t miss him, didn’t need him—finally broke.

“Why didn’t you ever come after me?” she whispered.

Amir exhaled. “You left.”

“You let me.”

His jaw tensed. “What was I supposed to do, Cel? Chase you when you made it clear you wanted to go?”

She swallowed. “I didn’t want to go.”

His eyes darkened. “Then why did you?”

Her throat burned. “Because I didn’t think I could survive loving you.”

Silence.

And then, barely above a whisper—

“You didn’t.”

Celeste’s breath caught.

Because he was right.

She hadn’t survived it.

She had just spent ten years pretending she did.

Her hands trembled. Amir watched her, his gaze never leaving hers.

"You still love me?" she asked, voice barely above a breath.

A beat.

Then—

"Have you ever stopped?"

She closed her eyes.

"No."

When she opened them, Amir was already reaching for her, pulling her in, pressing his forehead to hers.

And just like that—

The years between them fell away.

The past, the pain, the distance—none of it mattered.

Because some people—

Some loves—

Weren’t meant to be let go.

The Fire Between Us by Olivia Salter / Flash Fiction / Literary Fiction / Twin Flame

 

A soulmate is someone you feel a deep connection with, often considered a compatible partner with a separate soul, while a twin flame is believed to be the other half of your soul, meaning you can only have one twin flame, but can have multiple soulmates throughout your life; the twin flame relationship is often described as more intense and challenging, pushing you to confront your deepest self, while a soulmate relationship tends to be more harmonious and supportive. 

Key points to remember:

You can have many soulmates, but only one twin flame. 

The Fire Between Us

By Olivia Salter

Word Count: 1,011

Warren never believed in past lives.

But when he saw Aisha, he wondered.

Not because she was beautiful, though she was. Not because she looked at him like she knew his secrets before he spoke them.

But because something in his bones whispered, It’s her. Again.

She stood at the counter of a coffee shop, drumming her fingers against the glass case, waiting. And when she turned, their eyes met.

A flicker. A pull.

Deja vu.

Aisha blinked, lips parting slightly, like she felt it too.

And Warren?

He forgot what he was supposed to be doing.

Three months later, she had a key to his apartment.

Not because they talked about it—because they didn’t.

Because it was always supposed to happen this way.

Aisha never let him hide.

She saw him in ways that unsettled him, stripped him bare without touching him.

One night, she stood in the kitchen, arms crossed, eyes steady. “You love the idea of love, Warren. But real love? It asks something of you. And you don’t like that.”

His stomach tightened. “That’s not fair.”

“Isn’t it?” She stepped closer, searching his face. “You write about love like it’s something outside of you. Like a thing you can observe without feeling it. But when it’s real—when it’s messy—you pull away.”

He wanted to argue. He wanted to tell her she was wrong.

But he couldn’t.

Because she wasn’t.

Terry met Warren at a poetry reading. She wasn’t supposed to be there. It was one of those last-minute, why not? decisions.

Then he stepped up to the mic.

And he spoke.

Not about love—at least, not in the way most people did. He spoke about hunger. About a yearning that stretched across lifetimes.

She watched him, felt the words settle in her chest like something familiar. And when he glanced her way, there was a quiet hum beneath her skin.

Not a jolt. Not a fire.

A thread.

That night, after the event, she lingered near the door just as he walked past. He paused, looking at her the way people look at something they don’t expect but can’t ignore.

And then he said, “You ever feel like some things are supposed to happen?”

She smiled, tilting her head. “Yeah.”

And that was the start of everything.

Warren and Terry never rushed.

It wasn’t fireworks. It was warmth.

Conversations that stretched into the early hours. Walks through the city when neither of them wanted to be anywhere else. A comfort he hadn’t known he needed.

One night, they sat on her couch, the air between them thick with unspoken things.

She leaned against his shoulder, and he let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding.

“You’re waiting,” she murmured.

His jaw tightened. “For what?”

“For a sign.” Her voice was steady. “For something to tell you it’s okay to move on.”

His chest ached.

Because she was right.

And still, he didn’t kiss her.

Even when the silence between them felt like an invitation.

Even when he wanted to.

Because she wasn’t his to want.

Not yet.

Aisha left on a Thursday.

Not in the heat of an argument. Not with yelling or broken things.

With a suitcase by the door and her hands clenched into fists.

Warren stood there, heart hammering, trying to think of the right words.

