litlinks 2025

Nothing, No One

by Phoebe MacDonald-Smith, Melba Copland Secondary School

My grip tightened on the steering wheel, knuckles white, as the black sedan gave out one last low grunt. The dashboard lights flickered and dimmed and were swallowed by darkness.

Fog filled the road ahead. The night sky was invisible. The moon, unseen. I breathed heavily, watching the condensation spread across the window as smoke rose from the hood. I opened the car door. A gush of cold wind struck me, sending me back into my seat. My thin coat and faded blue jeans failed to insulate my body. My eyes opened wider when a warm-toned porch light caught my attention. Squinting through the fog, my eyes saw the light flicker. The light couldn’t be part of the road. There hadn’t been lights for hours.

My gaze rested on a black silhouette hiding behind what looked like the curtains of a house. I reached for the door handle, with hesitation of leaving the safety of my car. The wind howled, adding to my fear of what could be out there. I stared deep into the fog, my breath shallow and slow. A light crunch of gravel reached my ears. Nothing, no one.

Through the haze, a figure emerged just outside the window. I let out a silent scream, trying once again to get something out. The result was the same as before. Not a sound. A cold wind hit my body as the figure pulled the door towards them. The dark made it uncertain to me who this figure was. And that’s when I heard it: the light shrill voice of an old woman.

“Oh dear, what has happened here?” the shrill voice questioned.

“I . . .”

Stuttering hard with hesitation, the woman ensured everything was all right. “It’s okay dear. You are safe now. We can head up to the house if you’d like?”

Before I knew what was going on, she had pulled me from the car and onto the side of the road.

“Come on. Get up. The fog swallows the slow ones,” she remarked, a warm smile crossing her face. The sound of her voice guided me through the jet-black night that surrounded me. Nothing, no one.

Gravel crunched beneath my feet, getting louder with every step. The outline of a house became clearer to me as I kept walking. Soon enough, we were at a small, white and pale yellow cottage, with a sign only just visible that read, ‘BED AND BREAKFAST’. The woman had short grey hair, woven into a neat bun, and a hand-knitted shawl wrapped around her body. She was no taller than five feet.

“It’s good to finally see you in the light. Let’s get inside and find you a cosy room for the night.”

Her eyes crinkled at the sides as she let a soft smile spread across her face. Hesitation and fear made me struggle to step into the house. Lingering on the porch, the old woman gestured for me to come in. I let out a deep sigh and took a step forward.

The warm air hit me hard as my body relaxed with the comforting sights of her coloured walls. A soft stench of old, musty lavender soothed my nostrils. Floral curtains hung by the window, grey carpet covered the floors, and yellow, beige, and white furnishings had the final touch that made it feel like a home. A guest book lay on the table before me.

“Go on dear, write your name down. We like to keep track of our guests.”

I wrote my name as neatly as I could: Christopher Mulholland. A staircase loomed before me when bad thoughts filled my head once again.

“Follow me, I’ll show you to your room.”

The old woman led me down a narrow, dimly lit hallway, with her slippers whispering against the wooden floor. Old wallpaper peeked from beneath the paint that covered the walls. Small, intricate antiques filled cupboards that sat at the end of the hallway, with a tall lamp standing beside them. She came to a stop after passing multiple rooms.

“Here is where you can spend the night, my dear.”

I struggled to get the words out. “Thank . . . you. You’re too kind.”

“No worries, my dear.”

With a lingering warm smile, she pushed me into the room. The door clicked behind me, sending unsettling chills through my spine. Nothing, no one.

The room was too clean. The kind of clean that made you wonder if anything had ever been in it. Everything was placed perfectly, symmetrically, like it had been waiting for me.

I stood there, in the darkness, trying to shake the thought that something was wrong. I walked over to the bed, pulled the covers back, and slid underneath them. They were cold and unwelcoming, unlike other beds I’d been in.

I lay there, stiff. It was quiet, but not the kind of quiet you’d expect. Not a sound was made. Not the old house settling, nor the wind hitting against the windows. Just the soft sound of my uneven breathing. Nothing, no one.

Eventually, my breathing slowed, as did my heartbeat. My eyes grew heavy, yet sleep came with no hurry at all, like it could take me all night to get there.

My weariness cleared when I woke up with a dry throat, begging for water. Cold air seeped through my skin, aching in my bones. I sat gazing at the darkness that surrounded me.

Water.

My body beckoned for it like it was something I had never had. Like something that was kept away.

I pulled the tight sheets from my body and swung my feet over the side of the bed stepping onto the soft carpet that comforted my feet. I stood up fast. Too fast, my head spun.

Icy fingers wrapped around my ankles, pulling me down.

Fear filled my lungs, making screaming no option.

Dragged under the bed, I was knocked unconscious.

My head throbbed. Although it was dull, it was the first thing I noticed. I tried to move, but my arms had been pinned behind my back. Panic surged through me. My breathing was shallow, each breath getting shorter every time I tried to recover. I wriggled, trying to pull myself free. The rope bit into my skin, leaving it red and raw.

I moved my lips. Nothing came out but a slight grunt.

I felt a cold hand touch my neck, like it was spreading my skin, getting ready for something.

Medical supplies. They surrounded me.

How had I not noticed before? Syringes and needles were wrapped in clear blue film. Packets of antiseptic wipes filled shelves that hung on the walls.

The old woman came into sight with her hand no longer on my neck.

The smell of antiseptic stung my nose.

She unwrapped the blue film that covered a needle, then opened a nearby cupboard and took out a small, slim, blue bottle, the label too small to read.

She approached me with that same warm smile that had once given me comfort. Now it was giving me chills. The same thought had been filling my head all day without reasoning, until now. 

Nothing, no one.

My vision was blurry, and my head was still spinning. The cold hands gripped my neck as a small, sharp pain pinched my skin. Heat flooded my veins. My body fought the fluid, the ropes restraining me.

Then came the foam. Thick and bitter, rising from my throat, seeping from the sides of my mouth despite the tape that covered it.

My eyes burned, like acid had filled them. Hot tears streamed down my face, carving a burning sensation into my skin. I screamed, but the foam choked me as it kept filling my body.

I saw the old woman unwrapping a scalpel. Approaching me with the knife, she came closer and lifted my shirt. Heat spread across my stomach. Wet. Sticky. Blood.

My heart rate slowed. Each thud echoed in my ears like a sound I couldn’t follow.

My body felt lifeless. I felt as if I was watching myself drift away. The edges of my vision dimmed, not closing eyes but darkness closing in on me. My fingers twitched uncontrollably. I could feel it coming.

Death.

Not instant. Not forgiving. It came slowly, like sleep, like a shadow creeping up on me, strangling me.

I wasn’t drifting, but was being pulled, tugged downward into something unknown. I gasped for breath, hanging onto consciousness, not letting go. Breathing through the foam and fear, Death was patient. Not like I thought it would be. I thought it would be quick and over with.

But no. It didn’t yank, but slowly pulled me in, inch by inch, like it had all the time in the world.