The sky is no longer a canopy; it is a bruised, leaking wound. As the sun surrenders to the horizon, the violet hues of the afternoon deepen into a saturated indigo that feels heavy, as if the atmosphere has gained physical mass. Audiam feels the temperature plummet—a sudden, sharp thermal-drop that makes the sweat on her neck turn to ice.
She carries Paw-paw against her chest. The puppy is a frantic bundle of kinetic energy, his heart beating a rapid thrum-thrum-thrum against her sternum. Buddy stays locked to her right thigh, his shoulder brushing her jeans with every stride. He is a tether to reality. She can feel the tension in his musculature, a coiled readiness that vibrates through her leg.
They are moving toward the outskirts of the suburb, leaving the geometric rows of houses for the irregular terrain of the town's forested park. Her father leads, his flashlight beam cutting a frantic, erratic path through the deepening gloom. The light is weak, flickering as the batteries struggle against the ambient electromagnetic interference. Behind him, her mother grips the straps of a heavy hiking pack, her eyes darting toward every shadow.
The ground beneath Audiam's boots changes. The smooth, predictable vibration of asphalt gives way to the dampened, complex textures of earth and leaf litter. She feels the crunch of dry twigs through her soles—a sharp, splintering feedback that she treats with the caution of a landmine. In the distance, the town is a silhouette of dying lights. The power grid is undergoing a cascading failure; transformers blow with silent, brilliant flashes of blue light that Audiam feels as sudden atmospheric pressure waves against her skin.
Her father stops. He turns to them, his flashlight catching the dust motes dancing in the ionized air. He signs, his movements frantic and clipped—the "shorthand" of a man who is terrified.
"The high school. It's a designated shelter. Concrete walls. Backup generators. We go there."
Audiam watches his hands, but her internal focus is elsewhere. She looks back at the houses they just left. Under the canopy of an old willow tree, the "Watcher" she saw earlier is no longer a statue. The UV-stasis has evaporated with the setting sun. The grey silhouette is lengthening, stretching its limbs with a fluid, terrifying elasticity. It doesn't move like an animal; it moves like ink dropped into water, swirling and expanding.
She taps her father's shoulder, a sharp, urgent strike. She points toward the tree.
By the time he turns his light toward the willow, there is nothing there but a lingering cloud of gray particulate. The entity has already moved into the deeper shadows.
"Don't look back," her mother signs, her hands shaking so violently the message is almost unreadable. "Keep moving. Eyes on the path."
They reach the high school—a brutalist slab of concrete and brick that feels like a fortress in the dark. The parking lot is a chaos of abandoned vehicles and fleeing families. Audiam can see the mouths of people moving—screaming, shouting, crying—but to her, it is a silent film of panic. She focuses on the vibrations. The air is thick with the thud of slamming car doors and the heavy, rhythmic beat of running feet.
As they approach the main entrance, a surge of people pushes against the glass doors. The vibration of the crowd is overwhelming—a jagged, dissonant frequency that travels from the concrete through her bones. It feels like a physical assault. Buddy presses closer to her, a low, constant pressure that helps her find her center.
Inside, the gymnasium is a cavern of echoes she will never hear. Hundreds of people are huddled on bleachers and floor mats. The backup generators are humming, a deep, mechanical growl that Audiam feels in the soles of her feet. It is a grounding sensation, a reminder of the mechanical world that is rapidly dying.
Her family finds a corner near the equipment room. Her father sets down the bags and immediately begins to sign to a man in a neon vest—a volunteer or a first responder.
Audiam sits on the floor, pulling the dogs into the small space between her legs. She reaches out, her fingers tracing the grout lines between the gym's floorboards. She is searching for the earth's pulse.
"Are we safe here?" she signs to her mother.
Her mother is staring at the high windows near the ceiling. Outside, the sky has turned a terrifying shade of neon green, the result of the ionospheric collapse interacting with the rising moon.
"For now," her mother signs. "The walls are thick. The light is constant. They said the creatures stay away from high-intensity artificial light."
Audiam frowns. She remembers the "Watcher" under the willow tree. It hadn't been stopped by the neighbor's porch light; it had simply waited for the man's shadow to cover it. She looks at the overhead lights in the gym. They are flickering, struggling against the EMI.
"The lights are weak," Audiam signs.
Her mother doesn't respond. She is watching her father, who has returned from the volunteer. His face is gaunt.
"The Gate is widening," he signs, his movements slow and defeated. "It's not just here. It's everywhere. The radio—they got a signal from London before the static took over. The Watchers are in the cities. Millions of them. They're calling it 'The Great Stillness' because they don't move in the light. But when the power goes out..."
He doesn't finish the sign. He doesn't have to.
