The Demon’s Memory

The room was still except for the constant hum of the ceiling fan. It was late—the kind of hour where silence becomes smothering, wrapping around you like a damp blanket. Michael sat in the darkened corner of his small apartment, staring at his phone screen. His head throbbed, the familiar pressure building behind his eyes, a constant reminder of the insomnia that had been gnawing at him for days.

As he scrolled mindlessly through old emails and messages, his phone vibrated. A notification. An uncontrollably high level of adrenaline made his heart skip a beat. The sender's name glowed on the screen, the notification oddly out of place, like a cold hand gripping his throat: "From: Michael Parker (Past)".

"What the fuck ?" he muttered, swiping the message open. His fingers trembled, as if sensing that whatever he was about to read would change everything.

Subject: The Choices You’ve Made

“Michael, it’s me... or rather, it’s you. This is going to sound insane, but you need to listen. Whatever you’re doing right now, stop. You’re about to cross a line you can’t uncross, and the consequences... they’ll destroy you. I’m begging you, don’t let it happen again.”

Again? The word persisted in the air like a foul odor. He blinked, rereading the email. His mind raced. A joke, a prank? But how? The email was from his own account, dated six months ago. And he didn’t remember sending any messages like this. His gut twisted, the growing sense of unease pressing at the edges of his sanity.

His hand went to his face, fingers pressing hard against his eyes as if trying to keep his skull from splitting open. He hadn't been sleeping well—hell, he hadn’t been thinking straight for weeks. The nightmares had started first—violent, disturbing dreams that felt too real to be just dreams. The kind where you wake up drenched in sweat, your heart pounding as if it were trying to tear its way out of your chest.

And now this? A message from his past self?

He pushed himself off the chair and stumbled to the kitchen. The apartment was a mess—dishes piled in the sink, empty bottles scattered across the counter. The smell of stale beer clung to the air. He reached for the cabinet, his hand fumbling for the half-empty bottle of whiskey he kept hidden behind the cereal boxes. His fingers brushed against the glass, and for a brief moment, he saw something—an image, a memory maybe. Something was splintering behind his eyes.

Blood.

He shook his head, trying to clear the fog. His fingers tightened around the bottle. He needed to drown this madness, to shut the voices in his head up, even if just for a little while.

The phone buzzed again.

Michael’s hand froze mid-pour, the amber liquid sloshing over the rim of the glass, spilling onto the counter. He glanced at the screen, dreading pressing at his insides. Another message.

Subject: Too Late.

“You didn’t listen, did you? It’s too late now. You’ll remember soon enough... all of it. The blood. The screaming. And the thing in the dark. It’s waiting for you, Michael. It never left. It’s been watching...waiting. You should have stopped it.”

The air in the room seemed to grow heavier, suffocating. His breath quickened, his heart hammering in his chest like a caged animal. What was this? A cruel prank? His own mind playing tricks on him?

His knees buckled as another flash hit him, this time stronger and more vivid. He was standing in a forest, the thick scent of pine filling his nostrils. His hands—his hands were slick with something warm, something wet. And there was a sound, faint at first, then growing louder: a whimper, a voice.

"Michael, please... no."

The whiskey glass slipped from his grasp, shattering against the tile. His head snapped back, and he stumbled, catching himself against the wall. His breath was ragged now, eyes darting around the room as if expecting something to emerge from the shadows.

Memories—no, fragments of something—pushed their way to the surface, sharp and jagged, cutting through the haze of his mind. A cabin in the woods. A woman’s face, twisted in fear. His hands around her throat. And then the darkness, swallowing everything whole.

"Fuck…fuck," he muttered, wiping sweat from his brow. He staggered towards the door, yanking it open, needing air, needing to escape. But the hallway outside his apartment was silent, empty. A flickering lightbulb cast a sickly glow over the walls.

His phone vibrated again, but this time it wasn’t a message. It was a call.

The screen displayed the same name: Michael Parker (past).

His breath caught in his throat. His trembling fingers hovered over the screen. He swiped to answer.

“Hello?”

Static filled the line at first, crackling and hissing. Then a voice, faint and distorted.

“Michael…”

It was his own voice, warped and distant.

“You shouldn’t have opened the door. It’s here... with you. It never left. And now, it’s hungry.”

The call ended abruptly, plunging him back into silence. Michael stared at the phone, his heart racing and his pulse pounding in his ears. The hairs on the back of his neck stood on end. The hallway felt colder now, the atmosphere darker, deeper.

And then he heard it.

A soft scraping sound, like something being dragged across the floor. It came from behind him, from inside the apartment. Slowly, he turned, his breath caught in his throat.

The door to his bedroom stood ajar, and from the crack something moved. A figure, hunched and misshapen, slid out of the darkness, its skin pale and stretched too tightly over its bones. Its eyes—dark, hollow pits—locked onto his, and its mouth twisted into a bizarre smile.

The thing in the dark. It had come for him.

And it was hungry.

***

Outside, the wind howled, rattling the windows as the first droplets of rain began to fall. Inside the apartment, the only sound was the faint rustle of leaves carried by the wind.

And the slow, wet crunching of flesh being torn apart.

Michael didn’t remember what he had done.

But it remembered him.