Blind Loop

The night after our upstairs neighbors were murdered, I took the elevator with the killer.

He was right there, breathing the same air as me and my mom.

That made us the only ones who had come into direct contact with the suspect.

Later, a man claiming to be a police officer knocked on our door, asking if we'd seen the killer's face.

I was about to answer when—

Suddenly, words floated across my darkened vision like glowing jellyfish.

Don't trust him. That's the killer in disguise!
Oh my God—isn't this that case? The mom and blind daughter who survived the Night Butcher?
She can't even see! Why would he still come after her?
Someone help! That's the Night Butcher right in front of her!

My blood ran cold. Every hair on my body stood on end.

What... what the hell were these?

I had been blind for two years—total darkness since the accident. But now, these glowing words floated clearly in front of me.

Just yesterday, Mrs. Patterson and her entire family were found slaughtered upstairs. It wasn't surprising the police would canvas neighbors—but what were these... messages? Why were they calling the officer the killer?

My hand trembled on the doorknob. The man was still outside. I could feel him close—so close I could smell a faint metallic blood scent, laced with disinfectant. It clung to the air like warning signs.

My voice shook as I spoke.

"I can't see. I really... can't see anything."

The air in front of me stirred—like someone waving a hand just inches from my face.

Then I felt it—a sudden chill right above my right eye, a blade of air stopping in place.

Holy crap! He's testing whether she's really blind!
That knife in his hand nearly touched her eye!

I swallowed hard and tried to sound natural.

"I went blind when I was eight... car accident. I've been waiting for a cornea transplant ever since."

The air stopped moving. The man pulled back his hand.

My heart just stopped.
Mine too. This is so messed up.
Don't explain, girl! That makes him suspicious! Slam the door! Slam it now!

I forced a smile.

"Sir, maybe you could ask someone else. I'm just a blind kid—I can't help."

I could feel the resistance of the door ease slightly. I yanked harder, trying to shut it.

Then I heard footsteps from the kitchen—my mom's.

Before I could react, the man pressed the door open again.

"Who is it?" my mom called from behind me.

"Sweetie! How many times do I have to tell you? Don't open the door when you can't see who it is!"

I ignored her and kept trying to close the door.

But the man resisted.

"Hello, I'm a police officer."

My mom's hurried steps approached. Her voice was apologetic and cheerful.

"Oh dear! Officer! Please come in!"

Then I felt him lean down next to my ear. He let out a low, almost amused breath—and placed a hand on my head.

His fingers gripped my scalp. I nearly screamed.

Pain lanced through the top of my skull.

And then my mother yanked me into her arms.

"Sorry, officer! She's just a kid—doesn't understand."

My feet lifted off the ground.

And then—

Click.

The door shut.

And the nightmare truly began.

My mom scooped me into her arms and carried me into my bedroom, like I weighed nothing at all.

"Mom, no—don't go out there! Don't leave me!" I clung to her neck, panic clawing at my throat.

She kissed my forehead. "Sweetheart, that man might've seen the killer. I have to help. The guy who murdered Mrs. Patterson's family wore a mask and a hat, but I saw something. A scar. A long, twisted scar on the back of his neck. I'd recognize it even if he came back from the grave."

I gripped her tighter. "Mom, listen! There were words—on the air—I saw them floating in front of me! They said he's not a cop. He's the killer pretending!"

She froze.

And then—I heard it. A deafening silence.

Or, rather, I stopped hearing myself.

I kept repeating it, desperate for her to understand—but my voice... it was gone. No sound came out, not even a whisper.

Mom just frowned, confused. "Why are you opening your mouth like that? Did you get scared? It's okay, sweetheart."

No. No, no, no!

I shook my head violently, screamed without sound.

BEEP. BEEP. BEEP.

A stream of muted static replaced every word I tried to say. My lips moved, but the air betrayed me.

My mom sighed. "Sweetheart, you can't be selfish. Mrs. Patterson's family didn't deserve what happened. Her baby was just two. He didn't even know how to talk yet. That monster didn't spare him."

She tucked me into bed like it was any normal night.

"I saw that man. I have to tell the police. I won't be able to live with myself if I don't."

"You just rest, okay? Your eye surgery's next month. Everything's going to be fine."

I felt her warmth disappear.

Then—

Click.

The sound of the bedroom door locking.

I scrambled off the bed, hands flailing, searching for the handle.

Locked.

A wave of icy dread soaked through my bones.

God, she doesn't know! The cops never patrol alone!
That's not a real cop! She's letting the Night Butcher inside!
She's going to die. Oh my God, her mom's going to die!

