Clay had always been the kind of kid neighbors smiled at. Running errands, carrying groceries for old Mrs. Lane, helping Mr. Harlow stack firewood — he never asked for anything back. His father, Dr. Marshell, used to joke that Clay had inherited his bedside manner before he'd ever stepped into a clinic.
But that was before the sickness.
A year ago, his father's body had begun betraying him, slow but relentless, until the hospital became more his home than the little house they shared. Clay stopped being just a student after that. He still went to class when he could, but missed more days than not. Instead of worrying about exams, he worried about water bills and empty cupboards. At fifteen, he was a freshman in high school and a full-time grocery boy, his backpack traded for delivery bags.
The neighbors tried to help where they could — a pot of stew left on their porch, a few coins pressed into his hand — but Clay never leaned too hard on them. His father needed every cent for treatment, so Clay scraped together what he could from part-time jobs. It wasn't much, but it was theirs.
---
That evening, the winter air bit at his cheeks as he pedaled through Gravesville, earbuds snug in his ears. The wheels of his secondhand bike rattled against the uneven pavement, the delivery bag strapped across his chest. The order was simple: a packet of dry fish chips and a can of diet soda. Easy.
Until he saw the address.
He coasted to a stop at the cemetery gates, squinting at the glowing screen. The order pin blinked stubbornly inside. He frowned.
"Seriously?" he muttered. But work was work.
Pushing through the iron gates, he pedaled slowly along the gravel path, his breath fogging in the cold air. That's when he spotted them — two figures slumped against the stone wall just inside, both dressed head-to-toe in black.
Homeless, maybe. Or drunk. Clay's first instinct was to keep going. He went small distance into the cemetery but stopped deciding it was better to call the customer.
So he took out his phone and called, a ringtone chimed — seemingly from the girl's pocket.
Clay blinked, ended the call. The ringtone stopped. Just to be sure, he hit redial. Again, her pocket chimed.
"…What the hell?"
He crouched, poking her shoulder lightly.
The girl's eyes flew open, sharp and alert. She sat up with a sudden grin, snatching the bag out of Clay's hands before he could react. Without a word, she tore open the chips and stuffed them into her mouth, crunching noisily.
Clay froze. "…Uh. The money?"
She raised a finger — wait — and went right back to chewing. Half the bag was gone in seconds. Still chewing, she leaned over and shook her companion. "Mm-mmfh," she mumbled through the food.
The guy stirred, groaning, eyes half-closed. His mouth opened in a wordless yawn. The girl tipped the rest of the chips into his mouth like she was feeding a baby bird.
Clay's jaw dropped.
The boy swallowed, and something strange happened — a shiver passed through his body, like a current jolting him awake. His shoulders straightened, eyes flashing with sudden energy. He exhaled deeply, then smiled faintly.
The girl downed the soda in one long gulp, crushed the can with one hand, and tossed it aside with a satisfied sigh.
She waved at her companion and pointed at Clay.
The boy reached into his wallet, pulled out a few notes, and handed them to Clay with a polite nod. Then he turned and followed the girl deeper into the cemetery, both of them slipping into the shadows between the tombstones as though they belonged there.
Clay stood frozen, cash in hand, trying to process what just happened. He pocketed the cash, got back on his bike, and pedaled toward the gate.
The ringtone again. His phone this time. The hospital's number lit up the screen.
His stomach dropped.
He yanked the earbuds out, fumbling with the answer button. "Hello?!"
The voice on the other end was sharp, urgent. He didn't hear half the words before the meaning hit him: emergency.
Clay's hands slipped. His bike toppled. His phone hit the ground with a crack. But he didn't care.
He was already sprinting toward the hospital.
*******
Clay burst through the sliding doors, nearly colliding with a nurse carrying a clipboard. She opened her mouth to speak, but he was already sprinting toward the stairs. His breath came sharp and ragged as he climbed, his heart pounding louder with each floor.
He pushed open the door to his father's room—and froze. The bed was empty, sheets stripped bare. Panic shot through him.
He grabbed the first nurse he saw passing in the hall.
"Where's the patient who was here? My father—where is he?"
The woman blinked, startled by his urgency. "He was transferred to intensive care, life support unit. Down the hall, second left—"
But Clay didn't wait. He was already running again, legs burning, chest tight.
When he reached the ICU wing, two staff members intercepted him before he could push through the heavy doors.
"Sir, you can't go in there," one of them said firmly, holding out a hand. "You need to wait outside."
Clay shook his head violently. "No, I need to see him! He's my father!" He tried to twist past, but another nurse caught his arm.
"Please—let us do our work," the nurse urged. "The doctors are with him now. You'll only get in the way."
"I don't care!" Clay's voice cracked, desperation spilling out of him. "I need to—"
A weak cough filtered through the narrow opening of the ICU doors.
"Clay…"
The boy froze. He turned his head toward the sound. His father's voice, thin and fragile, reached him like a thread. "It's… all right. Just wait for me… okay?"
Clay's shoulders slumped. His legs lost all fight. Slowly, he let the staff guide him back as the doors closed again, shutting him out with a soft hiss.
