Transmission 001 // “The Closet”
This was where the dark lived. The only place in the house she never went.
The closet in her parents’ room.
She used to stand in the hallway and look at it. Thumb in her mouth. Waiting for the door to move. Certain something was waiting inside.
Now she was the something.
She crouched in the corner, knees on the scratchy carpet. Dust stuck to her arms. Spiderwebs caught in her hair.
The wall behind her was cold and hard. The slats pressed into her back like bony fingers.
She hugged the book close.
It smelled like her mother at the edges. Flowers, and something else. Something warm.
It made her want to cry, and to call out. But she didn’t.
The book’s corners hurt her hands, but she didn’t let go.
If she let go, maybe something bad would happen.
Maybe it already had.
****
This was where the darkness lived. The only place in the house she wouldn’t go.
The closet in her parents’ bedroom.
She used to stare at it from across the hallway, thumb in her mouth, certain something waited inside. Now she was the thing hiding behind the closet door.
The carpet scratched her knees. Dust clung to her arms. Spiderwebs caught in her hair. The wooden slats dug into her back, cold and damp. She clutched her mother’s book to her chest.
She didn’t know how long she’d been there. Long enough for her legs to go numb. Long enough for the tears to dry on her cheeks.
The shadows pressed in.
The book was all she had left. Her mother’s perfume lingered at its edges—lavender and something else she knew but couldn’t name. She held it so tight the corners pressed bit her palms like teeth.
She didn’t let go.
Footsteps. Far away.
Downstairs.
A door slammed.
Two voices. Close. Whispering.
Mom and Dad.
She wanted to call out.
Boots. Heavy. On the stairs. Climbing.
One step.
Another.
She held her breath.
The voices rose—faster, sharper.
The boots reached the landing. Stopped.
Her dad’s voice—sharp, afraid.
Scuffling. A grunt. Something scraped across the floor.
A crash.
Something hit the wall.
Someone.
She curled tighter, knees to chest. The corners of the book dug into her palms, biting down like teeth.
A crack—muffled, like a branch snapping underfoot.
Something heavy hitting the floor.
Then something worse—
a scream. Her mother’s voice, high and broken.
Her stomach dropped, like missing a stair in the dark.
Another thud.
The silence stretched out long and hollow.
Her father’s voice echoed in her head.
Don’t move.
She heard footsteps again now. Heavy shoes pressing into carpet, moving carefully through the bedroom. The room with the closet. The closet she was in.
Don’t make a sound.
The steps came to rest outside the door. Floorboards creaked a low warning. She slowed her breath, but it still felt too loud. She bit down on her lip, hard enough to taste metal.
Don’t leave the closet. No matter what you hear.
She didn’t move. Not a muscle. Not a twitch.
That’s when she saw it.
Pale green smoke, crawling through the cracks at the edge of the door. Slowly at first, then faster—moving in a way that shouldn’t have been possible. With a purpose it had no right to possess.
It clawed its way across the floor, grasping with poisonous fingers.
Looking for something.
Looking for her.
The handle of the closet door began to twitch. The scent of bitter almonds hung in the air, carried by smoke and shadow.
The handle jerked right. Left. Right again.
A pause. A test, maybe. She couldn’t be sure. Her eyes locked on the door. She started to count in her head. She nearly reached five before it turned again—slower this time, measured and deliberate.
The latch gave with a sharp click. The sound split the dark like a gunshot.
She closed her eyes and willed the door not to open. She knew it wouldn’t be her parents on the other side. As the wood creaked from its frame, the smoke rushed in. No longer a trickle—it surged through the widening gap like a flood.
Her father’s voice was gone now, fear swelling into the space it left behind.
Don’t breathe.
She dared to look again, but all she could see was green. It swirled around her, stung her eyes, burned her throat. She felt like she’d been swallowed whole.
Slowly, the mist began to thin. The air cleared in fragments. A shape surfaced.
At first, only a silhouette.
A figure.
