When the Moon Watched Back
The sound came again.
Low. Distant. Wrong.
It echoed through the street like something breathing in the dark, and every instinct in my body screamed at me to move. My skin prickled, heat crawling beneath it, as if the night itself had turned its attention toward me.
The boy stiffened.
His head tilted slightly, listening—not with his ears, but with something deeper. His expression hardened, that calm shattering into sharp focus.
"You need to go," he said.
This time, it wasn't a suggestion.
"I can't just—" I started.
He stepped closer, and the air between us changed. Colder. Thicker. My words tangled in my throat as my heart began to race for reasons I didn't understand.
"Listen to me," he said quietly. "Whatever you think you saw tonight, whatever you think you felt—forget it."
I laughed weakly. "That's not really possible."
His gaze dropped to my wrist, then to my throat, like he was cataloging something dangerous. His fingers curled at his side, trembling slightly.
"That's what scares me," he murmured.
The streetlight behind me flickered back on, casting long, twisted shadows across the road. They moved strangely, stretching farther than they should, writhing like they were alive.
I turned in a slow circle. "What is happening?"
His jaw tightened. "The barrier is thinning."
"The what?"
Before he could answer, the shadows at the far end of the street peeled away from the walls.
They stood up.
Not fully human. Not fully anything. Tall shapes with elongated limbs and faces that never quite settled into one form. Their presence pressed down on the air, making it hard to breathe.
I staggered back.
The boy was in front of me instantly.
"No matter what you see," he said, voice steady despite the fear flashing in his eyes, "do not run past me."
My heart slammed against my ribs. "You said to run."
"That was before," he replied. "Before they noticed you."
One of the shadows shifted closer, the streetlights dimming as it moved. I felt something tug inside my chest, like it recognized me.
The boy cursed under his breath.
"They can sense you," he said. "Your presence doesn't belong here."
"What does that mean?" I whispered.
"It means," he said slowly, "you're standing at the wrong place in the wrong world."
The creatures crept nearer.
He reached for my wrist again, hesitating for half a second—then his fingers closed around it. The contact sent a sharp jolt through me, not pain, but awareness. Cold and warmth colliding.
His eyes widened.
So did mine.
For a moment, the world fell silent.
He released me abruptly, stepping back like he'd been burned.
"You're not just human," he said.
"I am," I insisted, though my voice shook.
He shook his head. "No. If you were, they wouldn't be bowing."
I looked past him.
The shadows had stopped.
Lowered.
Waiting.
My breath hitched. "What am I?"
He met my gaze, something unreadable and ancient flickering behind his eyes.
"Someone the night remembers," he said.
Then the ground beneath us cracked with light.
And the street was no longer there.