He sank into a chair in the waiting area, bouncing his knee restlessly, his fingers clenched together so tightly they trembled. The sterile white walls pressed in, the steady hum of machines beyond the door the only reminder that his father was still alive.
Minutes bled into each other before a nurse approached, her face set with professional calm.
"Clay?"
He stood immediately. "Is he okay? Is my dad fine?"
The nurse hesitated—just long enough for his stomach to twist. Her voice came measured, careful. "Your father is very critical. The machines are keeping him stable, but… it could change at any moment."
Clay swallowed hard, his throat dry. "Can I see him?"
"Not yet," she said gently. "We'll let you in once the doctors finish. For now, we need you to sign some consent forms. It's standard for patients in life support." She held out a clipboard.
Clay stared at the papers, the lines of text blurring as his hands shook. He signed where she pointed, then returned to his chair, collapsing into it as if the weight of the pen had drained him.
Now there was nothing to do but wait.
Clay sat slouched in the plastic chair, his eyes fixed on the floor tiles. The minutes dragged, each one louder than the last, punctuated only by the distant rhythm of shoes on linoleum and the muted buzz of hospital machinery. Every so often he'd glance at the ICU doors, waiting for them to open, waiting for someone to call his name. But the doors stayed shut.
He caught a nurse as she walked by.
"When… when can I go in?" he asked, his voice rough from silence.
The nurse knelt slightly to meet his eyes. "Not yet, sweetheart. The doctors are still with him. You should… you should go out for some air. Stretch your legs a little."
"I'll stay," Clay muttered, his tone leaving no room for argument.
The nurse studied his face. The boy's skin looked pale under the harsh lights, dark circles weighing down his eyes. With a small sigh, she slipped a coin into his palm, closing his fingers around it.
"Then at least get something from the vending machine. Down the hall, on the left. Juice, biscuits, whatever helps you stay awake."
Clay blinked, then gave her a faint nod. "Thanks."
The vending machine hummed faintly as he stood in front of it, tapping the buttons. A can clattered into the slot, followed by a packet of biscuits. As he crouched to pick them up, a ripple moved across the glass. His eyes caught the reflection—something small, cloaked in a yellow raincoat, gliding silently down the hallway behind him.
He turned.
Nothing. Just empty floor stretching into the dim corridor.
He swallowed and shook his head. Probably just tired. He tore open the biscuits and sank onto a bench, forcing himself to chew. The sweetness sat heavy on his tongue.
When he returned, the nurse smiled faintly and sat nearby.
"Better?" she asked.
"Not really."
"That juice any good?"
"It's warm."
She chuckled softly. "That's vending machines for you. Still better than an empty stomach."
Clay shrugged, nibbling another biscuit. She kept talking, light questions about school, about his bike, about anything but what waited behind the ICU doors. He answered in short bursts, grateful for the distraction even if he wouldn't admit it.
Then the sound cut through their small conversation.
A piercing alarm. Sharp. Urgent.
Clay jumped to his feet. "What is that?"
The nurse's face tightened. "Code Blue." She rose quickly, gripping his arm. "Stay here, Clay."
But he didn't. He followed as she hurried down the hall, his pulse hammering as the ICU doors burst open. The sight slammed into him like a fist—doctors crowded his father's bed, machines wailing, paddles pressed to his chest. The room pulsed with frantic orders, the crack of electricity, the frantic rise and fall of voices.
And then—amidst the chaos—Clay saw it.
Through the bodies of nurses and the flashes of light, the figure in the yellow raincoat leaned over his father's face. Its hood shadowed its features, but Clay saw the way it bent, as if pulling something out of him, sucking the very breath from his body.
The machines shrieked a long, unbroken note.
BEEEEEEEP.
Clay's knees buckled. He crumpled to the ground, unable to scream, unable to move. His father was gone.
---
Hours blurred into gray. Papers were set before him, boxes ticked, lines signed with a trembling hand. The nurse who had tried to comfort him stood nearby, guilt heavy in her eyes.
"I'm so sorry, Clay," she whispered.
He didn't answer. Couldn't.
When he finally stepped out of the hospital doors, the night air hit him like ice. His chest tightened as he spotted it again—the raincoat figure moving along the edge of the parking lot, its gait slow, unnatural.
Clay's breath quickened. He marched toward it, calling out hoarsely, "Hey! You—stop!"
The figure didn't react.
He reached out and grabbed the hood, yanking it back.
What stared back at him wasn't human. An empty husk, hollow skin stretched over bone, with nothing where eyes should be—only a cavernous, gaping mouth that stretched too wide.
Clay stumbled back, heart hammering. The raincoat slipped from its shoulders, falling to the asphalt. Beneath, its frame was twisted, limbs spindly and wrong.
Clay's voice caught in his throat. "What in the—"
A sound came. A voice.
"You can see me," the creature whispered, its mouth curling into something like a smile.
Clay's breath stopped.
"You aren't supposed to see me." The creature stepped closer, its voice a rasping echo of his father's. "Seeing means special."
Clay fell backward, scrambling with his hands, shoes scraping against the pavement.
The thing stretched its hands toward him, impossibly long, its grin splitting wider.
"And special…" It leaned closer, the voice warping. "…means delicious."