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(AAA…) 4:37
🕑 Added 2025-06-26 08:59:50 +0000 UTCTaylor Hebert woke up at 4:37 AM.
The red digits of her alarm clock glared at her through the darkness, bright and perfectly still except for the steady blink between the hours and minutes.
It wasn't the time she normally woke—she didn’t even remember setting it—and yet her eyes had snapped open at that exact second. As if some part of her had been counting down in her sleep, acutely aware of the passage of time without ever truly waking.
She didn’t sit up. Not yet. For some reason, she lay there for a long time, her fingers clenching the edge of her blankets as she stared at her ceiling. There was no reason to be this wide awake this early, but every nerve in her body was alert. Her chest felt too tight, her breathing shallow like she was afraid of making too much noise. And her heartbeat was too loud in the silence of her room, as if it wasn’t in her chest anymore but in her ears, her throat, and the pulse of her fingertips.
As if her body was sounding an alarm her brain hadn’t caught up with yet.
A chill settled into her body.
She didn’t remember having a nightmare. No monsters, no running, or falling, or darkness pressing in from all sides. Nothing concrete she could put a name to. And yet… the sense of unease was overwhelming.
Something was definitely off.
The sensation was impossible to name, but it felt like standing in a place she’d been before and not remembering when or why. Like her body knew something her mind had forgotten.
Or maybe had refused to remember.
. . . . .
The morning passed in a haze.
Brushing her teeth, she stared too long at her reflection while her hands moved on autopilot. And even when she fumbled the toothpaste, she caught it before it hit the sink, barely registering the motion.
Her hair refused to behave. It stuck to her neck with a clammy persistence that made her want to shave it all off, a small, simmering irritation she couldn’t justify.
Because, try as she might, the feeling refused to leave her.
It wasn’t just déjà vu, at least not the casual kind you joked about in class or the “Oh hey, this feels familiar” kind. No. This was deeper than that, like the walls of her mind had been painted with prophetic arts. Like each step she took was tracing grooves already worn into the day.
By breakfast, her stomach twisted when she reached for the same cereal she always ate. Her hand hovered over the box, then pulled back. She grabbed bread instead and made toast. It wasn’t what she wanted, not really, but it felt like a real choice made in the moment. A small rebellion that made her oddly feel better.
Her father walked in, rubbing sleep from one eye, his tie hanging loose and shaving cream still clinging to half his jaw.
He paused when he saw her. “You okay?”
She blinked. “What?”
“You’re…” He frowned a little, eyes narrowing. “Never mind. You just looked like something was bothering you.”
It was the way he said it, like he’d said it before, and just like that, she wasn’t sure her small rebellion had been one at all.
At Winslow, the feeling only got worse.
The halls smelled like sweat, mold, and too many teenagers. That was normal. The whispering wasn’t.
Her name came up in the murmurs again and again throughout the day, impossible to ignore even though she tried. Emma’s laughter resounded down the corridor, and Taylor flinched before she turned the corner, before she could have possibly known they were there.
Sophia passed her without a glance, unusual, but Madison was there, her perfect teeth flashing from a too-wide smile, and Taylor quickly forgot why she found that unusual.
Taylor walked with her arms tucked in close, feet placed too carefully, like she was trying to avoid cracks that weren’t there.
The chill in her body had returned, accompanied by the loud beats of her heart that only her seemed to hear, drowning out Mr. Gladly’s voice during the first period. He was telling one of his stories, something about his college days, meant to win them over with forced charm. But she’d heard it before. Not just the story, but the exact words in the exact same phrasing. The same clumsy joke, and the same student coughing to cover a laugh after the punchline fell flat.
She turned her head just in time to see a pencil fall from a desk three rows over.
Like she’d known it would.
. . . . .
By lunch, her hands had started to shake.
She didn’t eat, didn't even pretend to. She sat alone in the far corner of the cafeteria, back pressed to the wall, and tray untouched in front of her. Her eyes swept the room constantly, not looking for someone but scanning.
Something was wrong. Deeply, fundamentally wrong.
She’d lived this day.
She knew it in her bones, in the rhythm of footsteps bouncing off the linoleum, in the cadence of whispered conversations just out of earshot. Even the way the sunlight filtered through the stained and scratched windows felt too familiar, and not in a comforting way either.
It was all too identical.
And it was building to something. She couldn’t explain how she knew that, only that it loomed like a pressure behind her eyes, and in the back of her skull. Like the world was holding its breath.
It felt like watching a train crash happen in slow motion from inside the last car, every jolt and shudder drawing closer to the inevitable. And all she could do was grip the edge of her seat and wait.
