Something squelched under my foot.

  I looked down and sighed. Damn dog owners. Damn night shifts. Damn fancy high-rise that had distracted me just long enough to step into someone’s “gift” on the sidewalk.

  Then again, that’s just my luck.

  In school, they used to call me Lucky Matt. Ironically, of course. If there was an open manhole, guess who fell in? Twist an ankle on a perfectly smooth road? That’d be me. Get sick the night before a big trip? Naturally.

  Broken pens, cracked glasses, spilled salt—if something could go wrong, it usually did. My grandma had a different name for it: “Hexed.” She even dragged me to church once, convinced someone had cursed me. The priest said I was fine, just unlucky. Still lit a candle, though.

  Like someone once said: life’s like a box of chocolates—you never know which one you’ll step in.

  I scraped my sneaker through the grass as best I could, then buzzed the apartment.

  Knowing my luck, no one would answer.

  Beep.

  Well, color me surprised.

  "Hey, it’s your delivery—" I started to say, but the intercom buzzed again and the door clicked open.

  All right then. We’re not proud.

  Just to be safe, I wiped my sole on the concrete slab outside and stepped into the building. Real flowers in the entryway. Curtains on the lobby windows. People really live like this?

  The apartment wasn’t hard to find. I rang the bell. Waited. Rang again. After a full minute, my finger was sore.

  Come on. Who orders three sushi boxes at four in the morning and then ghosts the doorbell?

  Junkies maybe? Food cravings hit hard on the wrong stuff. But this was a rich part of town. Rent here costs more than a used Tesla. No way they didn’t hear me ride the elevator up. And I couldn’t just leave. Try explaining that to my boss later—especially when your boss isn’t a grumpy dude, but a tightly-wound woman who’s had it out for you since day one.

  “Seriously?”

  Out of frustration, I grabbed the handle—and the door swung open.

  Well, okay then. Didn’t see that coming.

  The hallway was dark, dead quiet. Like the start of some low-budget horror movie with a Rotten Tomatoes score under 30%.

  I froze.

  Technically, I shouldn’t go in. Who knows what happened here? Break-in? Murder?

  Then again, what kind of murderer orders sushi *after* the deed?

  “…This way,” a voice whispered from inside.

  That’s the problem with being raised right. Don’t hit girls. Give up your seat on the bus. Be polite in line.

  And when someone whispers from the dark, you go check it out. Because good guys always do.

  “This way,” the voice called again—stronger now.

  I sighed, stepped in, and set the bag down by the wall. I even took off my sneakers. Pale linoleum, no way I was dragging *that* across the floor.

  Still smelled like… yeah, *that*. Great.

  Okay, Matt. Get it together.

  ———

  The light was on in just one room.

  "Hello? Do you need help?" I called, peeking down the hallway.

  Mentally, I braced myself for anything. Someone bleeding out, choking, collapsed on the floor. My brain, ever helpful, conjured full horror scenarios.

  What I saw instead… threw me.

  She was lying in bed—neatly, gracefully, like a portrait. White hair braided over one shoulder. Hands folded over her chest. Calm, steady eyes.

  She looked like my grandma. Only richer.

  And the room? Not what I expected in a modern high-rise. Lace curtains. A spinning wheel in the corner. An unplugged vintage radio. An actual woven rug. Everything screamed *time warp*. No TV, no icons. No tech at all.

  I blinked.

  Had I hit the wrong apartment?

  “Is this 66B?” I asked, hoping for a correction.

  “It is,” she said quietly, like the words cost her.

  “You ordered sushi, right? Tokyo set, Max roll, and the baked signature?”

  She didn’t respond to that.

  “Come closer,” she said instead.

  “It says cash on delivery.”

  “Closer.”

  Her eyes flared—two sharp flashes of crimson. And just like that, I was moving. My body wasn’t mine anymore. I walked forward like a puppet, heart pounding.

  Unauthorized content usage: if you discover this narrative on Amazon, report the violation.

  “Hmm. Young. Sturdy. But all angles and awkwardness,” she muttered, scanning me like a meat inspector.

  Gee, thanks.

  “Look,” I said, trying to recover, “if you’re not feeling well, maybe we should call—”

  “No doctors. They’ll only try to steal the Hist.”

  The… what now?

  Okay. Definitely not normal. Definitely full-on midnight-crazy. Hallucinations, cults, conspiracy. A sushi-fueled meltdown.

  “You paying or not?” I sighed, praying I could just get out of here.

  “You won’t have to worry about money anymore. That, I can promise.”

  What does that even mean?

  “What’s your name?” she asked suddenly.

  “Matt.”

  “That doesn’t suit you,” she said, like she worked for the DMV. “And you're not religious, are you?”

  “Thank God, no.”

  Why was I answering? Why was I *still here*?

  Then she raised her arm—slow, shaky—and held it out to me.

  “Do a dying woman a kindness. Take my hand.”

  Against every instinct I had, I reached out. Maybe she’d calm down. Maybe she *would* pay.

  As soon as I touched her, her fingers locked around mine with terrifying strength. Bone-crushing. I swear I heard something pop.

  My whole body tensed. A sharp, electric hum filled the air. Everything dimmed—lights, thoughts, the air itself.

  She changed.

  The soft old woman was gone.

  In her place was something wild. Hair flaring out in all directions. Eyes glowing with fevered power. Voice thundering like a storm about to break.

