Chapter 3
The morning air felt too bright, too sharp, like needles stabbing Gwen’s skin.
She hugged her hoodie tighter around herself as she walked, head down, earbuds jammed in even though she wasn’t listening to anything.
She just needed the noise, the pressure, anything to drown out the whispering coil tightening in her skull.
Ahead, she spotted him — Miles, backpack slung over one shoulder, hoodie half-zipped, sneakers scuffing lazily against the sidewalk.
Normal.
Safe.
Miles.
Gwen felt something hitch painfully in her chest — relief, maybe, or guilt, or hunger.
She didn’t know anymore.
“Yo, G!” he called, grinning when he saw her. “You look like you pulled an all-nighter.”
She laughed, too loud, too brittle.
"Yeah," she said, rubbing the back of her neck. "Totally. Binge-watched that dumb detective show you hate."
Miles raised an eyebrow, falling into step beside her.
“You good? You look kinda...uh, no offense... like a zombie.”
Good. Normal.
People noticed when you looked too normal.
People worried when you looked broken.
Gwen shoved her hands into her pockets so he wouldn’t see them trembling.
"I'm great," she said brightly.
Too brightly.
Her voice cracked in the middle of it.
Miles gave her a weird look but didn’t push.
Thank God.
They walked in silence for a few minutes, sneakers crunching over grit and trash.
Gwen’s stomach twisted viciously, a gnawing ache deep inside her ribs.
She hadn’t eaten breakfast. She couldn’t even think about food without gagging.
But now—
Now she felt starving.
Not for pancakes.
Not for coffee.
For something raw. Something alive.
Her mouth flooded with saliva, and she bit down hard on her tongue until she tasted blood.
The sharp coppery tang helped, a little.
Helped her remember she was still here.
Still Gwen.
Beside her, Miles was talking about something — classes, maybe, or a new mural he wanted to paint — but the words kept blurring, stretching out into a buzzing hum.
She blinked hard, trying to focus, and realized she was staring at his throat.
At the slow, steady beat of his pulse.
A cold bolt of horror snapped her back.
No, no, no—
Not him.
Never him.
“Gwen?” Miles said, frowning now. “Seriously. Are you okay?”
She pasted on a smile so fake it hurt.
"Yup. Peachy," she chirped.
Voice too high, hands clenched so tight inside her hoodie that her nails dug half-moon crescents into her palms.
Miles slowed his steps, concern written all over his face.
"You sure? You don't have to fake it with me," he said, softer.
For a second — a horrible, long second — Gwen almost told him everything.
Almost said, I think I'm dying. I think I'm going insane. I think there's something inside me.
But then the thing in her chest shifted again, purring low and pleased, and she knew if she said it out loud it would become real.
She couldn't risk that.
Couldn't risk him.
Instead she elbowed him lightly, faking a grin.
"You're too nice," she said. "It's annoying."
Miles snorted, bumping her back.
"Yeah, yeah. You love it."
Gwen laughed — and this time it almost sounded real.
Almost.
They kept walking toward school, the city yawning wide around them.
And under her skin, the thing inside her smiled too.
The classroom was too bright.
Gwen slouched low in her seat, hoodie pulled up like armor, eyes half-lidded but flickering constantly.
She couldn’t sit still.
Her fingers drummed against her thigh.
Her foot tapped an uneven beat under the desk.
The walls felt like they were breathing, closing in and out, pulsing with each beat of her hammering heart.
Mr. Doyle’s voice droned on at the front of the room, but the words didn’t make it to her ears.
They dissolved somewhere in the air, replaced by a low hum that sounded suspiciously like whispering.
Gwen pressed the heels of her hands into her eyes, hard enough to spark white lights behind her eyelids.
Get a grip. Get a grip. Get a grip.
Her skin itched.
Her throat felt dry and raw.
Her stomach twisted so violently she thought she might actually puke right there at her desk.
She opened her eyes.
The world swam.
Shapes rippled at the edges of her vision — tendrils curling along the ceiling tiles, black and glistening, reaching for her.
Gwen snapped her gaze to her desk.
Not real. Not real. NOT real.
Her nails dug into the cheap wood. She could feel the realness of it.
She focused on that.
The scratchy surface.
The sticky corner where someone’s gum had dried into a crusty blob.
Focus, Gwen. Focus—
The sick feeling surged up again, a hot rush of nausea.
Her mouth filled with saliva.
Her body shuddered.
She couldn’t — she couldn’t stay here — she needed OUT—
Without thinking, Gwen lurched up from her chair.
The legs of her desk screeched against the tile.
Every head in the room turned.
A thousand eyes pinned her in place.
Her heart slammed so hard against her ribs she thought it would burst.
