By Pablo Aguiar jr
The desert nights in Indio were quiet, too quiet.
At exactly midnight — always midnight — Jake saw him.
Across the street from his house, beneath the flickering streetlight, stood a shadowy figure. Still as stone. A dark silhouette, no features. Just watching.
Jake would blink. It wouldn’t move.
He told his father. Told him the figure showed up every night at the same time. That it just stood there, staring, never speaking, never leaving until the clock struck 12:03 — and then it was gone.
But his father laughed it off. “It’s just your imagination. Stop watching horror movies.”
Jake stopped talking about it, but he didn’t stop watching.
Each night, at 12:00 sharp, it returned. And each night, Jake’s fear grew.
Ten nights in a row.
By the eleventh, Jake couldn’t sleep. Couldn’t eat. The image of the figure carved itself into his mind like a brand. That night, he decided.
He would confront it.
At 11:58 PM, Jake slipped on his hoodie and sneakers. The clock ticked louder in his chest than on the wall.
11:59.
He stood by the front door.
12:00.
The streetlight buzzed to life.
And there it was. The shadow.
Jake stepped outside. The air was colder than usual. Unnatural.
He crossed the street slowly, heart pounding. The figure didn’t move. It only watched.
Ten feet away.
It took a step forward.
And in that moment — the light above buzzed brighter, almost sizzling.
Jake saw its face.
His own.
But bloodied, twisted. A mirror version of himself, face half-slashed open, pale lips torn and trembling.
It stared back at him with his own eyes.
Jake froze.
The figure breathed heavy. Loud. Ragged. As if it had run a mile to get there.
Then it took another step forward — and now it stood inches away.
Jake couldn’t move.
The streetlight snapped.
Everything went black.
A scream — Jake’s scream — tore through the night.
And then, silence.
The next morning, the sun rose like it always had. But Jake was gone.
His bed untouched. Phone on his charger. Shoes by the door.
His parents searched. His friends denied seeing him. No footprints. No signs he’d ever left.
Just an empty house.
That night, Jake’s father, restless and guilt-ridden, couldn’t sleep.
12:00 AM.
He walked into the kitchen to grab water. Something drew his eyes to the window.
And there — across the street, under the streetlight — stood a figure.
Motionless. Familiar.
He squinted.
Then he stepped outside.
“Hello?” he called out. “Who’s there?”
He crossed the street, heart racing, stomach tight.
Halfway there — the streetlight flickered.
And then the face came into view.
Jake.
But not Jake.
Bloodied. Hollow-eyed. Wearing the same hoodie he’d vanished in.
But this time, smiling.
A slow, unnatural smile that spread too far across his face.
Jake’s father stopped dead in his tracks. “Jake…?”
The smile faded.
Then the figure whispered, in Jake’s exact voice, terrified:
“ Help..”
“Help me.”
The light snapped off.
The figure disappeared.
Jake’s father stood there in the dark, breathless, heart in his throat — staring at the empty space where his son had stood.
Finally believing.
Too late.
The End.
