Date: Midnight, April 1, 2025
Location: Seattle, Washington
The clock on Sarah’s phone ticked over to 12:00 AM as she stepped into the stairwell. The hum she’d felt in her apartment grew louder, a pulsing drone that seemed to seep from the concrete itself. She paused, gripping the railing. The lights flickered again, then steadied, casting long shadows down the steps. Her building—an old, creaky relic in Belltown—wasn’t exactly high-tech, but this felt wrong. Too rhythmic. Too alive.
She shook it off. “Get a grip, Sarah,” she muttered, starting down the stairs. Jake’s call had rattled her, sure, but she wasn’t about to bolt from the city over some cryptic warning. She had a job to do—chase the story Mara wanted. Weird riots, flickering power, freaky livestreams. Probably just a bunch of bored kids with too much time and tech.
The lobby was empty when she reached it, the usual night guard absent from his desk. A half-eaten sandwich sat there, mayo oozing onto a napkin. She frowned, peering out the glass doors. Rain hammered the street, blurring the neon signs of bars and vape shops. No people, though—no drunks stumbling home, no cars. Just the storm and that hum, now joined by a faint chime, like bells tolling underwater.
Her phone buzzed—Mara again. “Check X. Tacoma’s going nuts. Video of some guy with claws.”
Sarah opened the app. A clip from @TacomaTruth showed a grainy scene: a man in a torn hoodie staggering through a parking lot, screaming. His hands—or what should’ve been hands—were elongated, tipped with black talons that gleamed under a streetlight. He swiped at a car, gashing the metal like tinfoil. The caption: “WTF is this? April Fools’ on steroids?” Comments ranged from “Fake AF” to “Call the cops, this ain’t a prank.”
She replayed it, squinting. The claws moved too naturally, the scream too raw. CGI didn’t bleed like that—dark streaks trailed his arm where he’d cut himself on the car. Her stomach twisted. “Okay… not kids,” she whispered.
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A thud outside snapped her attention back. Across the street, a figure slumped against a lamppost, hood up, swaying like they were drunk. Sarah hesitated, then pushed the door open, rain soaking her instantly. “Hey! You okay?” she called, voice nearly lost in the downpour.
The figure turned. Slowly. Too slowly. Their face was shadowed, but something glinted—eyes, too many, catching the light like a cat’s. Sarah froze, recorder slipping in her wet grip. The hum spiked, a wave of sound that made her teeth ache, and the figure lurched forward, arms dangling unnaturally long.
“Shit—” She stumbled back, slamming the door shut. The figure stopped, head tilting, then shambled off into an alley. Her heart pounded. “What the hell was that?”
Her phone rang—Jake’s number. She answered, breathless. “Jake! Where are you? What’s going on?”
“They’re here, Sarah,” he said, voice trembling. “The bells… you hear them? It’s starting. I didn’t want this—I tried to stop them—”
“Stop who? Jake, where are you?”
“Pioneer Square. The shelter. Don’t come, just—run. Please.” A sob broke his words. “I’m sorry.” The line went dead again.
Sarah stared at the phone, rain dripping from her hair onto the screen. Pioneer Square was ten minutes away by car. The shelter—he’d mentioned volunteering there months ago, some outreach group he’d gotten weirdly intense about. She’d brushed it off as him finding purpose after their parents died. Now… now she wasn’t sure.
The hum grew sharper, joined by distant shouts. She peeked outside again—no sign of the figure, but red and blue lights flashed a few blocks over. Cops, maybe. Or something worse. She pulled up X—more posts flooding in. Protests in Portland with that worm symbol. A hospital in Everett reporting “mass hysteria,” patients with mutations. A shaky video from Seattle’s waterfront: a group in robes, chanting, their leader raising a staff as the crowd parted for… something. Something big, scuttling, with too many legs.
Sarah’s breath hitched. This wasn’t a prank. This was real. And Jake was in it—whatever “it” was.
She grabbed her car keys from her pocket, decision made. Story or not, she had to find him. The bells tolled louder as she ran into the storm, oblivious to the eyes watching from the shadows—four of them, glowing, waiting.