“I love you, Warren,” she said softly. “But love shouldn’t feel like a war.”

He swallowed hard. “Aisha—”

She shook her head, exhaling shakily. “You don’t get to talk me out of this. Not this time.”

His fingers twitched. A part of him wanted to reach for her, to pull her back.

But love wasn’t supposed to be chains.

So he didn’t.

And that was the worst part.

Because he already knew—

Some loves aren’t meant to be kept.

Some are meant to break you open.

Terry didn’t ask questions when Warren showed up at her door.

She stepped aside, let him in, let him sit on her couch with his head in his hands.

After a long moment, he whispered, “I lost her.”

Terry didn’t say I know. Didn’t say I told you so.

She just reached out, fingers brushing against his wrist, anchoring him.

His breath hitched.

And when he finally looked at her, she met his gaze, steady and sure. His eyes looked tired, searching. “I don’t know who I am without her.”

“You’re you, you're still here,” she murmured.

His exhale was shaky.

And this time, when he leaned in, she didn’t hesitate.

She met him halfway.

It was different with Terry.

No firestorms. No wreckage.

Just warmth.

She didn’t demand the parts of him he wasn’t ready to give. She didn’t pull him into the depths just to see if he could survive.

She was a place to rest. A place to breathe.

And he loved her for it.

But some nights, when sleep wouldn’t come, he felt it.

The phantom ache.

Because some loves don’t leave.

Even when they’re gone.

Aisha called him a year later.

Not by accident.

She never did things by accident.

“Hey,” she said.

Warren closed his eyes, the sound of her voice settling over him like an old song. “Hey.”

“I saw your book,” she said. “Congratulations.”

He smiled faintly. “Thanks.”

Silence.

Then, softly, “Do you ever think about me?”

His chest tightened. He didn’t need to ask if she still thought about him; because he knew she did.

“Yes,” he said.

A breath.

Then she exhaled, something almost like a laugh. “I always knew we weren’t supposed to last.”

His fingers curled around the phone. “I know.”

A pause.

Then, quieter, “Are you happy?”

His gaze drifted across the room, where Terry sat reading, her bare feet tucked beneath her, the quiet presence that had become his peace.

And he thought about all the ways love could exist.

“I am,” he said.

Aisha sighed, soft and knowing. “Good.”

And he knew that was the last time they’d speak.

Because some people come into your life to stay.

And some come to set you free.

Whispers Through the Veil by Olivia Salter / Drabble / Supernatural

 

Whispers Through the Veil

By Olivia Salter

Word Count: 387

The first time I dreamed of Kenny, it was raining. I stood in the middle of a street that looked like our old neighborhood, except the houses were faded, like a painting left too long in the sun. The air smelled of wet asphalt and magnolias—his favorite scent.

Then, I saw him.

Kenny stood a few feet away, dressed in the same hunter green hoodie he wore the last time I saw him alive. His dark skin glowed under the flickering streetlamp, and his eyes—those deep, knowing eyes—held something unreadable.

"Kenny?" My voice was small, uncertain.

He smiled, the same slow grin that used to make my heart skip. "You remember me, baby?"

A shudder ran through me. Of course, I remembered. I had spent years trying to forget the way he left this world. The way the news of his death had shattered me. But here he was, standing in front of me as if time had folded in on itself.

"I miss you," I whispered.

He stepped closer, his movements fluid but otherworldly, like he was walking on air. "I came back for you," he said, his voice rich with something heavier than longing. "I had to tell you—I never stopped loving you."

My breath caught. "But you're..." I couldn't say it.

"I know." His hand lifted as if to touch my face, but he hesitated. "I should have told you before. Should have fought harder for us."

The dream shifted. The street blurred, melting into a memory—a night years ago, Kenny standing outside my window, begging me to believe in us. I had turned away, scared of the future, scared of how much I loved him.

Tears burned my eyes. "I loved you, too. I still do."

His smile turned sad. "Then let me go."

A cold wind swept through me, and I realized what this was. Not just a dream. A goodbye.

"But—" My voice cracked.

He shook his head, the streetlamp flickering wildly behind him. "It's time, baby. You have to wake up."

I reached for him, but my hands met only air.

Then, I woke up.

The room was silent except for the distant hum of the city. My cheeks were damp. My hands trembled.

But for the first time in years, my heart felt light.

