A Short Story from Existential Fred

  Fred was having a good morning.

  Which usually meant some weird, fucked-up shit was about to happen, but hey, maybe it would be fine this time.

  He was stretched across the couch in his usual position of maximum comfort and minimal effort, one arm draped zily over his eyes while Ben sat beside him, scrolling on his phone. The apartment was still, the distant hum of Portnd life drifting through the window like white noise.

  No eldritch horrors cwing at the edges of reality.

  No cosmic entities licking the ceiling.

  No intrusive whispers in nguages the human brain wasn’t meant to process.

  For the first time in weeks, it was quiet.

  Then—

  The unmistakable, grating sound of furniture scraping against the floor above them.

  Fred’s entire body tensed. His eye twitched.

  Ben perked up. "Oh! Someone’s finally moving into 3B!"

  Fred barely shifted. "Oh. Great."

  Ben nudged him with his foot. "You don’t sound excited."

  "I am never excited," Fred groaned, adjusting his position only to maximize his suffering.

  Ben chuckled and stood, moving toward the window. "Come on, let’s see who it is."

  Fred sighed heavily but followed, dragging his feet. He squinted outside, the morning sun already too much for his soul.

  A moving truck was parked by the curb.

  But there were no movers.

  No team of sweaty guys struggling with a couch.

  Just one man.

  Standing.

  Completely.

  Still.

  Fred’s stomach turned in a slow, cold knot.

  "That’s not normal," he muttered.

  Ben elbowed him. "Babe, people move alone all the time."

  Fred tore his eyes from the truck. "That’s not the part I’m talking about."

  Ben frowned, then followed Fred’s gaze. The man hadn’t moved.

  Fred felt it immediately.

  Something was wrong.

  The man was still there when they stepped outside.

  Not moving.

  Not carrying boxes.

  Not doing anything.

  Just standing there, watching the truck with an expression so eerily neutral it made Fred’s skin crawl.

  His features were too symmetrical.

  His posture was too rigid.

  And his eyes…

  They weren’t scanning the area like a normal person’s.

  They were just fixed, staring forward.

  Fred didn’t even try to hide the way he tensed, but Ben—who had clearly never been exposed to true existential horror—offered a friendly smile and stepped forward.

  "Hey! You must be moving in. I’m Ben, and this is Fred."

  Fred, purely out of spite for existence itself, did not speak.

  The man didn’t react.

  For several seconds, he just stood there, unmoving, his expression locked in something that almost, but not quite, resembled pleasantness.

  Then, as though deciding in real-time how a human should respond, he turned his head toward them.

  It was too smooth.

  Like a camera panning.

  Fred hated it.

  The man’s lips stretched into a perfectly even, eerily symmetrical smile.

  "Ah. Greetings."

  A pause.

  An unnatural, heavy pause.

  Then:

  "I am…"

  Another pause.

  Then, as if pulling a word from some faraway, disconnected database:

  "…Graham."

  Fred squinted.

  Did he just hesitate before saying his own name?

  Ben, oblivious to the unraveling of reality happening in real time, extended a hand. "Nice to meet you, Graham! Welcome to the building."

  Another too-long pause.

  Then Graham took Ben’s hand.

  Fred immediately regretted all of his life choices.

  The handshake was too firm. Like someone who had been told "grip firmly" but didn’t quite grasp the social nuance behind it.

  And the entire time—

  He did not blink.

  Then Graham turned to Fred.

  His head tilted.

  His smile didn’t change.

  And then, with far too much unfamiliar curiosity, he said—

  "Frederick. You are… different."

  Fred felt every internal arm go off at once.

  Fred started noticing things.

  Graham never left his apartment during the day.

  When he did emerge, he would stare at objects for too long, like he was trying to process their function.

  The mailboxes.

  The elevator buttons.

  The vending machine in the lobby, which he examined for a full thirteen minutes.

  His movements were precise—too precise—like every step was carefully calcuted.

  And sometimes…

  He flickered.

  Not obviously.

  Not enough for a normal person to notice.

  But Fred noticed.

  Once, when passing Graham’s apartment door, Fred caught the briefest distortion—his form glitching, jittering for half a second like a bad digital signal.

  Fred did not stop walking.

  Fred did not acknowledge it.

  Fred started locking their door. Twice.

  One evening, Fred was just trying to enjoy his goddamn dinner when there was a knock at the door.

  Ben, because he was irresponsibly friendly and had never known true fear, opened it without hesitation.

  Fred did not even have to look to know who it was.

  "Hello, neighbors."

  Fred turned, fork in hand.

  There stood Graham.

  Smiling.

  The exact same frozen smile.

  Fred did not speak.

  Because he knew—he knew some weird shit was about to happen.

  Graham tilted his head—just slightly.

  Then, in a calm, measured voice, he asked—

  "What does it feel like to bleed?"

  Fred blinked.

  Ben choked on his drink.

  Fred set down his fork.

  "Excuse me?"

  Graham’s expression did not change.

  "I am simply curious about… the experience."

  Fred stared.

  Then, without breaking eye contact—

  He stood up.

  He walked to the door.

  And he smmed it directly in Graham’s face.

  Ben gawked. "Babe!"

  Fred turned. "No."

  Ben ughed awkwardly. "Come on, he’s just—"

  "No."

  Fred went to grab the mail one night.

  He wasn’t even thinking about Graham.

  Until—

  He passed Graham’s apartment door.

  And it was slightly open.

  Inside…

  Graham was standing in front of a mirror.

  Practicing.

  Facial expressions.

  Fred froze.

  Graham’s reflection cycled through emotions with eerie precision.

  Smile.

  Frown.

  Neutral.

  Smile again.

  Each perfectly controlled. Too perfect.

  Fred turned to leave.

  Nope. Nope nope nope.

  Then—

  A voice, right behind him.

  "Does this look… natural?"

  Fred’s soul tried to escape through his spine.

  He turned slowly.

  Graham was right there.

  Smiling.

  Fred wanted to scream.

  Instead, he forced a tight grin.

  "Yeah, buddy. Totally normal. Keep up the good work."

  Then he walked inside, locked the door, and turned to Ben.

  "We are MOVING."

  Ben sighed. "Babe, we’re not moving."

  Then—

  The lights flickered.

  And down the hall—

  A distorted, stretched voice, speaking from everywhere at once spoke out.

  "Goodniiiiight, neighbors."

  Fred pulled a throw pillow over his face.

  "I hate everything."