Tall. Wrong. Its proportions stretched, like someone had taken a human shape and pulled it too far in all the wrong directions.
The smoke thinned more, but the figure didn’t sharpen. It stayed a shadow.
It leaned forward. The edges of its frame shifted and blurred, barely tethered to reality—constantly unraveling into the space around it.
Smoke snaked around her neck and wrists, prising the book from her hands. It dropped to the floor, the sound louder than it should’ve been. Tendrils of vapor tightened, holding her in place like shackles.
The figure’s head tilted, its face obscured from every angle. There was no mouth to speak, but the words came anyway—a rancid, hollow voice, echoing like it had been summoned from the depths of a cracked well.
“What do we have here? A little mouse hiding in the dark?”
She clawed at her neck, trying to break free. Her fingers found nothing. The smoke vanished, reformed, and pulled tighter. Dizziness crashed over her in waves. Her pulse hammered in her forehead. She thrashed her legs, heels bouncing off the walls.
The closet groaned. She kicked harder.
A tremor—deep and low—rumbled beneath the floor.
She threw her weight backwards. Her whole body hit the wall.
The air above her snapped, loud and sudden, like a bone breaking. Everything around her splintered. Wood bent, cracked, curled inward like melting wax. The room flipped. Her stomach lurched. She fell backwards, her body folding in on itself. She landed somewhere else.
Behind the closet. A place that shouldn’t exist.
She staggered to her feet, the book pressed to her chest. The world swayed as if her eyes were underwater.
In front of her stretched a corridor. It trailed off into the distance. Black-and-white tiles gleamed beneath her feet—checkered squares fading to grey, like a circle that didn’t quite close.
Behind her, what remained of the closet collapsed, crumbling to dust. For a moment, the smoke held its shape—an echo—then, it exhaled and drifted forward. Threads of green vapor spilled outward, twisting, reaching, clawing at the corridor walls.
Instinct took over, sensing the open space ahead.
She had no idea where she was.
But she ran.
Her bare feet slapped against the ice-cold tiles. The sting was sharp. The sound echoed. Her breath came in shallow gasps. The weight of the book dragged at her arms—impossibly heavy now—but she wouldn’t let it go.
The shadow pulled at her from behind. She risked a glance. It was gaining. It moved with unnatural grace, darkness stretching and expanding, bleeding into the corridor like ink spreading through water. The walls blurred past faster than she was running. Floor tiles fell away at her feet. The hallway buckled. Reality stuttered. Everything was coming undone.
She stumbled. Her vision blurred at the edges. Her legs were giving out.
It was too fast. Too close.
She stopped and turned. Body rigid. Feet planted. The book clutched to her chest like a shield. She braced for the impact. The shadow monster and the smoke kept coming.
Then, at the corner of her eye, she saw it.
A door.
It nestled into the wall like it had always been there, bit she was sure it hadn’t. It shimmered in its frame, a soft rhythmic glow pulsing outward. A call. A whisper. One she almost recognised. A lost voice that seemed to know her name.
Her feet moved before her mind caught up. Smoke clawed at her ankles. She reached for the brass handle, fingers trembling. The shadow’s pull rippled along her skin as she pushed the wood panel with all her strength.
The door gave way and she fell through. It slammed shut behind her.
She hit the floor hard. The book flew from her grip, pages flaring open across the tiles. She scrambled up and pressed her back to the door. Straight spine. Flat palms. Listening. Hoping.
A moment passed.
Nothing.
Then she remembered.
It can open doors.
She swallowed, trying to calm the pounding in her ribs. Her fingers hunted for the handle and brushed something cold instead. Metal.
A key.
Already in the lock.
She didn’t hesitate. She spun around, fingers fumbling.
Click.
The lock snapped shut.
She exhaled slowly and stepped back. Her lungs found a steadier rhythm. Panic loosened, retreating one finger at a time. Only then did she look around.
