The town of Marrow Hill had one rule: Don’t go out after dark.

They told him nicely at the diner, at the gas station, even the kid bagging his groceries. But Darren laughed it off. Superstition wasn’t real.

So, at 9:03 p.m., he went for a walk.

The streets were silent. Houses shuttered, cars gone. Not even the wind dared to move. The moon lit everything in a pale hush.

Then he heard it. A soundless pull like silence had weight. It wasn’t loud, but it filled every part of him.

And then…
He couldn’t feel his fingers.
Then his chest.
Then his thoughts slowed, like molasses poured backward.

Memories slipped away like they’d never mattered.
Why was he here?
Why had he ever laughed?

By morning, Darren was sweeping the front porch of the inn, same blank smile as the others.

Another empty pair of eyes in a town full of them.

And when tourists arrived, he always greeted them kindly, with the same warning:
“Don’t go out after dark.”

And none of them ever listened.