The Night It All Came Crashing Down
Khalee
My house is quiet and I feel at peace.
I’m already dressed for bed, in an oversized tee and a messy bun, my skin still warm from the shower. My parents are out for the night at some charity event, leaving behind the usual trail of expensive perfume and polite goodbyes.
I stayed home. Claimed I was tired. And I am, kind of.
But mostly, I’m waiting.
The last time I heard from K was around lunch. A quick message, something about having to take care of a few things. Vague, but not unusual. He never was one for over-explaining.
Still, it’s been hours.
And the silence is starting to stretch.
I keep checking my phone, convincing myself he’ll call when he can. That he would if he could. That nothing’s wrong.
And then my phone finally rings, but it’s not his name that lights up on the screen.
Mada.
I let it ring because I already know what this is.
It’s Saturday night, and if she’s calling now, it usually means she’s already out and wants backup. I can picture her voice, the way she’ll try to talk me into it, all charm and chaos. And I just… don’t have the energy tonight.
I don’t have the energy to say no. Or yes.
So I ignore it.
But then it rings again. And again. And again.
By the fifth time, something sinks in my stomach, and, following that uneasiness, I pick up.
“Mada?”
Her voice comes through the speaker, thin and shaking. “Khalee… can you come get me?”
I freeze.
“What’s going on?” I ask, as I move to my dresser and change clothes.
“I don’t know. I don’t feel right. I… please. Just come. Please.”
“Where are you?” I ask, realizing that’s not her usual argument to drag me to a party, and I start getting frightened by her tone of voice and possible state.
“I… I’m gonna send you the location,” she murmurs before I’m able to accept or deny it, and then hangs up.
A second later, her location pings through, and my chest tightens.
What the fuck is she doing so far from town in such a remote zone?
I don’t know what I’m walking into, but something feels wrong. Too wrong.
I shot out the door. The air outside hits colder than I expect, like the night itself, is trying to warn me.
I try calling K, but it goes to voicemail.
I call again—same thing.
Then I start texting.
Me: K, I need you.
Me: Please pick up.
Me: Something’s wrong. I need your help.
I try to ring him some more, while starting to drive, but without success.
Me: I’m sending the location. Please come meet me. I wouldn’t ask if I wasn’t terrified. I’ll be waiting for you.
I paste the pin my sister sent me into the message and hit send. My hands are shaking.
I stare at the screen, waiting for the little “delivered” check mark.
Watching.
Hoping.
Because he’s never failed me before.
And I need to believe, I have to believe, that he won’t start now.
Not tonight.
It takes me nearly half an hour to get there. The further I drive, the more civilization seems to peel away behind me, like I’m leaving the world brick by brick.
The streets grow narrower. Houses become sparse. Lights dim and vanish, swallowed by long stretches of empty road and creeping shadows. My GPS barely holds a signal. The pin Mada sent leads me to a gravel driveway surrounded by trees, tall, crooked things that look skeletal in the headlights.
There’s a house just sitting there. Silent. Set too far back from the road. No cars parked out front. No porch light on.
It’s the kind of place that looks abandoned until you realize it isn’t.
I cut the engine. My fingers stay curled around the steering wheel, locked tight.
I don’t move.
There’s no music. No laughter. No movement.
Nothing but the steady hum of the cooling engine, and somewhere, out in the dark, a single, distant howl that cuts through the trees like a warning.
Something is wrong.
I recheck my phone.
The messages I sent to K have now been delivered and seen.
My chest tightens as I stare at the screen, willing it to light up again.
Come on. Please.
Please be on your way.
Please be close.
I should get out of the car. Go inside the house. But I don’t.
Not yet.
I sit in the car, gripping my phone like it’s the only thing anchoring me to the world, waiting for the screen to light up. For his name to appear. For something, anything, to tell me I’m not doing this alone.
I should call my parents. Fuck. Maybe I should call the police. But why didn’t she?
I watch the house. The windows are dark. Still. No sound from inside.
The longer I sit, the louder my thoughts get.
In what mess did you dive into, sis?
I refresh the chat—still nothing from K.
I don’t realize how long I’ve been sitting there until the silence begins to buzz. My skin crawls—my gut twists.
Something in me, some ancient, instinctive part, starts to scream.
You shouldn’t be here.
But I have to be. Because she is, and I’m not leaving without my sister. I draw in a shaky breath, shove the phone into my jacket pocket, and step out of the car. Gravel crunches under my boots like bones. The wind cuts colder out here.