. . . . .
She tried to go home early.
It wasn’t a plan, not really, but more of an instinct, a quiet desperation clawing its way up her throat. She would tell the nurse she had a migraine, that she felt sick, and that she couldn’t stay. The words were already forming in her mouth as she pushed open the door to the front office.
But the nurse wasn’t there.
The receptionist didn’t even look up. She just waved vaguely toward the cafeteria and said, “Come back later. She’s having lunch.”
So Taylor waited.
Ten minutes passed. Then twenty.
She sat on the plastic bench outside the office, watching the second hand of the hallway clock tick its way forward, feeling her anxiety intensify with each movement. The air around her felt thinner by the minute, like the walls of the school were closing in on her.
Her palms were slick with sweat, and her legs bounced with a nervous energy she couldn’t burn off.
Go home, she told herself. Just leave. Walk out the front door.
But she didn’t move.
She kept waiting, frozen by something she couldn’t name: fear, maybe. Or the unshakable sense that even if she left, it wouldn't stop the inevitable.
Then the bell rang.
And she knew, with the certainty of a blade pressed to her throat, that she had waited too long.
. . . . .
They caught her just before last period.
She turned the corner—late to class, with her books clutched to her chest—and stopped. The hallway was empty; there were no teachers or loitering students, and she knew it didn't occur by chance.
Her breath caught in her throat, her foot freezing mid-step as the realization sank in, cold and sudden. Her instincts screamed, but it was too late.
The shove hit her between the shoulders hard, and unbalanced, she hit a locker with a hollow clang, books spilling from her arms. Laughter followed as a hand grabbed her collar, and another gripped her wrist. She twisted, kicked, and fought, but there were too many of them and she could only resist futilely.
The locker door was yanked open behind her, and she was forced into it. Through panicked tears and a loudly beating heartbeat, she heard it slam shut, and then the unmistakable click of the lock sliding home.
Darkness greeted her.
Taylor screamed.
Not words at first; just raw sound, rising in pitch and volume as she threw herself against the door, fists slamming and feet kicking. Her voice cracked from the force of it, and then died in her throat as the smell hit her: a choking miasma of rot and mold and garbage. Rancid liquid soaked her clothes, and something slimy shifted beneath her, and then burst with a sickening squish beneath her palm.
She retched, coughed, and gagged as her senses were overwhelmed, even as she slammed her fists against the door, kicked, and clawed at the edges where light leaked in. Some fingernails snapped. Others tore. Blood welled from beneath the nail bed, hot and sticky, but she didn’t stop.
“Let me out!” she shrieked. “Please, somebody—!”
She begged for help. For the teachers. For her dad. Then, quieter, barely above a whisper, her mom.
No one came.
Time passed. She lost track of how much. Hours, maybe, or minutes stretched thin. There was no way to tell anymore. Her cries faded into dry sobs, her voice hoarse, and lips cracked. The air grew hotter, or maybe that was the fever of panic as her lungs struggled to pull in air. As her muscles ached from thrashing, and the world narrowed to darkness.
Eventually, panic and pain dulled into numbness. And numbness gave way to silence.
And then—
. . . . .
Taylor Hebert woke up at 4:37 AM.
The red digits of her alarm clock glared at her through the darkness, bright and perfectly still except for the steady blink between the hours and minutes.
It wasn't the time she normally woke—she didn’t even remember setting it—and yet her eyes had snapped open at that exact second. As if some part of her had been counting down in her sleep, acutely aware of the passage of time without ever truly waking.
She didn’t sit up. Not yet. For some reason, she lay there for a long time, her fingers clenching the edge of her blankets as she stared at her ceiling. There was no reason to be this wide awake this early, but every nerve in her body was alert. Her chest felt too tight, her breathing shallow like she was afraid of making too much noise. And her heartbeat was too loud in the silence of her room, as if it wasn’t in her chest anymore but in her ears, her throat, and the pulse of her fingertips.
As if her body was sounding an alarm her brain hadn’t caught up with yet.
A chill settled into her body.
She didn’t remember having a nightmare. No monsters, no running, or falling, or darkness pressing in from all sides. Nothing concrete she could put a name to. And yet… the sense of unease was overwhelming.
Something was definitely—
Taylor screamed.
Comments
OnAHiatus
Thank youuuuu
Steven Stoss
I do like how this is going and it makes me interested in how she will survive each day.
OnAHiatus
I still think this chapter could be better, but I don't want to rewrite it again and again.