Flawless by Olivia Salter / Flash Fiction / Science Fiction / Supernatural

 

Flawless

By Olivia Salter

Word Count: 600

Jade knew Malik was obsessed with perfection, but she never thought he’d turn that obsession on her. His voice was smooth, practiced, but there was something unsettling in the way his eyes lingered on her face. “You know, babe,” he said as they lounged in their sleek, glass-walled apartment overlooking Atlanta, “I’ve been working on a new serum. It could smooth out that little mark on your face. Make your skin absolutely flawless.”

Jade’s fingers brushed the coffee-colored crescent beneath her left eye, a mark her mother once called a kiss from God. A faint chuckle left her lips, but unease curled in her stomach. “I don’t need to be flawless, Mal. I like my birthmark.”

He sighed, tilting his head as if analyzing a scientific anomaly. “But imagine how much more beautiful you’d be without it.”

Her smile faltered. “I’m already beautiful.”

Malik kissed her forehead. “Of course you are. But perfection is power.”

That night, Jade lay awake, staring at the city lights flickering through the window. She had spent years loving herself exactly as she was. Why couldn’t Malik?

As weeks passed, his obsession deepened. He gifted her expensive serums, subtly left articles about laser treatments on her nightstand, and even edited pictures of her, erasing the mark so she could see how ‘perfect’ she’d look. Each time, Jade refused. But the way Malik looked at her birthmark—like it was a stain on an otherwise pristine canvas—began to chip away at her confidence.

One evening, Malik handed her a cup of chamomile tea. She took a sip, not knowing he had slipped a few drops of an experimental formula into it. “Trust me,” he murmured as she drifted into sleep.

Jade woke up light-headed. Stumbling into the bathroom, she gasped. The birthmark was gone. Her skin was eerily smooth—flawless, just like Malik wanted. But something was off. Her reflection looked... hollow. A perfect image of herself, but missing something vital.

Malik stood behind her, smiling, eyes gleaming with satisfaction. “You’re perfect now.”

Jade touched her cheek, expecting relief, maybe even joy. Instead, a slow, creeping dread spread through her, sinking into her bones. It was as if a part of her had been stripped away, leaving nothing but a beautiful shell. Her mother’s words echoed in her head: A kiss from God. Her fingers lingered on the spot where it used to be, and for the first time in her life, she felt incomplete.

A week later, the side effects began. Her skin became eerily pale, then translucent. Dark veins webbed beneath the surface. Her body ached. Malik worked tirelessly to reverse the effects, but the damage was done. The woman who once radiated warmth now looked cold, artificial. Flawless.

One evening, as she lay in bed, weak and fading, she whispered, “You stole something from me, Malik.”

Tears welled in his eyes. “I was only trying to make you perfect.”

Jade smiled, but it didn’t reach her eyes. “I was perfect.”

The next morning, she was gone—vanished like mist, like she had never been there at all. But Malik would never forget the way she looked that last night, a ghost of the woman he once loved, destroyed in his pursuit of perfection.

And in the mirror, just beneath his own eye, a faint mark began to form—a coffee-colored crescent, shaped like a kiss from God. Malik’s breath hitched. His fingers trembled as they traced the mark, a curse etched into his skin. A deep, bone-chilling realization settled over him; perfection had demanded a price, and it had come to collect.

The 50th Gateway by Olivia Salter / Short Story / Science Fiction

 

The 50th Gateway

By Olivia Salter 

Word Count: 3,829

Darius Holt had always been drawn to the unexplained. For years, he had dug through UFO sightings, electromagnetic anomalies, and cryptic reports from long-forgotten locales. With his research partner Simone Harris, he’d come close to the edge of discovery but never fully crossed it. Most of the time, it seemed like the world of the supernatural was a game of smoke and mirrors—pushing you to the brink of understanding, only to leave you empty-handed.

But this time was different.

The Alabama woods stretched out before them, dense and wild, a place where even sunlight seemed hesitant to fall. They had come here searching for something. No one knew exactly where, but both of them felt it—the pull of a story left untold. They had been led by an anonymous source, one that claimed to know of a hidden place, a gateway—one of the 50 rumored dimensional portals scattered across the world.

Darius checked his compass. It pointed north, but he’d stopped trusting it a while ago. The needle fluctuated in a way that felt wrong. They were on the right path, but the air felt heavier now, as if the forest itself were pressing against them.