I jumped to my feet, screaming at the air, flailing wildly as if I could swat away the glowing words hanging in front of me.

"My mom won't die! She won't!"

Wait... is she talking to us?
Is this a live feed? I thought this was a documentary about the case!
She's mouthing something. Anyone know how to lip-read?

THE MOM JUST SAW THE SCAR.
OH MY GOD. HE'S GOING TO KILL HER.
DO SOMETHING!!

My knees gave out.

I crawled toward the door, sobbing, pounding the floor.

Hands swept blindly until I found it—my old metal pencil box.

I used it to bang on the door. Once. Twice. Again.

Still locked.

I racked my brain.

Since the accident, my parents had installed surveillance cameras all around the house—to keep me safe. I remembered Mom saying mine was hidden in the ceiling light.

I tilted my head back toward the ceiling and screamed.

"Dad! Are you watching? Please! Help us! Daddy!"

She doesn't know her dad's in the lab right now...
He hasn't seen the feed yet...
And her mom... oh no...

My breath caught in my throat.

What happened to Mom?

The chat went silent. No more floating words. Just—

Her mom begged the killer to spare her daughter.
Said she couldn't see. That she wasn't a threat.
Promised not to scream.
And he agreed.

Then he stabbed her. Over a dozen times. She never made a sound.

The world blurred.

I collapsed.

And then—I heard footsteps.

I froze.

CLICK.

The bedroom door opened.

And the smell hit me. Thick. Metallic. Fresh blood.

He was here.

I knew the fake cop was standing right outside the bedroom door. I couldn't breathe.

But I didn't care anymore. I had to find my mother.

Blood. The scent of it clung to the air like something physical, brushing against my skin.

I dropped to the ground and started crawling.

"Mom... Where are you...?" I whispered into the darkness, hands sweeping blindly, every touch of air a prayer.

They're lying. Those messages, they're wrong.
Mom said everything would be fine. She never lies to me.

I kept crawling, following the strongest trail of blood. The air grew thicker, heavier.

Behind me—footsteps.

Soft. Steady. One for every move I made.

One of mine. One of his.

Then my hand touched it.

Something wet. Warm. Sticky.

My mother.

She wasn't moving.

I collapsed onto her.

Every message I'd seen, every warning I'd ignored, every quiet suspicion I'd tried to push down... All true.

The footsteps behind me stopped.

Silence.

Then, a few seconds later, they turned.

He was walking away.

Leaving?

No. It wasn't over.

Suddenly, from above— A voice. Raw and broken.

"Emma! Oh my God—EMMA!"

Dad.

I tried to lift my head toward the sound. There! The ceiling speaker.

"Dad! Dad, I'm here! Please—HELP ME!"

But the footsteps turned again. Coming back.

He was angry now.

The air around me changed—he knelt down, so close I could feel his breath.

Sour. Metallic.

I could feel the smile on his face without seeing it.

Then I heard Dad's voice again, this time desperate. "Please! Please don't hurt her. Take whatever you want. I'll give you everything—money, codes, anything! Just don't hurt my daughter!"

I screamed, "Dad, save me!"

But the blade had already touched my skin.

I never saw the light leave me.

But I felt the warmth of my mother's body around me as I fell.

And then—nothing.

No time. No pain. Just dark, heavy tar, dragging me down.

Messages melted into the void.

The only surviving victim of the Night Butcher murders...
Her bravery helped authorities track him down...
Too late. She died the night before her transplant surgery.

Then— Light.

Somewhere, light.

I clawed toward it.

Then—my father's voice.

"Emma... Emma, can you hear me?"

His bangs brushed against my forehead, wet with tears.

"You're alive..."

I came back.

Because the security footage caught his face.

Because of me, they finally captured the monster who had slaughtered families across the country for seven years.

He was brought to justice.

But I didn't last long.

A month later—one night before my long-awaited eye surgery—I died.

Hooked up to machines, tubes feeding me, draining me, keeping me alive.

I died in the final hours before the light was supposed to return.

In the endless black of my world, I saw her again.

The woman with waist-length hair.

Not my mother—Mom had short hair.

This woman was something else.

She reached out.

And I watched my shattered body glow—each broken piece floating back into place.

Then— Darkness again.

The voice returned.

"Little girl, your neighbors upstairs were murdered last night. Did you see the killer's face?"

I was back.

Back to the moment everything began.

I touched my neck— The spot where the knife had sliced through me in another life.

The pain wasn't there, but the memory was. Sharp and real.

Don't trust him! He's not a cop!
Oh my God, it's her! The blind girl who survived the Night Butcher case ten years ago!
She's right across from him again!

I saw the messages—again. But different.

