The note under the door was written in red pen, the words sharp and urgent:
GO TO THE PHARMACY. BRING BACK THE PILLS. DON’T TALK TO ANYONE.
Jonas didn’t remember anyone sliding it there. He didn’t remember owning a red pen.
The street outside felt wrong. The light was too yellow, like it had filtered through old nicotine-stained curtains. People moved slow, their necks turning too far when they glanced at him. A man in a gray coat stood still in the middle of the road, lips moving, no sound.
The pharmacy wasn’t where it should have been. Instead of its glass doors, a single narrow hallway stretched on, smelling faintly of dust and something sweetly rotten. Jonas stepped in.
The ceiling got lower. The walls got closer. Somewhere far off, a woman giggled like she was whispering into his ear. His breathing echoed back to him—except it was too fast, too loud, as if someone else was breathing along.
At the end of the hall, there was a counter. Behind it, his mother smiled, her teeth sharp and perfect, holding a white paper bag.
“You’re late,” she said.
Jonas reached for the bag, but she pulled it back.
“You forgot to lock the door when you left.”
The lights went out.
Somewhere behind him, the sound of his apartment door creaking open filled the hall.
GO TO THE PHARMACY. BRING BACK THE PILLS. DON’T TALK TO ANYONE.
Jonas didn’t remember anyone sliding it there. He didn’t remember owning a red pen.
The street outside felt wrong. The light was too yellow, like it had filtered through old nicotine-stained curtains. People moved slow, their necks turning too far when they glanced at him. A man in a gray coat stood still in the middle of the road, lips moving, no sound.
The pharmacy wasn’t where it should have been. Instead of its glass doors, a single narrow hallway stretched on, smelling faintly of dust and something sweetly rotten. Jonas stepped in.
The ceiling got lower. The walls got closer. Somewhere far off, a woman giggled like she was whispering into his ear. His breathing echoed back to him—except it was too fast, too loud, as if someone else was breathing along.
At the end of the hall, there was a counter. Behind it, his mother smiled, her teeth sharp and perfect, holding a white paper bag.
“You’re late,” she said.
Jonas reached for the bag, but she pulled it back.
“You forgot to lock the door when you left.”
The lights went out.
Somewhere behind him, the sound of his apartment door creaking open filled the hall.