“Darius, look,” Simone’s voice cut through the growing tension.

She pointed ahead, where the trees parted to reveal a strange clearing bathed in an unnatural light. Darius squinted, trying to make sense of the scene. The air seemed to warp, as though a heatwave were rising from the ground. But it wasn’t the heat that made him uneasy.

It was the hum.

Faint, but there. It echoed through his chest like the sound of a distant engine, vibrating his bones. The closer they got, the more intense the sound became, until it was a full-body sensation. Darius felt his heart race, and for the first time in his life, he wondered if he was standing on the edge of something far beyond human understanding.

Simone stepped forward, EMF reader in hand. Her eyes widened as the needle shot off the scale, a confirmation of their unspoken thoughts.

“This is it,” she said quietly, almost admiringly.

Darius turned on his camera, the lens focusing shakily as the clearing in front of them shifted. The air bent as if space itself was liquefying.

Then, without warning, the ground below their feet rumbled, and the shimmer in the air became something more—something real. A tear in the very fabric of reality opened wide, jagged and alive, stretching and folding into itself as though trying to breathe. A flash of dark, incomprehensible shapes twisted beyond the threshold, and for a fleeting moment, Darius saw them—a collection of eyes, ancient and infinite, staring back at him.

And then a figure stepped through.

It was tall, its form shifting, flickering between shapes as if it had no true shape at all. The air seemed to bend around it, warping the space like a broken mirror. Its presence was a vacuum, pulling everything into itself. Its eyes—black as the void—locked onto Darius, and a coldness gripped his heart.

The figure spoke, though no lips moved.

"You are not meant to see."

The world around them snapped. The portal collapsed inward, and everything went silent. The hum ceased, and the air returned to normal—eerily still.

Simone took a cautious step back. “Darius—what the hell just happened?”

Darius stood frozen, his camera still running, but when he checked the footage, his stomach turned. The screen was blank. The recording was gone. His hands trembled as he lowered the camera. What was that thing? And why had it… disappeared?

“Did you see it?” Simone’s voice broke through his dazed state. “What was that?”

“I… I don’t know,” he muttered, his pulse still racing. “But I think it saw us.”

They returned to Birmingham, the memory of the portal still hanging between them like a thick fog. Darius tried to write it off as a trick of the mind, a shared hallucination induced by the oppressive atmosphere of the woods. But no amount of rationalization could quiet the sense that something had followed them. Something had changed.

For days after their return, strange things began to happen.

At first, it was subtle. Darius would look into the mirror, and for a fraction of a second, his reflection would lag—his movements slightly delayed, his expression twisted in a way that didn’t match his own. He would blink, and it would be gone. He chalked it up to fatigue.

But the glitches didn’t stop. They got worse.

One night, after he switched off the light in his bedroom, the shadows didn’t quite vanish. They lingered, stretching across the walls like dark fingers. His own shadow didn’t move when he did. He turned around, his heart racing, but there was nothing behind him. His reflection, however, seemed to twist, shifting slightly before returning to its original position.

Simone called the next day, her voice tight. “Darius… I don’t know what’s going on, but something’s happening to me.”

“What do you mean?” he asked, his pulse quickening.

“The lights. They flicker every time I look at them. And my phone’s acting strange—it won’t let me call anyone who wasn’t there that night. And last night… I saw a shadow at the foot of my bed. I turned the light on, but when I looked again, nothing was there.”

Darius felt his stomach drop. He wanted to reassure her that it was just stress, that they’d both imagined things—but he couldn’t. He had seen it, too.

“I see it too,” he said. “It’s like—something is following us.”

Simone’s voice was barely above a whisper. “We shouldn’t have gone there.”

Neither of them spoke for a moment. Then, Simone broke the silence. “We need to go back. Whatever that thing was, it’s not done with us. And we need answers.”

Darius swallowed. “You’re right. We have to know what we’re dealing with.”

The woods felt wrong when they returned. They had done this journey together before, but now, everything felt… distorted. The path was the same, but it was as though they were walking through a place that had already been altered.

Simone’s hand gripped Darius’s as they neared the clearing, the air thick with anticipation. The EMF reader whined in her hand, a sharp signal that the portal was near.

“There’s something here,” she said. “I can feel it.”

The clearing was exactly as they had left it—the same shimmering, warped air—but now there was a new presence. A chill settled in their chests, deeper than any cold the night could bring.