Some lines were new.

What changed?

Last time, my mother died.

I died.

But now they were calling me something else.

The survivor.

So... this could be changed?

It wasn't a fixed past. Not a documentary. Not a replay. A loop.

If I could survive, my mom could too.

I gripped the door handle tightly.

No matter what, I couldn't let him in.

He was still outside—pretending to be a cop. Testing my blindness.

This time, I had to play it right.

Calm. Controlled.

"Sir," I said, voice steady, "I'm blind. The entire building knows I lost my sight two years ago. I didn't see anything last night. Please try asking someone else."

He hesitated.

His hand on the door loosened.

My heart was hammering so hard I thought he'd hear it.

I needed more time.

If I could stall him—even for a minute—we could call the real police. We could change everything.

I reached for the door, just about to shut it.

The hinges groaned—just one final push—

And then—

CLANG.

Something jammed the door. Metal.

My whole body froze.

Then he spoke again.

A low chuckle.

"Little girl... why are you in such a rush to close the door?"

My throat tightened. "I... I'm not rushing."

The door creaked open again—wider this time.

His fingers brushed my head. His knuckles tensed.

Pain exploded at the top of my skull.

But I stayed still. No sound. No reaction.

Just a blind girl, harmless, helpless.

It might be my only advantage.

And then he called out.

"Is anyone home? I'm a police officer, here to follow up on the incident upstairs!"

His voice was sharp, professional.

I panicked.

Because I heard it— My mother's footsteps.

She was coming.

"No... no..." I whispered.

This couldn't be happening again.

Everything was going exactly like the last time.

I struggled in my mother's arms, screaming, fighting to keep him out.

My voice flipped—clear one second, muted the next.

The silence kept stealing my words.

"I'm sorry, officer! She's just scared," my mom apologized.

Then—just like before—she locked me in the bedroom.

I pounded the door with everything I had, my fists aching, my voice hoarse.

But the sounds from outside were already fading.

The next time I woke up, I was already mid-loop.

Again.

Welcome back.
That makes three.
She's adapting faster.

I didn't need to hear the knock this time to know what was happening.

I could feel it.

Same script. Same door. Same man.

I inhaled slowly. Sharply.

Then smiled.

This time... I remembered everything.

This time... I wasn't afraid.

"Who is it?" I asked softly, as my fingers slipped under the desk drawer, pulling out the emergency can of pepper spray.

He knocked again.

"I'm with the police. We're looking into last night's murders."

I clicked the safety off the spray.

"Sir, I'm blind. I wouldn't be of help."

Pause. Shuffle.

"You're the little girl, right? You were in the elevator."

Bingo.

My fingers tightened.

She remembers.
Oh my god. She's breaking the cycle.
Wait—wait—she's going to fight back!

I opened the door slightly. Just enough.

"I'm sorry," I said sweetly. "But I really don't feel safe opening the door to strangers."

And then I sprayed—straight through the gap.

He screamed. Loud. Choked.

I slammed the door shut, locked every bolt, then yelled:

"MOM! CALL DAD! IT'S HIM!"

I turned to the camera. Looked up at the ceiling.

"He's back. And this time I'm not dying."

Hell yes.
She did it. She finally fought back.
Holy crap, that scream was real. He's in pain.
NOW call the cops. Real ones this time!

I wasn't the victim this time.

Not the blind girl in the corner.

Not the witness.

This time, I was the blade.

And I wasn't done yet.

The real police came within six minutes.

He was still clawing at his face when they cuffed him.

He kept screaming.

"They said she was blind! She's not supposed to fight!"

I stood in the corner, silent.

When they took him away, I finally collapsed.

Mom caught me.

Alive.

She was alive.

A week later, the doctors moved up my surgery.

The donor cornea had arrived.

"You're lucky," the surgeon said. "There was a sudden match—very rare, this quick."

The day of the operation, I was calm.

I wasn't afraid anymore.

Not of the dark.

Not of what I might see when I opened my eyes.

When the bandages came off, the world was too bright.

Shapes. Colors. Light.

Mom was crying.

Dad was filming everything, hands shaking.

I saw them.

For the first time in two years.

But I also saw something else.

Floating in the corner of the room—

She did it.
The only survivor who changed her story.
Loop complete.
Logging final sequence.

And one last message:

Goodbye, Emma.

Then the text faded.

For real, this time.

I reached out, instinctively, to where the words had been.

Only air.

That night, I stood alone in the elevator.

The same one.

It dinged softly.

The doors closed.

I looked at my reflection.

I wasn't just a girl who survived.

I was the one who broke the cycle.

End of Blind Loop