This room felt different. A golden haze hung in the air, warm as a late summer evening. Her toes flexed against the tiles—they were sun-baked warm, textured. Light spilled through the windows in soft, golden rectangles. The air smelled of lemons and fresh flowers. Familiarity wrapped around her and tugged at something buried deep. Her ribs ached with the pull of it.
She knew this place.
This kitchen.
Home.
She stepped further inside, taking it in. It looked real. Every detail was right. It shouldn’t have been. Pastel cabinets. The old ceiling fan that never worked. The faint tick of the clock above the stove. All of it exactly as she remembered.
But something was different.
Not the room. Her.
The counters were lower. No longer towering over her. She was looking down on them now—taller than the girl who last stood here.
A sound startled her. The sharp bite of metal on wood.
She spun.
Her heart nearly stopped.
Across the room, her mother stood at the counter, looking out the window. She was chopping vegetables for dinner, just as she always had.
Hope sparked in the girl’s chest.
Mommy.
The girl studied her mother’s outline. Her back was straight, her shoulders stiff. But it was her. It was definitely her.
The knife kept moving.
Thunk. Thunk. Thunk.
She couldn’t stop herself.
“Mom?”
No answer.
She stepped forward. The tiles felt colder with each step.
“Mom? It’s me.” Louder now.
Her voice cut through the stillness like a ripple on dark water.
No reply. Just the knife.
Thunk. Thunk.
Her mother’s gaze stayed fixed outside. The girl followed it.
The yard was empty.
Almost empty.
Near the old grey fence, past the conifer bushes, the shadows shifted—slowly rearranging themselves. A chill ran through her body.
As she edged back, something moved in the corner behind her. She turned.
Her father sat hunched over a chessboard. Elbows on the table. Fingers steepled against his lips. Eyes fixed on the pieces as if nothing else existed. Perfectly still.
Frozen. Like a photograph.
Her gaze dropped to the floor. Something lay half-hidden in the shadows near the table leg—a single chess piece, tipped on its side. A horse carved from dark wood.
A black knight. Abandoned. Forgotten. Lost to the game it belonged to.
Behind her, the knife kept its relentless beat, striking the board like a pulse. The kitchen darkened, like October twilight bleeding into the walls.
Outside, the shadows crept closer, edging across the yard toward the window like curious moths to a dying candle. Inside, a fine thread of green smoke curled through a crack in the frame. It slid along the wall, coiled down the counter, and began to probe.
The temperature dropped. Her breath frosted and hung in the air.
She turned back to her father, searching his face for comfort, for safety. Her heartbeat fell into rhythm with the knife’s heavy thud. It wasn’t just sound anymore—it was inside her, vibrating under her skin.
“Daddy?” The word barely escaped.
He didn’t move.
The shadows crowded tighter against the glass. Smoke poured faster through the cracks in the frame. It was everywhere now, like it had caught her scent.
And then—
Thunk.
Behind her, the knife. It’s incessant drumbeat stopped.
Silence crashed through the room like thunder.
She turned. The blade lay flat on the bread board. Her mother’s arms hung at her sides. Pressed against the window were heavy shapes, black as oil.
They were no longer just shadows.
They were alive.
With purpose.
With weight.
With hunger.
The last thread of light—barely a firefly’s flicker—went out. The window frame groaned under the strain of a thousand bodies.
Her mother turned, more puppet than person, as if held up by unseen strings. Her lips parted. The girl somehow knew exactly what she would say.
“It’s time, darling.”
Her voice was soft, but it filled the room.
A long, pregnant pause stretched.
The clock fell silent.
She waited for the next tick. It never came.
Only the slow creak of old wood—stretching, warping, cracking.
The glass in the windows shattered all at once. Shadows poured in, tumbling through each other like molten tar, crashing against the walls, drowning and devouring everything they touched.
Mom. Dad.
She tried to scream, but her voice was gone. The smoke had her now. It curled down her throat, coiling tight, dragging her under.
The darkness took her.
It took her parents.
It took everything.