Then the air parted, and the figure stepped through again.

It wasn’t the same as before. This time, the shape seemed clearer, more defined. It didn’t flicker—it hovered in the space between worlds, its vast, incomprehensible form a constant, gnawing pressure. The black eyes locked onto them again.

"You returned," it said, the words woven into the fabric of the air itself.

Simone gripped Darius’s arm tighter. “What do you want from us?”

The figure tilted its head as if considering her question. "You crossed the threshold. You are now between."

Darius's breath caught in his throat. "Between what?"

"Understanding," it chant. "And forgetting."

The words were a riddle, but they hit him with a profound weight. He had the sense that the thing was offering them an impossible choice—one that could unravel everything they thought they knew.

Simone looked at him, her eyes wide with panic. “Darius, we don’t have to do this. Whatever this is… we don’t need it.”

But it was too late.

The figure reached out with a long, skeletal hand, a silent command that felt more like a certainty. As its fingers brushed against the air, the clearing shifted again, the ground beneath them humming. Everything blurred, bending like a broken frame, as though the world itself had been skewed.

“Leave, or stay,” the figure said, its voice growing distant, as if it were already slipping away into the ether.

Darius’s heart pounded. Simone’s face was pale, but he could see the decision in her eyes.

“We leave,” Darius said, though part of him wasn’t sure they ever truly would.

The figure hesitated, then vanished into the void. The clearing, once again, became still.

Simone let out a breath she didn’t realize she was holding. "Did we… did we really leave?"

“I don’t know,” Darius whispered.

When they emerged from the woods, the world felt almost too quiet. The sky was a dull gray, the air still. They reached Darius’s car, but the moment he touched the door handle, something inside him twisted—a hollow ache, a sense that something was missing.

Simone climbed into the passenger seat, her gaze unfocused. "What just happened?"

“I don’t know. But it doesn’t feel over. Like we’re still… between.”

Darius started the engine, but the feeling didn’t go away. The trees blurred past them, and he couldn’t shake the sensation that someone—or something—was watching them from the shadows, from just beyond the veil of what they could see. The road stretched out in front of them, but it felt endless, as if the lines between one place and another were dissolving around them. The hum in the air was faint at first, a low vibration under the sound of the engine, but it was growing, building in the pit of his stomach.

Simone looked at him, her expression a mix of exhaustion and fear. "Do you hear it?"

He nodded, the hum now a steady, vibrating pulse beneath everything—beneath the car, beneath the world itself. It wasn’t just in their ears anymore; it was in their bones. The space inside the car seemed to warp as though reality was slipping through their fingers, and for a moment, the familiar landscape outside the window twisted into something foreign, something alien.

"Darius..." Simone’s voice cracked. "I don’t think we can go back."

He glanced at her, a pang of dread rising in his chest. "What do you mean?"

Her hands gripped the armrest, her knuckles white. "I don’t think we can ever leave. That thing… that portal… it’s still with us. I can feel it. I can see it in the reflection. The mirrors, Darius—they’re all wrong."

Darius turned his head sharply, his eyes drawn to the rearview mirror. It took a moment for him to register, but then he saw it. Behind them, in the reflection, the road wasn’t just dark—it was… distorted. The trees bent unnaturally, the headlights of their car flickering like distant stars. The reflection of the car itself seemed to pulse with the strange energy that had followed them from the woods.

Simone gasped, her breath shallow. "It’s like we’re still there. In the woods. Like we never left."

Darius slammed his foot on the gas, urging the car forward, but the road before them didn’t seem to lengthen as it should. The landscape stayed the same—stuck, a mirror of the other side, where time had broken. And behind them, in the rearview mirror, the figure—its eyes black as ink—was slowly emerging, flickering between the reflections of the trees.

"Stop looking at it!" Simone shouted, but it was too late.

Darius felt himself pulled, not physically, but mentally, as if the car had ceased to be a vessel of escape. The edges of his mind frayed, the strange sensation that he was both here and somewhere else took root in his consciousness. His heart beat erratically, not because of fear, but because he was no longer sure if his heart belonged to this world.

In the mirror, the figure stared, its face devoid of expression, its eyes vast pools of darkness.

Simone screamed, and the car swerved violently as Darius reached for the wheel. The world outside the car spun, and for a brief, terrifying moment, the fabric of reality itself seemed to unravel. The trees disappeared into an endless void, and the road twisted upon itself like a serpent devouring its own tail.

