Chapter 4:

As the sun dipped below the horizon, casting long, dark shadows across the empty town, Alan walked with an increasing sense of dread. The last rays of light offered no comfort; in fact, the approaching darkness only made him more aware of the oppressive silence, the eerie stillness that clung to everything.

His mind raced with questions. What had happened to everyone? Why had he been left behind? And what was that…thing? He couldn’t shake the image of the figure from his mind—its unnatural stillness, the way it had disappeared as if it had never been there. But he knew it had been. He could feel it.

As he made his way back to his house, every creak of a door, every rustle of wind sent a jolt of panic through him. His once-familiar town now felt like a foreign landscape, dangerous and full of unseen threats. He kept glancing over his shoulder, half-expecting to see that figure lurking just behind him, watching.

The streets were getting darker, and Alan’s sense of time slipped away. The sinking feeling in his stomach told him he couldn’t just go back home and pretend this wasn’t happening. He needed answers. He needed to know if this was something he could survive—if there was a way out of this nightmare.

But where could he go? Who could possibly help when there was no one left?

His thoughts turned to the outskirts of town—the old radio tower that stood on a hill, barely visible in the distance. It was a long shot, but if the power was still on, maybe he could get a signal out. Maybe he wasn’t the last person left. Maybe someone, somewhere, would hear him.

That small flicker of hope spurred him forward. He started toward the hill, his feet moving faster with each passing moment. As he left the center of town behind, the streets became narrower, the houses spaced farther apart. There were no streetlights here, just the growing darkness and the cold wind that blew through the trees, making the branches sway like skeletal fingers reaching toward him.

Halfway to the tower, Alan stopped.

He heard it again. Footsteps.

They were faint, just on the edge of hearing, but unmistakable. Someone—or something—was following him.

His heart pounded in his chest as he slowly turned, scanning the shadows behind him. At first, he saw nothing. But then, in the distance, he saw it again. The figure. Standing at the far end of the street, barely visible in the fading light, just a black silhouette against the darkening sky.

It was closer this time.

Alan’s breath came in ragged gasps. Run. His mind screamed at him to move, to run, to get away. But his legs felt like lead, his fear pinning him in place.

The figure began to move, gliding forward with an unnerving grace. It didn’t rush; it didn’t need to. It was coming for him, slow and deliberate, like it knew there was nowhere for him to hide.

Finally, something inside Alan snapped. He turned and sprinted, his feet pounding against the pavement as he ran toward the hill, toward the tower. His lungs burned, and his heart raced, but he didn’t stop. He couldn’t stop. He didn’t dare look back.

The tower loomed closer, a dark silhouette against the night sky. As he reached the base of the hill, Alan’s legs screamed in protest, but he forced himself to keep going, climbing the steep path toward the tower. His breath came in short, desperate gasps, the wind whipping around him as he ascended.

When he finally reached the top, the tower stood tall and foreboding in front of him, an ancient structure of rusted metal and broken cables. But there was a small control building next to it, and Alan’s hope surged. If the power was on, he could try to broadcast a signal—maybe even contact someone outside the town.

He dashed toward the building, his hands shaking as he fumbled with the door. It creaked open, and he stumbled inside, slamming it shut behind him. His chest heaved as he leaned against the door, listening for any sign that the figure had followed him.

Silence.

For a brief moment, Alan allowed himself to hope that he had outrun it. But deep down, he knew it was only a matter of time before it found him again.

The inside of the building was dimly lit by a single flickering lightbulb. The equipment looked old, but functional. Alan rushed over to the radio controls, his fingers trembling as he fumbled with the dials, trying to remember what little he knew about shortwave radios. He adjusted the frequency, cleared his throat, and spoke into the microphone.

“This is Alan Greaves… Can anyone hear me? If you’re out there, if anyone is out there… please respond.”

Static. Nothing but static.

He tried again, frantically switching frequencies. “Hello? This is Alan Greaves… please, someone respond!”

The hiss of dead air was his only reply.

Alan slumped forward, his heart sinking. Was there really no one else left?

And then, through the static, he heard it. A voice. Faint, barely audible, but unmistakably human.

“…Alan…?”

His blood turned cold. The voice was familiar. Too familiar.

He froze, his hand hovering over the radio, his breath caught in his throat. The voice on the other end crackled through the static again, clearer this time.

“…Alan… it’s you, isn’t it?”

It was his voice. The same tone, the same cadence. As if he were speaking to himself from the other side.

Terror gripped him. This wasn’t right. None of this was right.

Suddenly, there was a loud bang at the door. Alan jumped, his heart nearly stopping. He backed away from the control panel, his eyes wide with fear as the banging grew louder, more insistent.

Whatever was out there had found him.

The door rattled violently, the hinges groaning under the strain. Alan glanced around, desperate for a way out, but there was nowhere to run, nowhere to hide. The room was small, the windows too narrow to escape through.

The door burst open with a deafening crash.

And standing there, framed by the darkness outside, was the figure.

But now, as it stepped inside, Alan could see it clearly for the first time.

It was him.

A perfect, twisted reflection of himself—his face, his body, but hollow, lifeless, its eyes black and empty.

Alan stumbled backward, his mind unable to process the horror before him. The figure—his doppelgänger—moved closer, its expression unreadable, its black eyes fixed on him with an intensity that froze his blood.

He tried to scream, but no sound came out.

The figure stopped just inches away, staring into Alan’s wide, terrified eyes. And then, it spoke in his own voice, cold and emotionless.

“There is no one else, Alan. It’s just you.”

The world around him seemed to dissolve into nothingness as the figure’s words sank in. Alan’s legs gave out, and he collapsed to the floor, his mind spiraling into darkness.

As his vision blurred, the last thing he saw was his own face staring down at him, empty and hollow, like the reflection of a man who no longer existed.

And then, there was only silence.

© Brian C. Jobe