When The Dead Come Knocking

When The Dead Come Knocking

Gavin

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Thanksgiving was supposed to be quiet this year, just me wrapped in a blanket, the Macy' s Parade playing to an empty house. My mom and brother, Maria and Leo, died a week ago, leaving me utterly alone. Then my phone buzzed. It was Mom's number. I answered, terrified, and a thin, distorted voice whispered, "Sweetheart, we're almost home." And there they were, knocking on the door. Pale, stiff, holding grocery bags. They acted normal, but their movements were jerky, their eyes hollow. They even removed their own memorial photos from the mantelpiece. My dread deepened when they insisted I drink a strange concoction, a glass of cider or eggnog with a sinister black ash residue at the bottom. What was going on? Why were they here, yet so unnerving? Were they trying to hurt me, or was something far more twisted at play? Just as I felt a strange connection fading, a chilling reflection in a window revealed the impossible truth: the reflection wasn't mine. It was the face of the boy who killed me. It wasn't their accident. It was mine. And they had brought me back.

Introduction

Thanksgiving was supposed to be quiet this year, just me wrapped in a blanket, the Macy' s Parade playing to an empty house. My mom and brother, Maria and Leo, died a week ago, leaving me utterly alone.

Then my phone buzzed. It was Mom's number. I answered, terrified, and a thin, distorted voice whispered, "Sweetheart, we're almost home."

And there they were, knocking on the door. Pale, stiff, holding grocery bags. They acted normal, but their movements were jerky, their eyes hollow. They even removed their own memorial photos from the mantelpiece.

My dread deepened when they insisted I drink a strange concoction, a glass of cider or eggnog with a sinister black ash residue at the bottom.

What was going on? Why were they here, yet so unnerving? Were they trying to hurt me, or was something far more twisted at play?

Just as I felt a strange connection fading, a chilling reflection in a window revealed the impossible truth: the reflection wasn't mine. It was the face of the boy who killed me. It wasn't their accident. It was mine. And they had brought me back.

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My world revolved around Jax Harding, my older brother's captivating rockstar friend. From sixteen, I adored him; at eighteen, I clung to his casual promise: "When you're 22, maybe I'll settle down." That offhand comment became my life's beacon, guiding every choice, meticulously planning my twenty-second birthday as our destiny. But on that pivotal day in a Lower East Side bar, clutching my gift, my dream exploded. I overheard Jax' s cold voice: "Can't believe Savvy's showing up. She' s still hung up on that stupid thing I said." Then the crushing plot: "We' re gonna tell Savvy I' m engaged to Chloe, maybe even hint she' s pregnant. That should scare her off." My gift, my future, slipped from my numb fingers. I fled into the cold New York rain, devastated by betrayal. Later, Jax introduced Chloe as his "fiancée" while his bandmates mocked my "adorable crush"-he did nothing. As an art installation fell, he saved Chloe, abandoning me to severe injury. In the hospital, he came for "damage control," then shockingly shoved me into a fountain, leaving me to bleed, calling me a "jealous psycho." How could the man I loved, who once saved me, become this cruel and publicly humiliate me? Why was my devotion seen as an annoyance to be brutally extinguished with lies and assault? Was I just a problem, my loyalty met with hatred? I would not be his victim. Injured and betrayed, I made an unshakeable vow: I was done. I blocked his number and everyone connected to him, severing ties. This was not an escape; this was my rebirth. Florence awaited, a new life on my terms, unburdened by broken promises.

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