The car lurched, the tires screeching against asphalt that was no longer familiar. The air inside the car was thick, pulsing with static as if the very atmosphere was turning into something alien. In an instant, the road disappeared entirely. They were no longer driving through Alabama. The world outside the car was now a vast expanse of dark, swirling shapes—cosmic, distant, and unknowable.

Simone was gasping, her hands pressed against the windows, her face pale with terror. "Darius! We’re not in the world anymore! We’ve crossed over, haven’t we? We left!"

Before he could respond, the hum intensified. The car, the world, and everything in it collapsed into a single point, and the sensation of being outside of time—and perhaps outside of existence—consumed them.

---

XXX Part 5: Between Worlds

Darius awoke to a crushing silence. He opened his eyes, but nothing was familiar. The car was gone. The road was gone. There was nothing but endless dark, an oppressive void stretching in all directions.

His breath caught in his throat as he pushed himself up from the ground, the air heavy with an unsettling chill. He was no longer on Earth—he was in a place outside of time, a place where laws of reality had no power.

"Simone?" His voice echoed into the void, but there was no response. Panic surged in his chest.

Then, a movement caught his eye.

Simone stood a few feet away, her eyes wide, staring into the distance. Her body was rigid, unmoving, as though she were trapped in some unseen force. Slowly, Darius approached her, but the closer he got, the more the air around them seemed to distort, as if it was fighting his presence.

“Simone!” Darius called again, but this time, his voice was muffled, as if the very atmosphere had absorbed it. She turned to him slowly, but her expression was distant—almost… frozen.

Her lips parted, but instead of words, what came out was a distorted echo of the voice they had heard before—the figure from the portal.

"You are between," it said, not from Simone, but from the space between them. "You exist, yet you do not. You have crossed, and you will never return."

Darius’s heart clenched. "No. This isn’t real. We can’t be—"

Before he could finish, the ground beneath them began to tremble. The darkness around them began to crack, fissures appearing like broken glass. Out of those cracks poured more figures—tall, distorted shapes that flickered between dimensions. They moved with unnatural speed, their forms shifting like liquid.

One of them stepped forward, and Darius saw it clearly—a face, a mask of nothing, devoid of any recognizable features except for the endless abyss that filled its gaze.

"You have seen the truth," the figure intoned. "You were never meant to know."

In that instant, Darius felt the truth burn through him—the unsettling realization that they were no longer in the world they knew. They were in a place that existed beyond the human mind’s capacity for understanding—a place of no time, no space. A place where those who crossed the boundaries became lost forever, trapped between worlds that had no meaning.

Simone, her eyes wide with horror, reached for him. "Darius, we have to get out of here. Please, we have to—"

But before she could finish, the ground beneath their feet shattered entirely, and they were plunged into the void.

---

Part 6: The Truth of the Threshold

When Darius opened his eyes again, he was back in his apartment. The familiar hum of the refrigerator, the soft ticking of the clock, and the mundane noises of daily life greeted him. He sat up slowly, his head spinning. He looked around, searching for some sign that this was real.

But there was nothing.

He stumbled toward the mirror hanging on the wall, his breath shallow. He saw himself, but it wasn’t him. Not entirely.

His reflection was... wrong. His face was blurred, shifting, like the remnants of a dream struggling to hold its form.

And behind him, in the dim reflection, a pair of black, unblinking eyes watched.

Darius gasped, his heart sinking.

Somewhere, out there, Simone was still between—lost in the endless expanse where reality broke, where the rules of the world no longer applied.

And he would never be able to reach her.

The mirror flickered once more, and he realized the truth.

They weren’t just caught between dimensions.

They were trapped in one.

The reflection of Darius in the mirror shifted again, the blurry, inhuman face flickering like a malfunctioning image. His breath caught in his throat. He turned away from the mirror, a cold sweat breaking out on his skin. His pulse hammered in his ears as he staggered back, trying to make sense of what had just happened. The world around him felt off, like he was no longer truly part of it.

Darius stumbled to the window and looked outside, hoping to see something—anything—that felt like the world he knew. But the view was distorted, like looking through water, the streets below warped and the sky overcast with a strange, otherworldly gray. The faint hum from earlier returned, vibrating in his chest, making the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. It was as if the very fabric of existence was unraveling, each thread hanging loose in the air.

