I came to Harper’s Hollow looking for my brother.
Josh and I weren’t close. After Dad died, he stayed in the house and I took off to work as a mechanic in Wichita. We’d talk at Christmas, maybe a birthday call now and then. But two weeks ago, he rang me up—three in the morning. All he said was:
—Come. Something’s not right here. The stars… they’re too close.
Then silence. I tried calling him back. Nothing. So I took a few days off, grabbed the truck, and drove down to Harper’s Hollow. Figured he was just having a rough patch. Maybe drunk.
But when I got to town, there wasn’t a single soul in sight.
I don’t mean that as a figure of speech. Literally—no one. Cars parked, lights still on in some shops, a radio playing in a barber’s window. But no people. Not one. Not even a damn stray dog.
At first, I figured they’d evacuated. But there were no signs of panic. Everything was tidy. Too tidy. That kind of eerie order that feels… prepared. Like someone arranged the whole town to be looked at from the outside. You know?
Josh’s house was open. Not forced. The door just didn’t have a lock anymore.
His stuff was there—work coat by the door, his favorite mug with dry coffee at the bottom, guitar in its usual corner… but no trace of him. I found his journal. A few torn-out pages hidden behind a shelf.
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They said weird shit.
“You don’t see them until they see you.”
“They don’t fly. They float. Like the air belongs to them.”
“The red dust is skin. Theirs. They’re shedding to look human.”
I laughed. I mean, how could I not? My brother had issues, sure. But this was straight-up crazy.
That night, I slept on the couch. I dreamed about him. Saw him standing out in the field behind the house, staring at the sky. I called to him, but he didn’t answer. Just raised his arm and pointed up.
When I woke up, my mouth was full of dust. Red. Metallic. Like powdered rust.
Since then, I’ve… I’ve lost track of how many days it’s been. The kitchen clock’s stuck at 4:17. Outside, the sun sets and rises again, but never in the same place. Sometimes the night lasts thirty minutes. Other times, fourteen hours.
And I’ve started seeing things.
First it was a shape in the trees—too tall. Too thin. Then a voice calling me from the basement in my mother’s voice—and Mom’s been dead since 2009. Last night, something touched my back while I was pissing in the laundry sink.
I turned around.
No one there.
Just red dust on the floor… in the shape of footprints.
I’ve stopped looking for Josh. Not because I gave up. But because I think I found him. And it’s not him. Not really.
I saw him today. Standing in front of the bathroom mirror, like he didn’t quite know how to move his face. I watched him smile—but it was a weightless smile. Like his skin wasn’t fastened properly.
He didn’t speak. Just looked at me. And his eyes… weren’t eyes. They were reflections of stars. Not shining. Pulling.
Tonight, I’m going to follow him. I’m past being afraid. Now I just want to know. To understand.
Maybe, when I’m done changing, he’ll let me in.
Maybe, if I stop resisting, the dust won’t burn in my lungs anymore.
Because I’m starting to get what Josh meant.
The stars are too close.
And all they want…
is for us to let them in.