They wouldn't let me near her. Said she was "in critical condition." Said the driver "couldn't explain what happened." He said she just stepped into the street, like she didn't see the truck at all. But I knew. I knew she was trying to warn me. She must've seen something.
When I got home, the comic was waiting for me again.
On my desk.
Open to a new page.
This time, it showed my mom.
She was in the kitchen. Holding the comic. Eyes wide.
The next panel: her collapsing to the floor.
I ran downstairs.
She was at the kitchen table. The comic… in her hands.
Open.
"Mom!" I shouted.
She turned, barely. Her lips moved, but no sound came out.
Then she fell.
I caught her before she hit the ground.
Her body was cold, but breathing. Shallow, like something had stolen half her air.
I dragged her to the couch, heart thundering in my chest. I wanted to call someone, anyone, but the phone line was dead. My cell wouldn't turn on. It just showed static. White, crackling noise.
The comic was still on the kitchen table.
Closed. But vibrating.
I didn't touch it.
That night, I tried to burn it.
I poured lighter fluid on the pages, lit a match, dropped it onto the book.
The flame hissed—then went out. The matchstick was gone. Like it had been swallowed.
The book was dry.
I tore pages. Ripped the cover. The pieces kept reshaping in my hands. Panels redrew themselves like living things.
Worse, the drawings began to move.
Subtle at first. Eyes blinking. Mouths shifting.
Then they started to speak.
Not in words. In whispers. Wet, papery sounds that came from the spine.
I dropped it, backing away.
On my bedroom wall, my reflection in the mirror was grinning.
I wasn't.