Chapter 1: The Night Autumn Changed

My roommate, Autumn Reyes, got so skinny overnight she looked like just skin and bones.

It happened so fast it didn’t even seem real—like one of those viral TikTok glow-ups, except this was way more disturbing. I mean, seriously—one day she was just Autumn, with her soft, round cheeks, always bundled up in her favorite oversized hoodie—and then, bam, she looked like she’d been hollowed out. I tried not to stare, but you could literally count every rib through her t-shirt.

I thought maybe she’d had surgery, or it was some wild side effect from new meds… or something. Who knows?

Honestly, who loses that much weight in less than a week? Maybe she’d started some crash diet from YouTube, or her doctor switched her prescription. I even wondered if she’d gotten one of those weight loss shots everyone’s obsessed with lately. But she never said a word, and I felt weird even bringing it up.

Until that night, when I woke up suddenly, desperate for the bathroom. You know how it is.

You know that weird half-dream state where you’re not totally awake but not really asleep either? That’s where I was—one foot tangled in my comforter, the other already on the freezing floor. The urge to pee was so strong it jolted me into the real world. God, I was barely awake.

Half-asleep, I pulled back my bed curtain and saw Autumn was still up, scrolling on her phone.

She was sitting cross-legged on her bed. The little string lights we’d hung were off, so the only glow was from her phone. That blue-white light made her look even paler than usual.

From where I was, the cold blue glow of her phone lit up her face.

It was weirdly cinematic—like something out of a horror movie, you know? Shadows carved her cheekbones sharp, and her limp, dark hair spilled over her shoulders. But it was her eyes—or, honestly, the lack of them—that made my breath catch. No way. I couldn’t be seeing this.

But on her face, there were just two black holes where her eyes should’ve been—no whites at all.

Just empty, bottomless pits. Not like dark circles, not like she was tired—like someone erased her eyes and drew in voids with a Sharpie. I froze, my hand still gripping the curtain.

The rest of her face looked smoothed flat, like nothing else was there.

No nose, no lips—just this weird, almost plastic smoothness, like a mannequin or a cheap Halloween mask. The room suddenly felt colder, and I was wide awake, heart thumping in my ears.

My heart skipped a beat. I was sure I was just seeing things. Had to be.

Maybe it was the weird dorm lighting, or my contacts were dry, or maybe I’d just watched too many late-night horror reels. I squeezed my eyes shut, trying to shake the image away.

I blinked, about to call out to her—tell her to put her phone away and get some sleep.

My voice caught in my throat, but I still managed a shaky, “Autumn?” Only, the word never made it out.

But before I could say anything, her face—with just those two black holes—suddenly sprouted a mouth. It curved up into a grin, like she was smiling at me.

The smile was too wide, stretching up and up, splitting her face where her lips should’ve been. God, it was like a glitch in a video game—unnatural, wrong, but undeniably real. A cold sweat broke out along my back.

That scene scared me so bad I dove back under my covers. Not a sound. Not even a breath.

I pulled my blanket up to my chin, heart pounding, and squeezed my eyes shut. I could almost hear my own pulse thudding in my ears. I tried to make myself as small as possible, like hiding from a monster as a kid.

I swallowed hard, telling myself I was just overtired, hadn’t slept well, and was a little delirious.

It’s nothing, you’re just tired. Finals. Junk food. That’s all. I kept repeating it in my head, counting backwards from a hundred, doing anything to get my mind off that impossible face.

Still, I couldn’t shake the fear from those few seconds.

Every time I closed my eyes, that gaping grin flashed behind my eyelids. Couldn’t escape it. My hands were clammy. I tried to focus on the warmth of my comforter, the familiar scent of lavender laundry detergent, but it didn’t help.

My ears strained for any sound outside, but it was dead silent.

No creaks, no shifting bedsprings, not even the usual hum from the old radiator. The silence pressed in, thick and unnatural, making every second drag.

I tossed and turned, unable to sleep. Sleep just wouldn’t come. Eventually, I worked up the nerve to peek out from behind my bed curtain again.

It felt like hours, but was probably just minutes. My curiosity finally got the better of me. I lifted the edge of my blanket, then the curtain, heart thumping like a drum solo.

It was pitch black—no phone light. She must’ve fallen asleep.

Her bed was just a lump under a blanket, the phone dark on her pillow. Everything looked normal—almost boringly normal. I let out a shaky breath, feeling both relieved and stupid. Get a grip.

The next morning, I woke up early, bladder about to burst.

I practically flew out of bed, feet slapping the cold floor, making a beeline for the bathroom. Cold as hell. The sun was just barely up, painting our dorm in pale yellow light.

After I got up, Autumn got up too.

She shuffled to the sink, yawning, her hair a tangled mess. She glanced at me, eyes bleary, and gave a sleepy half-smile. If I hadn’t seen what I saw last night, I’d never have guessed anything was off.

Everything seemed normal, so I convinced myself last night was just a dream.

I kept watching her out of the corner of my eye, waiting for something weird to happen, but she just brushed her teeth and started scrolling her phone again. I felt silly for letting my imagination run wild.

She mostly kept to herself, hardly ever talking to us.

Autumn was one of those roommates who slipped through the background—never loud, never messy, just quietly doing her own thing. Sometimes I wondered if she even liked us, or if she just tolerated our presence.

We ate together, and she picked up a package—a new bed curtain she’d ordered, since her old one had torn a few days ago.

The package was from Amazon, brown cardboard with her name scrawled in black marker. She ripped it open with surprising eagerness, her fingers trembling a little as she ran them over the new fabric. She seemed almost relieved to have it.

