The Turning: A Father's Story

The outbreak moved faster than anyone expected. The government went dark and denied that anything was wrong, but the world knew something wasn’t right. When they finally told the truth, the truth didn’t matter anymore.

My daughter came home from school with a scratch. It was a tiny mark on her forearm, nothing worth mentioning. She said she was fine and that it happened in gym class. A friend accidentally scratched her while playing basketball.

The fever hit her two days later. We kept her out of school; we told the neighbors she had the flu. I tried telling myself it was the flu, but deep down I knew. The neighbors knew, but all they could provide was knowing sympathy. Fever was the first symptom, one of many, before she turned into one of them. We saw pictures and videos popping up on social media of them being zombies. They were grotesque, raw, and without emotion. Brain-dead humans searching for their next victim to feed on.

The first night I knew she was turning, I found her in the hallway, motionless, staring at the wall like she was listening to something I couldn’t hear. Her eyes were vacant, glassy, and her mouth hung open. A thin strand of drool clung to her chin, swaying slightly with each shallow breath. I gently guided her back to bed, tucked her in, and closed the door.

I didn’t sleep that night. I just sat on the edge of my bed, head in my hands, trying not to fall apart.

The next morning, I flipped the doorknob around so it would lock from the hallway. She cried when she noticed. She pleaded with me through the door and said she was fine. She said she felt better, but her voice didn’t sound like hers anymore.

For a couple of days, we settled into a strange routine. I’d slide food under the door, and we’d talk. Sometimes we laughed. Sometimes we told stories — about the time she glued cereal to her face, or how her mom used to sing off-key to make us smile. For a little while, it almost felt normal, like the door wasn’t there. Like she wasn’t changing, and I wasn’t losing my daughter. I didn’t know it then, but these were the final moments I would cherish with my daughter.

The worst came when she started scratching at the door, that slow, deliberate scraping. She would go for hours, and I would plead for her to stop until my voice cracked. When I slid food under her door, I saw her fingers try to grab for me. They were raw and bloody. The nails were gone, and skin hung off her fingers and flapped with each exaggerated motion. She had a jerking motion, like she was trying to grab more than just the food. Like she was trying to grab me.

Shortly after, I sat on the floor with a pistol resting in my lap. I hadn’t touched it in years, didn’t want to, or need to. It now sat as a final option, like mercy wrapped in metal. My eyes welled up, and the tears came fast, unrelenting. The scratching had stopped over an hour ago. The silence felt heavy, suffocating, like the air itself waited for me to decide. I stared at the door. Blood was smeared along the bottom, where she’d tried to reach for me. Broken fingernails littered the floor just beneath the gap, jagged and dark, barely visible.

I closed my eyes and could still hear her voice, the old one before this all started, filled with promise, a career, marriage, and kids.

The one who called me “Daddy” when she needed help reaching the top shelf or wanted me to check under the bed for monsters.

My hand trembled as I picked up the gun. I raised it slowly, lined it up with the center of the door. I told myself I was doing the right thing. That she wouldn’t want to live like this, that whatever was on the other side wasn’t her anymore.

And then, I heard her voice. It was soft, small, and fractured.

“Daddy…? Am I going to be okay?” The gun slipped from my hand and hit the floor with a dull thud.

I pressed my forehead to the door, heart crumbling inside my chest. I slid to the floor and stayed there, shattered. I couldn’t answer.

I stayed there, slumped against the door, as the silence filled the hall, and I was left in my thoughts. She didn’t speak again. She didn’t speak that day or any days after. I kept the routine of sliding food under the door, but she didn’t take it. The tray sat untouched, gathering dust and flies.

Sometimes I would hear her pacing, a dragging sound like bare feet smeared across wood. Sometimes she would groan, and I would hope it would turn into her voice so I could hear it one last time. I stopped responding long ago.

The groans turned more wet and ragged.

I sat there with the gun again, night after night, and waited for her to come back. She never did.

She must have sensed I was there, as this morning, the door shook. With a thud, she hit the door and began furiously scraping. This time, the scraping was deeper, harder, and more erratic. I could hear her breathing now, but it wasn’t steady. It was labored, gurgling, and wrong. I could sense a desire in her to feed, and I was that meal.

I slowly stood up, the weight of my decision bearing down on me like a mountain. I picked up the pistol and checked to see if there was one in the chamber. There was.

Looking down, I placed my hand on the door for a moment, listening. I didn’t speak, and I didn’t knock.

I wanted to believe there was a part of her left, but I knew better. The intensity of the scratching intensified with each passing minute.

I gently unlocked the door and made the choice no parent should ever have to make.

I stepped inside. The light from the hallway spilled across the floor, revealing what she had become. Her vacant but focused eyes met mine. For just a second, I thought I saw her in there, and then I pulled the trigger. The sound echoed through the house, then faded into silence, I would carry for the rest of my life.