The night wears on, a long, agonizing stretch of sensory deprivation and hyper-awareness. Audiam doesn't sleep. She watches the shadows in the rafters. She feels the breathing of the dogs—Buddy's deep, rhythmic lung expansion and Paw-paw's shallow, puppy-like gasps.
Around midnight, the vibration changes.
It isn't the generator. It isn't the crowd. It is a sharp, percussive crack that travels through the concrete walls. It feels like a bone snapping.
Audiam stands up, her eyes wide. She looks at her father. He is asleep, his head resting on a backpack. Her mother is nodding off.
Audiam taps Buddy's head. Alert. The dog is already standing. His ears are swivelled toward the back of the gymnasium, toward the locker rooms. He isn't barking, but his body is a line of pure tension.
A second vibration. Thump. This one is heavier. It's followed by a wave of air pressure that rolls across the gym floor. People on the mats begin to sit up, their faces etched with confusion. They are hearing something—a sound that Audiam can only interpret through their reactions. They are looking toward the double doors that lead to the hallways.
The generator flickers. The lights dim to a dull orange glow, then surge back to brightness.
Audiam moves toward her father, shaking him awake.
"Something is inside," she signs, her hands moving with frantic precision.
He blinks, disoriented. "What? The guards are at the doors."
"Not the doors," Audiam signs, pointing to the floor. "The vents. I felt it. A heavy movement. Not human."
As if in response, the lights fail.
The darkness is absolute for three seconds—a terrifying, velvet void. Then, the emergency red lights kick in, casting the gym in a rhythmic, crimson strobe.
The vibration hits her now—a series of rapid, skittering impacts. Tap-tap-tap-tap. It's the sound of silicate limbs moving across the hardwood floor.
The crowd erupts into motion. Audiam sees the mouths opening in screams, the hands reaching out in the red dark. She sees the first silhouette.
It emerges from the equipment room—the very room they are sitting next to. It isn't a shadow; it's a void. It is a grey, translucent shape that seems to absorb the red light. It moves with a terrifying, stop-motion gait, flickering from one position to another as if it is skipping frames of time.
It reaches for a woman sleeping on a mat just ten feet away.
Audiam's father grabs her arm, pulling her toward the exit. She scoops up Paw-paw, tucking him under her arm like a football. Buddy is at her heels, his teeth bared.
They run. The gym is no longer a shelter; it is a hunting ground. In the red strobe light, the Watchers are fluid, lethal shapes. They don't use weapons. They simply touch. And where they touch, the human body vitrifies—turning into a statue of grey ash in a matter of seconds before collapsing under its own weight.
They burst through the exit into the hallway. The air here is colder, smelling of ozone and wet plaster. Her father leads them toward the science wing, his hand clutching Audiam's wrist so hard it bruises.
They reach a lab and duck inside. Her father slams the door and slides a heavy wooden desk across it.
The room is silent. Audiam leans against a lab table, her breath coming in ragged gasps. She puts Paw-paw down. The puppy is whimpering—a vibration she feels in her knees.
"We can't stay here," her mother signs, her eyes wild in the moonlight streaming through the window. "They're inside. How did they get inside?"
"The vents," Audiam signs. "They don't have bones. they can fit anywhere."
Her father is looking at the lab equipment. He reaches for a rack of glass beakers, his hands searching for something. He finds a bottle of isopropyl alcohol and a box of matches.
"Fire," he signs. "The light... it locks them. But fire... fire might destroy the silicate structure."
It is a theory. A desperate, unproven theory.
Audiam moves to the window. Outside, the world is a landscape of violet and gray. The Watchers are everywhere now—standing in the parking lot, perched on the roofs of cars, clinging to the sides of buildings. They are waiting for the red emergency lights of the school to fail. They are waiting for the total dark.
She looks at the dogs. Buddy is staring at the door. He isn't looking at the wood; he is looking at the gap at the bottom.
Audiam feels it before she sees it. A fine, grey dust is beginning to blow under the door. It isn't dust. It's the precursor—the atmospheric displacement that happens before a Watcher manifests.
She grabs her father's arm and points.
He reacts instantly, striking a match. The flame is a tiny, flickering orange star in the gloom. He tips the bottle of alcohol onto a pile of lab coats and throws the match.
The flare is brilliant, a sudden wall of white-hot light that fills the room.
The grey dust under the door instantly vitrifies—locking into a jagged, glass-like barrier that plugs the gap.
For a moment, they have light. For a moment, they have a shield.
But the fire is consuming the oxygen. And outside, the sun is still hours away.
Audiam signs to her family, her hands steady despite the roar of the fire she cannot hear.
"The roof. We go to the roof. The Gate is there. If we can see the Gate, we can see where they are coming from."
It is a gamble. But in a world where the shadows have teeth, the only way out is up.