She held onto my arm, her elbow jabbing me hard. I couldn’t shake her off, so I just endured it.

Her grip was bony, almost desperate, like she needed to anchor herself to something real. It creeped me out. I tried to pull away gently, but she just clung tighter, her elbow digging in like she didn’t even notice.

Autumn was really too thin.

Her wrist looked as fragile as a bird’s leg, and her hoodie hung off her like a scarecrow. I caught a glimpse of her collarbone, sharp as a knife under her skin. It made me wince.

Even though I knew it wasn’t polite to pry, I was still curious, so I tentatively asked her why she’d lost so much weight.

My voice was soft, careful. “Hey, Autumn… are you okay? You’ve, uh, lost a lot of weight lately. Are you feeling alright?” I tried to sound casual, but I couldn’t quite hide how worried I was.

She paused, then slowly turned her head to look at me, and gave a strange smile.

It wasn’t just awkward—it was unsettling, her lips stretching up at the corners, but her eyes staying blank and distant. Like she was trying to remember how to smile, but couldn’t quite get it right.

My scalp tingled. I felt completely uncomfortable.

A cold shiver ran down my spine. I wanted to look away, but I couldn’t. The room suddenly felt too small, the air thick with something I couldn’t name.

“Guess.”

Her voice was soft, almost playful, but it echoed in my head, the word stretching out longer than it should have. I felt like I’d been given a riddle with no answer.

Guess, guess, guess…

The word looped through my mind, every repetition twisting tighter, until it was all I could hear. My skin prickled with goosebumps. I just wanted to get away.

Her words echoed in my mind, and even after returning to the dorm, my head was still buzzing.

I kept replaying that moment, her weird smile, the way her voice seemed to slide under my skin. Even as I unpacked my backpack, I couldn’t focus. I felt like I was forgetting something important.

Overlapping with that was her smile—the corners of her mouth turning up—pulling me back to last night, until all I could see in my mind were those two grinning mouths.

Every time I blinked, her face flickered behind my eyes. My stomach churned, and I hugged my knees to my chest, trying to shake off the memory. I felt like I was losing it.

“Harper, did you do the homework yesterday?”

That was Zoe, my other roommate, snapping me out of it.

Zoe’s voice was sharp, a little impatient, but familiar. I clung to that normalcy like a lifeline.

“Yeah, I did.”

I tried to sound casual, but my voice was a little shaky. I cleared my throat, hoping she didn’t notice.

We weren’t in the same major, but we had one big class together, and she always copied my homework.

It was kind of our routine—she’d text me late at night, promising Starbucks in exchange for my notes. Sometimes she actually followed through.

“What were you thinking about? I called you like three times.”

Her tone was half-annoyed, half-concerned, as if she couldn’t decide whether to scold me or tease me. She waved her hand in front of my face for emphasis.

“Sorry, I didn’t hear you.”

I forced a little laugh, hoping to play it off. My mind was still tangled up in last night’s nightmare.

I tossed my notebook to her, not mentioning what was on my mind at all.

The spiral-bound notebook landed on her lap. I kept my eyes on my phone, pretending to scroll through emails, but I could feel her gaze lingering.

Zoe caught it with practiced ease, then complained for no reason:

She flipped through the pages, then sighed dramatically. “Why are my arms getting thicker again? I’ve been dieting so much.” She flexed, pinching the skin on her upper arm with a pout.

Zoe was not only the prettiest girl in our dorm, but also the star of our department. She was always strict about managing her figure.

She had this effortless confidence—long, shiny hair, perfect nails, always dressed like she was about to step onto a magazine cover. Seriously, she was that girl. She kept a calendar on her phone for workouts and meal preps, and sometimes she’d drag me to spin class with her.

If she hadn’t said anything, I wouldn’t have noticed, but she really did look a bit rounder.

Her cheeks were a little fuller, her jeans tighter at the waist. But she still looked great—just not quite the Zoe everyone expected.

I couldn’t help but glance at Autumn. She was looking in the mirror, staring at herself without blinking, her mouth sometimes curving up, sometimes down, as if she were practicing her smile.

The mirror was propped up against her desk, and she leaned in close, her face expressionless except for her lips. It was almost like she was rehearsing for a play, but her eyes were empty, unfocused.

But nothing else moved. Just her mouth.

It was like her face was frozen, only her lips twitching up and down, as if the rest of her had forgotten how to move. The effect was more than unsettling—it was downright creepy.

Too weird…

I hugged my coffee mug tighter, glancing away. The hair on my arms stood up. I tried to shake it off, telling myself I was just being paranoid.

Autumn seemed to notice my gaze, and her neck twisted.

She turned, slow and deliberate, like she’d felt my eyes on her. Creepy. Her stare was flat, unblinking, and I looked away fast, pretending to be busy with my laptop.

Before she could turn to look at me, I quickly sat up straight, pretending to focus on my own stuff.

I clicked open a random tab, typing nonsense just to look occupied. My heart was racing, and I forced myself not to glance back at her.

I mixed up some instant oatmeal and pulled out the small box from under my desk.

The oatmeal was my comfort food, something easy and warm. As I stirred, I reached for the shoebox I kept tucked away—a secret between me and Lily.

Inside was the little dog Lily Tran and I found in a dumpster three days ago.

She was tiny, barely bigger than my hand, with matted fur and the saddest brown eyes. We’d snuck her past the RA by hiding her in a tote bag, giggling like kids on a mission.

Lily had even named her—Peanut.

It was perfect. She was round and wriggly, always sniffing for snacks. Peanut had already chewed through one of Lily’s socks and a corner of my pillow.

Peanut opened her sleepy eyes and let out soft puppy yelps.