Chapter 1

Forgive me.

It started on a Monday, right on the hottest day of the summer. I keep a pretty strict morning routine: I have since mid high school, when I realized that, it's true, surviving off of four hours of sleep and five pop-tarts eaten spread out throughout the course of the day really isn't very good for your mental and physical wellbeing.

I go to bed early with a full nighttime routine complete with noise canceling headphones, and I wake up well rested around six AM, which is right when the sun is coming up in mid July. That's one of the reasons I really prefer the winter: I like to be up before it's bright outside. It gives me a sense of privacy for those few hours before anyone else is awake, it gives me some time where I know without a shadow of a doubt that no one will be thinking about me, looking at me, or trying to talk to me.

It did, at least.

On this Monday I was following my usual schedule. I rolled out of bed to the sound of my cats shrieking at me, fed them, hopped in the shower, got dressed, and put on some coffee.

I didn't notice him until I walked to the window, mug in hand, warming both of my palms.

He was unassuming. He stood right at the end of my driveway, in front of the concrete path through the grass to my front door. He was wearing comfortable clothes, like what you might put on for a trip to the airport. Sweatpants. Hoodie. His hair was wet, as if he'd also recently gotten out of the shower, just like I had.

I frowned, bringing my coffee to my mouth as I watched him. I didn't recognize him, but that wasn't saying much. I didn't know many of my neighbors. I mostly just kept to myself.

He didn't have a dog, so he wasn't walking one. He wasn't holding newspapers or mail. In fact, this man lacked any sense of duty at all. There was no urgency or responsibility in his stance, he gave me no indication that he was only pausing in front of my yard to smell the flowers before continuing along with his day.

He was just… standing.

I found my work bag where I'd left it the night before, sitting on my couch. I packed it back up, shoving my laptop and refilled water bottle into the pocket.

When I got back to the window, he was still standing there. He was looking around, almost like he was bored. He looked up at the clouds, then down at his feet, then at what must have been a watch on his wrist.

I hesitated, taking one last sip of my coffee before putting my cup in the sink. Then I opened my front door, stepping outside into the rapidly warming day.

"Hey," I called out, my voice still gravely from sleep. I crossed my arms over my chest as if it was cold, hugging myself. "Can I help you, man?"

The man seemed surprised to hear me speak, looking up from a crack in the pavement that he'd been closely examining. He blinked, the silence stretching between us across the lawn.

"No," he said finally. "I'm okay."

More silence, this time feeling far more tense. I felt my face grow hot in embarrassment for the both of us. How didn't he understand that it was strange that he was standing there, in front of my house at seven in the morning, and wouldn't tell me why?

"Okay," I mumbled finally, frustrated. I was never good at confrontation.

I locked the door behind me, taking extra care to make sure it was latched securely. It had of course crossed my mind that he could be casing me, but who would be so stupid as to do it out in the open like this, where I could clearly see his face and identify him to the police later if I had to?

I got in my van and backed out of the driveway. In my rearview mirror I could see him, standing there, watching me pull out. He didn't move.

I told myself this was fine. This was just a weird story to tell Casey later, another one of those instances where something strange and unexplainable happens to someone that realistically has a perfectly reasonable explanation. I was fine with not knowing why this happened, because he'd be gone by the time I got home, and that would be that.

I was early to work, but I was always a little early. I hung out in the break room, waiting to clock in.

Ten minutes before my shift started, Casey arrived. He looked more tired than usual, with bags under his eyes, and he groaned when he spotted me, slumping down across from me.

"Good morning," he grumbled, drawing out the "g".

I couldn't help it, a small smile tugged at my lips. Casey expressed everything so animatedly, as opposed to my usual monotone – it left me wondering every day what he was going to be like. He was my only sense of entertainment at work, and maybe in general. There weren't many people that I genuinely considered a friend of mine, but he'd placed himself adamantly in that role almost as soon as I'd met him a few years ago in this very room. All of the stress of the morning melted away.

"You're not gonna want to hear this," I said. "But you forgot your name tag."

He looked down at himself and threw his head back in agony. "Shit! Damn it, Megan will have my ass. Third time this week."

I checked the time. Five minutes until I clocked in.

"Still getting those calls?"

"Yes! My god, they won't give it a break!" He scrubbed at his face. His hair looked greasy, like he'd forgotten to wash it. "I've tried blocking the numbers, I've called the phone company… whoever it is won't stop. They must be buying burner phones or something. I really think it's that guy from last month that I pissed off."

"All you said was no refund for that destroyed phone. That thing was like a couple of slivers of glass tied together by some wires."

"I know!" He rested his head on his arms, slumping over on the table. "Well, apparently he found another place to buy it off him, because he could sure afford a new one."

It was time for me to start work. As I stood up, everything that I wanted to tell him about rushed back to me. Something about how unexplained the calls he'd been getting were had reminded me.

"Oh my god, I have to tell you something later. When's your lunch break?"

Casey could always make things feel a little less serious. He could always make me feel better, make me see that things weren't so drastic. I hoped he never lost that quality about him.

