The walk back to his apartment felt longer than usual. Every shadow cast by a trash bin or a fire escape seemed to stretch toward him like reaching fingers. Helle kept his head down, the old man's words—the scent of the non-human—looping in his mind like a broken record.
He was crossing the intersection at 4th and Main when a sudden weight slammed into his side.
Helle stumbled, nearly hitting the pavement, as a pair of thin, trembling arms wrapped around his waist. He looked down to see a woman. She was small, draped in a tattered gray cardigan that smelled of mothballs and wet rain. Her white hair was a chaotic nest, and her eyes—wide, milky, and darting—were fixed on the empty street behind them.
"Please," she rasped, her voice a terrified wheeze. "Don't let them take me. You have to help me, boy. Please."
Helle tried to pry her hands off, but she clung to his hoodie with a strength that defied her frail appearance. "Whoa, hey! Lady, let go. What's wrong?"
"They're right there!" she shrieked, pointing a shaking finger at a patch of darkness beneath a closed storefront awning. "The three of them. The tall one in the coat… he has no face. They've been following me since the park. They won't stop. They're waiting for me to be alone."
Helle followed her gaze. He squinted until his eyes ached. There was nothing. Just a flickering street lamp and a pile of discarded cardboard boxes.
"There's no one there," Helle said, his voice softening with the realization that he wasn't dealing with a victim, but someone lost in a mental fog. "Look, it's just us. It's okay."
"No!" She gripped his arm so hard her fingernails dug into his skin. Her teeth were chattering so loudly it sounded like pebbles in a tin can. "They're behind the mailbox now. Can't you see the way the shadows are moving? They're crouching. They're getting ready to jump!"
Helle looked again. The mailbox sat solitary and silent under the pale moonlight. The street was a vacuum of life. "Ma'am, where do you live? I can call someone for you."
The woman let out a whimpering sob, burying her face in his shoulder. She was vibrating with a primal, visceral terror that began to bleed into Helle's own chest. It was infectious. He found himself looking over his shoulder, checking the alleyways he'd just passed.
"I can't go back," she whispered into his chest. "If I go back to my place, they'll be inside. They're already in the hallways. Please. Just for tonight. Don't leave me out here. If you leave me, I'm dead. They'll eat my soul before the sun comes up."
Helle looked around. The police station was ten blocks away, and the nearest shelter was closed. He looked at the woman—terrified, helpless, and seemingly invisible to the world.
"Fine," he muttered, more to himself than her. "Come on. My place is just around the block. But just for tonight."
The walk was agonizing. Every few steps, the woman would jerk back, gasping that the three men were closing the distance. Helle had to practically drag her, his heart hammering against his ribs. He felt like he was participating in a play where only she knew the script. By the time they reached the door to his cramped, third-floor walk-up, he was drenched in a cold sweat.
He fumbled with his keys, pushed her inside, and locked all three deadbolts behind them.
His apartment was a tomb of creative clutter—stacks of notebooks, empty coffee mugs, and half-finished sketches. It was his sanctuary, a place where no one else ever set foot. Bringing her here felt like a violation of his own survival rules, but the way she collapsed onto his threadbare sofa, weeping with relief, made the guilt subside.
"I'll… I'll make you something," he said awkwardly.
He scrambled some eggs and toasted the last two slices of bread he had. She ate like a starving animal, her eyes never leaving the locked door.
Once she finished, Helle brought out a heavy wool blanket. "You sleep here. I'll be in the chair across from you. I don't sleep much anyway."
She gripped the blanket, pulling it up to her chin. "Thank you," she whispered, her eyes finally fluttering shut.
Helle sat in his armchair, watching her. He expected to stay awake—he always did—but the exhaustion of the night and the strange adrenaline of the encounter finally took their toll. For the first time in weeks, his eyes grew heavy. The silence of the apartment felt heavy, protective. He drifted into a shallow, dreamless haze.
When the first gray light of dawn filtered through the grime-streaked window, Helle jolted awake. His neck was stiff, and his limbs felt like lead.
"Ma'am?" he croaked, rubbing his eyes.
He turned toward the sofa.
It was empty.
Helle stood up, his heart skipping a beat. The heavy wool blanket wasn't tossed aside or crumpled on the floor. It was folded with military precision, tucked neatly over the back of the couch. The pillow was perfectly fluffed, sitting exactly where it had been before she arrived.
He rushed to the small kitchen table. The plate he'd served her eggs on was gone. He looked in the sink—it was empty. He checked the trash—no eggshells. He ran to the door. All three deadbolts were still thrown from the inside.
There was no way for her to have left without him hearing the heavy metallic clack of the locks. There was no way she could have cleaned the kitchen and vanished into thin air while he sat five feet away.
Helle stood in the center of the room, the silence now feeling like a physical pressure against his eardrums. He walked over to the sofa and pressed his hand against the cushion.
It was ice cold. Not a lingering trace of body heat. No scent of mothballs. No indentation from where a body had rested.
It was as if the woman had never existed at all.
He looked at the window, then back at the door. A slow, crawling shiver traveled up his spine. He wasn't just tired anymore. He was terrified. Because if the woman wasn't real, then the three men she was running from...
He didn't want to think about it.