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the road looked like it had been asleep for years. pale asphalt, cracked and silver under a washed-out morning sky. the kind of october light that feels hungover. trees bent inward on both sides, branches thin and skeletal, clutching at the air. somewhere, a bird screamed once and didn’t do it again.
tyler woke up in the middle of it.
his cheek was pressed to cool gravel, a half-moon of dirt marked his jaw. the world was too still. it took him a long time to remember how to move. a car in the distance hummed like something underwater, the sound slow and warped, then gone again.
he blinked. breathed. the breath came out white. it was cold enough to bite, like the end of a fever.
he sat up, wiped his hands against his jeans. his palms were scratched, one knuckle bleeding a little. the sky above him was pale gray, the color of milk left out too long. somewhere far off, a dog barked once and went silent.
tyler didn’t know how he’d gotten there.
the last thing he remembered was his bed; the flickering red of his digital clock reading 12:03 a.m., his sister’s radio muffled through the wall, his mother’s footsteps down the hall, the faint smell of detergent from the laundry room. then, nothing.
now it was morning, and he was miles away from home.
he stood, his head heavy, his chest hollow. leaves rustled across the road like dry whispers. he could see his breath when he exhaled. the air smelled like dirt and static. he felt the small tremor of panic start somewhere deep inside his ribs. how long had he been out here?
he turned toward the horizon, where the road dipped and disappeared into fog. a faint hum pulsed there—so faint he thought maybe it wasn’t sound at all, maybe just the inside of his skull vibrating. it felt familiar, though. it felt like something waiting.
the wind moved through the trees. tyler wrapped his arms around himself and started walking.
his feet made a dull sound against the asphalt. each step echoed, small and lonely. the woods on either side were thick with gray. he could see his breath in little clouds that disappeared as soon as he noticed them. the deeper he went, the more the air felt charged, like before a thunderstorm.
he tried to remember what day it was. october something. friday, maybe. school would’ve been today; algebra test, english essay due. his mother’s voice in his head: if you keep staying up so late, you’ll never get anything done, ty. he could almost hear her say it. he could almost see the kitchen light, the burnt toast, the cereal bowl with the chipped rim.
but none of it felt real now. everything was soaked in this strange stillness, like he was walking through a photograph that had forgotten how to move.
eventually, the road curved, and he saw a bike lying on its side in the ditch. his bike. the blue one with the torn handle grip. the metal was cold when he touched it. he didn’t remember riding it.
he dragged it up onto the road, dusted it off. the chain hung loose, a little bent. his reflection in the chrome handlebar looked warped—his face thinner, eyes too wide. he stared at it a second too long, then looked away.
the hum in the distance came back. louder this time, a low mechanical drone. maybe a plane overhead. maybe not. it didn’t sound like anything he could name.
by the time he reached the edge of town, the sun was weak and pale, just barely breaking through the fog. houses appeared, familiar shapes with slanted roofs and fenced yards, mailboxes leaning from rust. the kind of suburb that looked like it had been built all at once, every lawn the same, every driveway cracked in the same places.
he pedaled home slow. his thoughts kept looping, stuttering. he tried to tell himself it was just sleepwalking, that maybe he’d gone out last night without realizing, that it was fine. people did weird things sometimes. it didn’t mean anything.
but somewhere in the back of his head, something whispered that it did.
by the time he reached his street, his fingers were numb from the cold. he saw his house; the pale siding, the crooked basketball hoop above the garage, the half-dead maple tree in the yard. normal. painfully, boringly normal.
the front door was unlocked. it creaked when he pushed it open.
inside smelled like coffee and toast. his mom’s voice came from the kitchen. “ty? that you?”
he hesitated. “yeah,” he said, his voice rough. “just went for a ride.”
“at this hour? you’re gonna catch pneumonia. breakfast’s ready.”
he nodded, though she couldn’t see. his sneakers left faint dirt prints on the tile. the clock on the wall read 8:12 a.m. he’d been gone for at least eight hours.
he washed his hands in the sink. the water turned pink for a moment, blood from his knuckle swirling down the drain. when he looked up, his reflection in the mirror didn’t look right. his eyes were unfocused, pupils too wide. he looked like someone pretending to be him.
he shut off the tap and went to the kitchen.
his mom stood by the stove, hair tied up, still in her robe. she smiled when she saw him. “you look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
“didn’t sleep well,” he mumbled.
she poured him coffee anyway. “it’s that time of year again. everyone’s restless.” she set the mug in front of him, warm and heavy. “your sister’s got that halloween dance tonight. you going?”
he shrugged. “maybe.”