His mind raced. This can’t be happening. This can’t be real.

The memory of the forest, the portal, and the figures from that night flooded back in an overwhelming rush. He could still feel the pull of the void, the strange energy that had latched onto him and Simone. They had crossed into something far more dangerous than they had imagined. They had gone beyond the reach of Earth—and now, it seemed, they could never return.

There was a soft knock on the door, followed by a voice. "Darius?"

His heart skipped a beat. It was Simone.

He rushed to the door, flinging it open, half-expecting her to be standing there, her expression haunted but real. But no one was there. The hallway outside was empty.

"Darius?" The voice came again, but this time, it wasn’t from the hallway. It was a whisper in his ear, as if someone was standing directly behind him.

He spun around, but no one was there.

The hum in the air grew louder, filling his ears, thrumming with an energy he couldn’t understand. The apartment felt smaller, as though the walls were closing in, suffocating him. He had to escape—he had to get out of this space. But where could he go? Everywhere felt wrong now. He was already somewhere else, somewhere that shouldn’t exist.

The reflection in the mirror grew clearer, and this time, Darius didn’t look away. He stared into it, his own face now twisted and strange, no longer resembling the man he had been only hours ago. The figure that had followed him was there again, its black eyes fixated on him, and in its expressionless mask, he saw something—something more—something he couldn’t comprehend. It was like the figure was trying to communicate something, but the words twisted in his mind, an incomprehensible string of symbols and images, flashing in rapid succession.

It was as if the reflection was showing him the truth.

The truth of the dimensions.

The truth of the portals.

The truth of what they had unleashed.

"Darius," the voice whispered again, this time cold and full of malice. "You are no longer just a part of the world you knew. You are between. And you will never escape."

His hands gripped the sides of the mirror, his nails digging into the glass. The world around him swam, his vision blurring as the reflection warped again. The figure in the mirror twisted into a thousand different faces—human and not-human—its shifting form an endless parade of horrors. Each face screamed at him in silent agony, their mouths open but no sound escaping.

"Simone..." Darius breathed, his voice cracking. He couldn’t lose her. He wouldn’t. He couldn’t.

The hum grew louder, vibrating in his bones now, and suddenly the ground beneath him began to tremble again. The familiar sound of the refrigerator buzzing, the ticking of the clock—all of it vanished, leaving only the deafening silence. His feet lifted from the floor, his body weightless, suspended in an unknown space.

And then, just like that, he was falling.

He landed hard on the ground, his breath knocked from him. When he opened his eyes, he wasn’t in his apartment anymore. He was back in the woods. The same dense, dark forest where the portal had first opened.

Simone was standing in front of him.

Her face was pale, her eyes wide with terror. She looked as though she hadn’t aged a day, but her eyes—they were empty, hollow, as if something vital had been taken from her.

"Simone?" Darius choked out, scrambling to his feet. "Simone, we need to leave. We—"

But she didn’t respond. She stood motionless, staring ahead with a vacant gaze, as though she couldn’t see him at all. The same black eyes that had appeared in the reflection in the mirror stared back at him through her own, and in that moment, he understood.

She was gone.

No—she was never truly here, not anymore. The portal had taken her, consumed her in ways he couldn’t fully grasp. And now, the same force was coming for him.

The trees around them began to shift, their bark rippling like liquid. The air grew thick with an energy that made Darius’s skin crawl. Shadows gathered, forming shapes that didn’t belong in this world. Figures from beyond the dimensions circled them, their forms shifting, blurring with the darkness.

Darius backed away, his legs shaking. He wanted to run, to escape, but there was no escape. Not anymore.

The ground beneath him cracked open, revealing a gaping chasm of swirling, pulsating light. The portal—the same portal from before—was opening again, wider this time, drawing them in with an insidious pull.

Simone’s body remained frozen, her eyes still staring into the void, her lips moving as though whispering something Darius couldn’t hear.

A voice echoed in the distance, growing louder, its tone cold and distant. "The truth is not what you think. You are between. You will never be the same."

Darius turned, the world around him starting to collapse, the reality shattering like glass. The portal stretched wider, its edges bleeding into the night. The figures from beyond were closing in, their forms coalescing into something more tangible, more malevolent.

And then, without warning, the world collapsed entirely.

There was only darkness.

And the hum—the never-ending hum—filling every corner of his mind.