The house looms ahead of me, still and waiting.
I pray he’s on his way.
I pray the door will open and I’ll see her safe.
And more than anything, I pray I’m wrong about the feeling clawing at the back of my throat that I’m not too late.
I reach the house and climb a couple of steps, every breath sharp in my chest, every instinct inside me screaming to turn around. But I don’t.
The front door isn’t locked. It creaks open with a push, the sound echoing down a narrow, dim hallway. The air inside is colder than outside. Heavy. Like something died in here, and no one thought to mourn it.
I step inside, one foot after the other.
“Mada?” I call out, barely above a whisper.
No answer.
I move down the hall, passing doors that are all shut except one, slightly cracked open, just enough to let a sliver of unnatural light slip through.
I know before I even reach it.
I know.
But I’m still not prepared.
When I push the door open, the world stops.
She’s there. But she’s not alone, and nothing in this world could’ve prepared me for what I would run into.
Because everything around her is wrong.
Her body, limp, fully naked, positioned like a prop. Like she’s not a person anymore, but something they’re using. Her skin is too pale. Her breath was shallow, almost imperceptible.
There are men in the room. I don’t know how many at first, because my brain blanks, like it’s trying to protect me from taking in too much too fast.
One of them is holding a camera.
Another, Mark, is kneeling far too close—Mark, our classmate. The guy Mada always brushed off with a laugh when I asked about him and try to warn her that I didn’t like how he made me feel.
“He’s harmless, ” she used to say.
He’s not harmless now.
The look in his eyes is twisted, dark, ravenous. Like he’s been waiting for this moment. Like this was never about her.
And then I see James.
Of course, it’s James. Mada’s obsession. Her heartbreak. The boy she kept letting back in, over and over, even when it broke her. He’s standing near the bed, looking at her like she’s nothing. Like this is nothing.
Which means the one behind the camera is precisely who I fear it is, Patrick.
Mada’s “inner circle.” Her people. Her boys.
My stomach turns.
My brain tries to pull me out, to shut this down, protect me from what my eyes are seeing. But it’s too late.
I see it.
I see everything.
And I regret, instantly, with every cell in my body, ever coming here alone.
My legs give out for half a second, but I catch myself against the door frame.
Then I run. Or try to.
I turn, heart thundering, lungs barely working, and I make it three steps before Mark grabs me from behind.
“No, no, no, little witch, ” he hisses in my ear, dragging me back into the room like it’s his right. His grip is steel.
I scream. I kick. I twist my body violently against him.
“Let me go, you son of a bitch! Let her go!”
He just laughs. “And miss the fun we were about to have? Don’t think so, sweetheart.”
“Fuck, took you long enough, ” Patrick says, stepping out from behind the camera now resting on a tripod. He smirks like this is a joke. It’s not.
“Shut up, brother, ” Mark snaps. “What matters is that she’s here, right, Jay?”
But James doesn’t answer.
He’s sitting in a chair by the window now, partially shrouded in shadow. Still. Silent. Watching.
I think maybe he’s detached, maybe he doesn’t understand what’s happening, until I look him up closer. Even in the low light, I can see the movement. His hand. The tension in his body.
And then I see it. His boner and the way he’s massaging it through the fabric of his pants.
And I realize.
I realize, and revulsion crawls up my spine.
“What are you doing?” I whisper, my voice barely there, cracking under the weight of what I already know.
“You can’t be serious. You can’t possibly think you’re going to get away with this. If you do, you’re insane, ” I choke out, my breath stuttering, lungs refusing to work right. My eyes burn. I blink, and tears slip out anyway.
This is a joke. This has to be a joke.
A twisted prank. Something I’ll scream about later, throw things over. But not what I think this is.
This can’t be real.
These are people we know. We grew up with them: school trips, birthday parties.
We’ve eaten in each other’s kitchens and shared exam notes.
I never enjoyed their company, because yeah, they are assholes.
The kind of guys who poked too far, who laughed when it’s not funny.
The type of guys I rolled my eyes at, but everyone seems to love. But this?
This is something else.
This is evil.
They’re her best friends.
And they’re doing this.
“Shut the fuck up, you self-entitled whore, ” Patrick roars, grabbing my face with both hands so hard it makes my jaw ache.
His fingers dig into my cheeks, his face is inches from mine, twisted in a rage that barely looks human.
Spit hits my skin when he yells. His breath smells like alcohol and rot.