“you should. it’d be good for you.”
he stared into the coffee. the reflection rippled when he breathed.
she looked at him for a moment, like she wanted to ask something else, then didn’t. “eat something,” she said. “you’re pale.”
he forced down a piece of toast, the crust dry in his mouth. everything felt slightly off, like he was half a second behind reality. his mother’s voice, the radio, the hum of the fridge—all of it slightly misaligned, like a record spinning too slow.
he left for school before she could ask anything more.
the walk to middletown high was long, but he liked the quiet. october air, dead leaves sticking to his shoes, the sound of distant traffic. people were already putting up halloween decorations—plastic skeletons on lawns, paper bats in windows. everything smelled faintly like smoke and wet earth.
when he got to school, the flag was limp in the wind. groups of kids clustered near the front steps, talking too loud. he felt the usual distance between himself and them, like there was a sheet of glass separating him from everyone else. he could see their mouths move but couldn’t really hear them.
he went to homeroom. mr. davis droned about announcements, the upcoming election, the pep rally. tyler stared out the window, watching clouds drag across the sky. he doodled in the margins of his notebook; strange symbols, loops that became faces, faces that became something else.
he didn’t remember drawing them.
at lunch, some kid named josh dun sat two tables away. he was new, he moved here at the start of the semester. people liked him. he drummed on everything. tables, books, lockers. his hands always moving, like the rhythm lived somewhere under his skin and had to get out.
tyler had never talked to him, but sometimes he caught him looking. not in a weird way, just curious. today, when their eyes met, josh smiled, small and fleeting. tyler looked away before he could smile back.
the hum came again during biology. faint, deep in his skull. he pressed his palms to his ears, but it didn’t help. it wasn’t sound. it was vibration, pressure. he saw numbers in his head, flashing: 28:06:42:12.
he didn’t know what they meant. he wrote them down anyway.
when the bell rang, he stayed seated, staring at the page. the numbers glowed behind his eyelids when he blinked. something about them made his chest ache, like remembering a dream you’re not supposed to.
he walked home slow that afternoon. the air was colder, sharper. he could see his breath again. the sun sank low, light leaking through the trees like honey. everything felt thinner—the world, his body, his thoughts. he could almost see the edges of it all, like paper tearing.
when he reached his street, he saw the mailbox open, letters scattered on the sidewalk. one envelope had his name scrawled in red ink. no return address.
he picked it up. his hands were shaking a little. inside was a single piece of paper. the handwriting was messy, almost frantic.
“wake up.”
that was all it said.
tyler’s heartbeat stuttered. he looked around, but the street was empty. wind moved through the trees, cold and whispering.
he crumpled the letter into his pocket and went inside.
that night, he couldn’t sleep. the clock blinked red: 1:41 a.m. his room felt too small, the shadows restless. his breath came shallow, uneven. he turned onto his side, closed his eyes, tried to think of nothing.
somewhere deep in the walls, a low hum began again. steady. mechanical. or maybe inside him. he felt it beneath his skin, in the space between each heartbeat. it whispered like static, coaxing. he tried to ignore it. then it got louder.
get up.
his body obeyed before his mind could.
he rose from the bed, bare feet against cold floorboards. the air was thin, sharp. he didn’t remember opening the door, but now he was in the hallway. he didn’t remember stepping outside, but the next thing he knew, he was standing in the yard, grass slick with dew, night air pressed against his skin.
the street was empty. moonlight sat heavy on the houses. everything glowed faint blue. his heart thudded slow, like he was underwater.
and then—he wasn’t alone.
at the edge of the yard, near the streetlight, a figure stood. tall. motionless. its head tilted, ears long, almost animal. for a moment tyler thought it was a person in a costume, someone playing a trick. but then the figure stepped forward, and the mask caught the light—metallic, sharp, smiling wrong. a rabbit, or something pretending to be one.
tyler couldn’t move. his body felt pinned.
the air trembled.
the figure spoke. its voice was calm, low, distorted by something he couldn’t see.
“the world will end,” it said.
tyler’s mouth opened, no sound.
the figure tilted its head further, like studying him. “in twenty-eight days, six hours, forty-two minutes, and twelve seconds.”
the numbers burned behind his eyes.
he took a step back. “who are you?” he tried to say, but his voice barely existed.
the rabbit’s grin didn’t move, but he heard the answer anyway.
you already know.
the wind picked up. the trees bent, their shadows stretched across the yard. everything buzzed, vibrating with something that wasn’t wind or sound or time. and then, as sudden as it came, it stopped.
the figure was gone.
tyler stood alone in the yard, trembling, the night air too bright, the silence too loud. he stared at the spot where it had been until the world started tilting.
when he finally woke in his bed, morning light was spilling across the room. his feet were dirty. his hands smelled like metal.
and written on his wrist, big and black, were numbers he didn’t remember writing.
28:06:42:12.