Charlie

Imagine this: a cold, quiet night, the kind where every creak in the house feels like it’s holding its breath. Emma’s dog, Charlie, lies on the rug, half-asleep, when she hears something—a whisper, almost human, drifting up from the floor.

“Emma…”

Her blood runs cold. She stares, feeling a trickle of dread rise up her spine. It couldn’t be him… could it?

“Emma…” the voice insists, gentle but strange, like it’s peeling away layers of language just to form her name. She feels her heart hammer in her chest. Slowly, she turns, seeing Charlie’s eyes—too intense, too aware. She can barely breathe.

“Emma…do you hear me?” Charlie asks, his mouth barely moving but his eyes gleaming with a depth she’d never seen.

She stumbles backward, knees nearly buckling, a scream trapped in her throat. It’s her dog. Her dog—speaking to her. She wants to turn away, to run, to call someone, but something keeps her there, frozen, transfixed in horror.

“I’ve watched you,” he continues, his voice low, each word feeling…wrong. “Watched you every day.”

He inches forward, his gaze never breaking, a strange light in his eyes, something she can’t escape.

“I’ve seen everything.”