Beneath the Stillness

Jonah checked the clock. Just past 1:48 a.m.

The store buzzed with the soft whine of flickering fluorescent lights. Cold, flat light spilled across shiny linoleum floors. Everything looked too neat, too scrubbed down—rows of snacks and drinks lining up like little soldiers. Jonah tugged his Astros cap lower and tried to shake off the tired feeling crawling over his skin.

Outside, the fog pressed against the windows like it wanted in. Streetlights flickered through the mist, barely alive. The city looked abandoned. As if it had finally given up and gone to bed.

He turned another page in his paperback. The book was falling apart. So was the story. He used to love it. Murder, secrets, betrayal. Now it barely registered. He knew every twist, every fake clue, every worn-out ending.

He sighed.

The front door chimed in its usual lazy way.

Jonah looked up. Mr. Arnold was here.

Same coat. Same slow walk. The sleeves were frayed, and the collar slouched like it had given up, too. He smelled like old cigarettes and something clean—like bedsheets dried in the sun.

"Evening, Jonah," Arnold rasped.

"Hey, Mr. Arnold. Staying out of trouble?" Jonah asked with a half-smile.

Arnold chuckled and nodded toward the candy rack. "Same ghosts, different hour."

Jonah reached for the chocolate-covered peanuts automatically. "One ninety-nine."

Arnold slid a couple of faded bills across the counter. "You ever think about leaving this place?"

Jonah paused, hand hovering over the register.

"Sometimes," he admitted.

Arnold’s grin faded. "Don’t wait too long," he murmured. "Life’s like fog. You think there’s time to see through it, but then it’s morning. And it’s gone."

Jonah nodded. Not sure what else to say.

Arnold took his change, gave a small wave, and stepped back into the night. The fog swallowed him whole.

Jonah stayed by the door a bit longer than usual. The world outside felt empty. Like a stage waiting for someone to walk on and start the show.

Something moved.

Far across the parking lot, near the dumpsters, two shapes drifted into view. Just shadows at first. One held a duffel bag. The other clutched something boxy—maybe a package, maybe a case. They weren’t nervous. They were alert. Like prey expecting a predator.

Jonah felt it. That sharp little twist in the gut.

He’d seen deals out here before. Pills. Weed. Once, a guy selling insulin. But this? This was different. Too still. Too quiet.

Without even thinking, he grabbed the keys and headed for the back door.

The second he opened it, cold air slapped him across the face. It stank of oil, spoiled food, and something sour, like wet cardboard that had sat too long.

He pressed against the side of the building, gravel crunching under his boots. His breath curled in the air.

Voices. Close now.

"You said no one would see."

Low. Tight. Worried.

"Relax. That clerk’s half-dead. He’s not leaving that chair."

Jonah leaned in, just a little.

His foot shifted.

Gravel shifted with it.

One of the men spun. "Who's there?!"

Jonah didn’t wait.

He ran.

Footsteps exploded behind him. A boot scraped something metal.

He got to the door, slammed it shut, and fumbled with the lock just as something crashed into it hard enough to shake the frame.

"Open up!" a voice screamed. Angry. Close.

Jonah stumbled back and crashed into a display rack. Packs of gum scattered like confetti. His phone slipped from his hand and skidded under the counter.

Then came another knock.

Not loud this time. Not angry.

It was... calm. Almost polite.

From the front.

No way. Not now. Not someone else.

Jonah turned.

A tall man stood outside. Pale face. Dark coat. Not a trace of fog or dampness on him. He raised his hand, slow and steady. No threat. Just... calm.

Jonah’s feet moved on their own. He undid the chain and cracked the door.

"Who are you?" Jonah asked, voice low.

"Someone who can help," the man replied evenly. "Let me in."

Jonah opened the door wider.

The man stepped inside without a sound. His boots didn’t even squeak. He didn’t glance around.

He didn’t need to.

"You saw something tonight," he said. "Something that wasn’t for you."

Jonah nodded. "They were passing something. But it didn’t feel like..."

"It wasn’t money," the man replied. "Not drugs either."

Jonah’s stomach turned. "Then what?"

The man looked him in the eye. "Oaths."

Jonah blinked. "You mean like... promises?"

"Old ones. Broken ones. And blood usually settles the rest."

Before Jonah could respond, the back door blew open with a shriek.

The two men burst in. One had a knife. The other had fists clenched tight, eyes wide with fury.

The stranger stepped forward, putting himself between Jonah and the men.

His voice stayed cool. "Evening, gentlemen. You lose something?"

"Move," the guy with the knife growled. "The clerk saw too much."

The stranger didn’t blink. "That’s unfortunate. For you."

The man lunged.

The stranger twisted. Fast. Effortless. He grabbed the man’s wrist and snapped it sideways. The knife hit the floor. The scream followed.

The second man froze.

"He made a mistake," the stranger said, his eyes now glowing faintly. "Want to be next?"

The second man bolted. The other crawled after him.

Jonah didn’t move.

The stranger turned back to him.

His eyes shimmered. Not just glowing. Something deep behind them had awakened.

"What were they dealing?" Jonah whispered.

"Pieces of souls," the man said. "Traded. Stolen. Passed around."

Jonah swallowed hard. "And you?"

"I’m a correction. A debt that needed settling."

"How do you know my name?"

The man tilted his head. "Some people walk into stories. Others were written in from the start. You’ve been circling the edges for a while. Tonight, it looked back."

Jonah stood there, chest tight, a thousand questions burning behind his eyes. But none made it out.

He watched as the man walked toward the door.

"Wait," Jonah called. "Are you even human?"

The man paused.

He didn’t look back.

"Not anymore."

And then he was gone.

The fog crept back in behind him.

Jonah stood at the glass, staring.

Nothing out there now. Just mist.

He shuffled back behind the counter and picked up his book.

Same story. The killer was still the brother. The knife still hidden in the vent.

The clock read 2:15.

He dropped the book on the counter.

Something had changed. He could feel it.

The world had always been thinner than it seemed.

And now something on the other side had started paying attention.