* * *
Amelia Swanson jolted upright in bed, breath ragged, eyes damp. Heart pounding, she scanned the room. Everything looked as it should. Beneath the stillness, birds sang and floorboards creaked downstairs.
Normal morning sounds.
That’s how she knew she was awake.
She pressed a hand to her forehead and swept back damp strands of hair.
The dream again.
This time it had been even more vivid. The kitchen. The yard. The conifers. It was a long time ago, but she remembered them all—fragments of an old life, an old house, an old name.
She exhaled, slow and steady, and swung her legs from the bed. The floorboards were cool under her feet as she crossed to the window.
She pulled back the curtain. Willowbrook sat wrapped in soft morning fog, halfway between dark and light. Autumn was beginning to show its hand. The sidewalks and gutters were stuffed with leaves. Deep red hummed at the outline of the trees’ like a warning.
The houses on her street, Sycamore Lane, stood in perfect rows. Quiet. Safe. Steady.
She wiped the mist from the glass with her palm.
This was supposed to be a fresh start.
She stood and crossed to the window. Willowbrook blurred behind a film of fog. Leaves guttered in the gutters, the world caught between seasons. She wiped the glass, felt the cold in her bones. This was supposed to be a fresh start. The kind other people believed in.
She pulled her uniform from the chair, began to dress. Her fingers moved by rote—buttons, socks, ponytail. She tried not to look at the shelf, but her eyes kept dragging back. The book. Always the book.
But she could never shake the sense that it wasn’t hers. That she was pretending. Pretending she was fine. Pretending she was who they thought she was. Because they didn’t know the truth. They couldn’t. She couldn’t tell them that—even now, after all these years—when she closed her eyes, she was still there. Still trapped in that closet.
Normal morning. School bag slumped by the dresser. Photos in new frames—Laura and Matthew at the coast, the three of them outside the house with a realtor’s sign still planted in the lawn. A debate club certificate, the ink still dark. Her name printed across the bottom in letters that hadn’t yet faded. Amelia Swanson.
She pulled her uniform from the chair. Buttons. Socks. Hair back without thinking.
Her eyes drifted left.
The book sat wedged between a yearbook and a water-damaged paperback. The spine was cracked leather, gold lettering worn to ghosts. It didn’t match the rest. Didn’t fit.
She crossed the room. Her hand knew the weight before she touched it.
The pages fell open to a familiar spread—dense text, clinical diagrams. Her mother’s handwriting swarmed the margins. Symbols that folded back on themselves. Numbers that led nowhere. She traced the ink with one finger, following a sequence she’d followed a hundred times before.
Nothing.
A little girl. All alone. Swallowed by the dark.
She turned from the window to get ready for school. Then she remembered.
The book.
Her eyes skimmed the shelf, though she already knew where it was. Her fingers found the cover. The binding had faded, the edges softened with time. Gold lettering clung to the spine in stubborn fragments. She pulled it free and opened it.
The print was small, dense and impenetrable. Her mother’s voice bled through the margins—notes and formulas scrawled in dark ink. She turned the pages slowly. She didn’t understand any of it, but it was all she had left.
She closed it again gently, remembering the weight of her mother’s voice the night she pressed it into her hands..
Keep this safe, Amelia. Hold onto it, and don’t let go. It’s important.
Over the years she had tried to understand why. She’d searched for answers.
She had found none—only more questions.
It was just an old science book. And yet she couldn’t shake the feeling that it was more than that. That it meant more.
She slid it back into place, hidden in plain sight between a forgotten high school yearbook and a weathered paperback that looked like it had been read a hundred times.
The dream flickered behind her eyes. She pressed a hand to her chest. She could feel something changing. The nightmares were coming more often. The shadows were getting braver. And she knew they’d be back for her soon.
Knock. Knock. Knock.
The sound split the silence. She flinched.
“Amelia?”
Laura’s voice came through the bedroom door.
“Morning, sweetheart. Are you up?”
Amelia hesitated, throat tightening.
“Yeah.”
She swallowed.
“I’m awake.”