  “Listen closely, Matt!”

  I couldn’t have looked away if I tried.

  “Don’t draw attention to yourself. Not until the Hist settles into you. And even after—don’t play the hero. The power is great. Don’t lose your head. Others will depend on you. You’ll get help—Grimm is temperamental, but loyal. And you’ll make enemies. The Constellation is watching, ready to claim what’s mine.”

  Each word etched itself into my skull. I wasn’t just hearing her—I was *being engraved* by her.

  “You won’t avoid them forever. The question is—what will you become when they find you?”

  She reached out with her free hand and pressed something cold and metallic into mine.

  A key.

  “Take it. You’ll need it. And remember—no one saw you here. You were never here.”

  She closed her eyes.

  The storm ended.

  Just like that, she was just an old woman again. Fragile. Quiet.

  And I was still holding her hand.

  ———

  I don’t know how long I stood there, holding her hand.

  But the moment the thought “I think she’s actually dead” hit me, I bolted.

  The hallway blurred as I grabbed my shoes, scooped up the sushi bag, wiped the door handle with my sleeve, and stumbled out into the stairwell. Not the elevator—nope, no way. I took the stairs two at a time like my life depended on it.

  Outside, the night air hit me like a damp rag. Stale. Too warm for the hour. Too still.

  I chucked the sushi into the back seat and dropped behind the wheel of my old beater—an ‘08 Civic that rattled if you looked at it wrong. Hands trembling, I gripped the steering wheel.

  What now? Call the cops? Say what, exactly?

  “Hi, yeah, an old lady handed me a magic curse and died on the spot—also there was a cat?”

  Totally normal Tuesday in Belfast, Maine.

  Speaking of the cat—he came out of nowhere. Jet black, claws out, and launched himself at my window like a tiny missile.

  I screamed.

  Regrouped.

  Started the car—barely. The engine coughed like a smoker in winter, then finally sputtered to life.

  I hit the gas and peeled out of the lot like something was chasing me. Didn’t stop until I was halfway across town and parked in front of my building.

  Deep breath.

  Okay. Go inside. Shower. Sleep. Pretend none of this happened.

  But stepping out of the car made my chest seize.

  A sharp burn bloomed right over my heart. Like someone pressed a branding iron into my skin.

  Hissing, I tugged my shirt up.

  What the hell?

  A long, jagged scar ran across my chest—red, raised, and angry.

  I’d swear on everything that it wasn’t there this morning.

  Great. Random mystical chest wound. Totally fine. Definitely not losing my mind.

  I stumbled into the apartment, dropped the sushi box on the floor, and made it as far as the bathroom before everything turned sideways.

  I threw up.

  Hard.

  Worse than prom night. Worse than bad moonshine. Worse than the army send-off party where I thought I might actually die in a porta-potty.

  Everything came up—food, bile, tears. It didn’t stop. It just *emptied* me.

  When it finally did, I was soaked in sweat and shaking. My reflection in the mirror looked like a corpse. Hollow eyes. Gray skin. Lips gone blue.

  And still—that *buzzing*. That low, electric pressure, like the room was humming inside my bones.

  The hunger hit next. Sudden. Violent.

  I staggered into the hall, saw the sushi bag, and tore into it like a starving raccoon. I didn’t taste anything. Didn’t stop. Just chewed, swallowed, reached for more.

  Only when I cracked the last container did it start to fade. My hands stopped shaking. My mind—slowly—started to feel like my own again.

  And then everything cut out.

  ———

  I slept.

  Not the usual tossing and turning, not the fake-sleep-you-get-after-a-bad-decision sleep. No. This was instant black-out. Like someone flipped the switch.

  I dreamed.

  It didn’t *feel* like a dream. Not like the string-of-absurdity kind with dancing elephants and faceless teachers. This was different. Sharp. Coherent. Cold. The kind of thing that sears into your mind and you don’t forget it, no matter how much you want to.

  I was laid out flat like a science project on a wooden table. Completely naked. Paralyzed from the neck down.

  Fantastic.

  And then there was this moment. The kind you feel in nightmares, when you realize *you can’t move*. And no matter how hard you try, nothing responds.

  Panic seeped in fast.

  Standing above me was… another old woman. Not the one from the apartment—this one was even thinner, drier, like parchment stretched over bone. Her eyes were sunken pits, black and empty. Her feet barely worked, dragging behind her like dead weight as she moved.

  She was washing me.

  Not in a creepy way. Not really. But definitely in a way that made every cell in my body scream **wrong**. Hands like ice. Mouth moving as she muttered words I didn’t recognize. Ancient ones. Older than this woman, which was saying a lot.

  No sponge. No soap. Just water. Icy water.

  River water.

  I knew that somehow. Knew the source. Knew it had been fetched at night. Stilled for three days. Whispered over. Prepared.

  Prepared to wash the dead.

  Wait.

  *The dead?*

  My mind went into overdrive. Piecing it together. Connecting dots I didn’t want connected. My body screamed resistance.

  *Fight it.*

  But I couldn’t. I was trapped.

  A sharp flash of memory. The banks of the Gravelend Creek. That winding path through the trees near… near what?

  The more I thought, the more it slipped.

  Black fur brushed past my cheek. A cat? No. Just claws and smoke and teeth.

  The dream cracked like cheap glass.