“I—I don’t feel good," she stammered, voice thin and shaky. "Bathroom."
Mr. Doyle opened his mouth to say something, but Gwen was already stumbling toward the door, backpack forgotten under her desk.
She hit the hallway like a punch to the face.
The light was harsher here, the buzzing louder.
She staggered against the lockers, barely keeping herself upright.
Her stomach heaved, and Gwen barely made it to the bathroom before collapsing into a stall.
She knelt on the freezing tile, clutching the toilet bowl like a lifeline, dry-heaving until her ribs ached.
Nothing came up.
Nothing ever came up.
Just endless waves of sickness.
Endless emptiness inside her.
She gasped for air, forehead pressed against the cold porcelain.
Tears blurred her vision, but she wasn’t sure if it was from the gagging or the fear.
Something was wrong with her.
Something was inside her.
And no matter how much she puked or clawed at her skin, she couldn’t get it out.
Couldn’t get clean.
The whispers slithered through her mind again, sweet and oily.
She clamped her hands over her ears.
"No," she rasped. "No, no, no."
A stall door creaked somewhere behind her.
Gwen froze.
Slowly, trembling, she peeked up over the rim of the toilet.
The bathroom was empty.
Still.
Silent.
No one else there.
Just her.
And the thing curling deeper into her bones.
Gwen staggered out of the bathroom, one hand clutching her stomach.
Her skin was slick with cold sweat.
Her spine ached like something was grinding against it from the inside.
She just needed to get out.
Away from people.
Away from everything.
The fluorescent lights overhead buzzed louder than they should’ve, stabbing into her skull.
Every color looked too sharp.
Every sound felt too close.
She barely made it halfway down the empty hallway when her knee buckled but before she could fall, something inside her caught her.
A ripple ran under her skin, jerking her upright.
Gwen gasped, stumbling back against a row of lockers.
Her hand slammed into the metal —
and sank in.
Not just a dent.
Not a punch.
Her fingers pierced the locker door like knives through butter.
She yanked her hand back in terror.
Dark, wet threads of something sticky stretched between her fingers and the crumpled metal.
Gwen stared at her hand.
Her fingernails —
no.
Her fingers —
had sharpened into blackened, claw-like points, already pulling back into flesh as she watched.
Her heartbeat roared in her ears.
No, no, no—
She backed away, bumping into another locker.
It happened again.
A sickening slurp as her skin stuck to the surface, like tar oozing from her pores.
She jerked free, leaving a smear of black slime behind.
Her stomach twisted violently.
Bile climbed her throat.
Gwen bolted for the exit.
Her muscles didn’t move like normal.
They flexed and coiled, way too strong, way too flexible, bending at wrong angles as she lunged forward.
It felt like her bones were rubber. Or worse — like they weren’t hers anymore.
She skidded into the front office, vision swimming.
"—Gwen?" Mrs. Vargas blinked up from her desk. "Sweetheart, you okay?"
Gwen couldn’t answer.
She clutched the countertop for support — and her palm sank into the wood, black tendrils squirming out from her skin, trying to root themselves into it.
Gwen screamed. A short, ragged sound — and ripped herself free, stumbling backward so hard she crashed into a chair.
Mrs. Vargas jumped to her feet. "Stay there! I’m calling the nurse!"
"No—!" Gwen croaked. "I just — I need to go home — I just—"
Her tongue felt wrong in her mouth.
Heavy.
Like it was too big.
The shadows in the corners of the room twitched, pulsing like living things.
Gwen pressed her fists to her temples, squeezing her eyes shut.
Focus. Focus. Focus.
It didn’t help.
When she opened her eyes again, she thought she saw something black and slick ripple across the ceiling tiles above her — but when she blinked, it was gone.
Her stomach lurched again.
Something inside her shifted, hungry and restless.
She barely managed to croak out her dad’s number when Mrs. Vargas handed her the phone.
Her fingers twitched on the receiver. She could feel the wood fibers in it, like her skin was too sensitive, like she could break it apart molecule by molecule if she just squeezed hard enough.
Her voice, when it came out, was a cracked, frantic whisper:
"Dad. Please. Come get me."
He promised he would.
The second she hung up, Gwen stumbled to a chair by the window, hugging her arms tight across her chest.
She stared out at the world, normal, boring, safe —and felt a scream building in her throat.
Her reflection in the glass caught her eye.
For a second, just a second, her own face rippled.
Black veins threading under her skin.
Eyes flashing a deep, alien shade of silver.
A wicked, crooked grin pulling at the edges of her mouth.
Gwen slammed her eyes shut.
This isn’t happening. This isn’t real.
She rocked back and forth in the chair, breathing hard, trying to hold herself together while the thing inside her woke up.