When work was over, the sun was low over the horizon, drenching the parking lot in orange. My day had felt long and stressful, as most did, but I still relished the sense of purpose and community that it afforded me. As much as I liked being home and by myself, being at my job was crucial to my stability, and I always had a hard time transferring from one state to another. Especially when I left in the evening, and the drive home felt eerie and quiet compared to the bright fluorescent lights and conversation I'd been submerged in moments before.

I listened to the radio, letting the sound of newscasters and commercials comfort me as I took my route home.

As soon as I turned down my street, I knew something was wrong. I knew before I even saw them.

There were six people now, all standing in front of my house. The man from this morning was still there, leaning from left to right to give each foot a break from the burden of his weight, right where I'd left him. But now there were more of them, lined up behind him in single file, all unassuming and dressed comfortably as if they had nowhere else to be but here.

I pulled into my driveway, my hands shaking on the steering wheel. I waited a moment before turning off the engine, the radio droning in the background, not absorbing anything the garbled voices were saying.

Was I supposed to call the police? That sounded like my personal nightmare. Was this some sort of group effort to freak me out, some kind of gang stalking tactic? I couldn't think of a single person who might hate me enough to do something like this. I tended to stay out of people's way.

I got out of the car, shrugging my bag over my shoulder, mulling over what I should say.

"Excuse me," I called out, taking a few steps toward the line, cautious. "What's going on here?"

Maybe it wasn't the most eloquent way to ask, but I could hardly even get those words out. My voice was shaking just as much as my hands still were.

A couple of the people looked at each other. I swore I saw one of them shrug, a younger man, maybe a few years younger than me.

"We're waiting," the younger man said finally, smiling politely. It was like the smile I gave customers after an extra grueling rush. Tired.

I stared at him blankly. I looked between each of their faces. That look was the only thing they had in common: that exhaustion, sewn in a little below the surface, somehow mingling with a certain sense of excitement that hummed in the air between them. Anticipation.

"Why?" I deadpanned. I was getting frustrated again. What did I have to do to get a straight answer? "For what? Why here?"

The young man looked around, as if hoping that someone else might answer, but when no one spoke up, he turned to me again.

"This is where we were told to wait."

My mouth dropped open, and I forced it to close again. I was in awe at how he thought that was a suitable answer. I opened my mouth another time to say something concise, something like who the hell told you to wait here? But all that came out was a strangled sound, like I was an animal that had just been shot by a bow and arrow.

I went inside, shutting down and defaulting into walking up my front steps, locking the door again behind me.

I tossed my bag down and pulled out my phone, calling Casey. I didn't know what else to do. My cats meowed at my feet, scratching at my ankles.

"Stop calling this number," he said after a couple of rings, his voice slightly breathless. "I'm serious, dude, if you don't stop I'll-"

"It's me," I said, slumping down into a chair at my kitchen table. I looked around, just to make sure nothing seemed tampered with, although my door had still been locked when I got home.

"Oh! Sorry, man. I'm on a run, I just assumed it was that guy again. What's up?"

I paused to swallow, collecting my words and lining them up in my head like those people outside. One after another. "You know that man I told you about who was standing outside my house this morning?"

"Yeah…?"

I let out a shaky breath. "He's still here. And there are more of them now."

I heard him stop running, his breathing hard and his clothes rustling as he readjusted them. "Are you serious?"

"Yeah." For some reason, I felt on the verge of tears. I didn't want to be a baby. I just didn't like situations like this, situations where I felt like I needed help. But my anxiety was bad enough as it was. I just wanted someone else to see the same thing I was, affirm that my fear was justified.

"Hang on," he panted. "I'm only a few blocks away from you. I'll come over."

"Okay," I muttered, resisting the urge to tell him to be careful. That was stupid, the people outside hadn't shown any signs of being dangerous. "Thanks."

I watched out of my front window, waiting for him to arrive. I watched the people in the line. Some had sat down on the curb, some were checking their phones. The first man and an old woman behind him were having an animated conversation. Before my very eyes, two more people joined, walking up from somewhere down the street.

Casey stared at them as he jogged up my driveway, his eyebrows furrowed in confusion. They stared right back at him, some whispering amongst themselves. I unlocked the door for him, letting him inside. He was drenched in sweat, his hair even greasier than it had been that morning.

"You weren't kidding," was the first thing he said, peering through the blinds like I had just been doing.

"No," I choked out, beginning to pace. "Why would I joke about this?"

"I don't know!" He ran his fingers through his hair. "To freak me out?"

"When have I ever done something like that?"

Despite everything, despite the way my face was screwed up as if I was in physical pain, he grinned at me. "Thought maybe you were trying something new."

"Casey."

"Okay, I'm sorry." He nodded, looking up at the ceiling like he was mulling it over. "Lets call the police."

The patrol car that pulled up carried a heavy set bald man with a blonde mustache, a man who looked unequivocally like a cop. He came to the door while looking behind his shoulder, just like Casey had.

I told him about the man. I told him I had tried to talk to them, to not much success. I told him I was worried for my own safety, just like Casey had instructed me to before his arrival. It's just like at the doctor, he had said. Exaggerate so they have to take it seriously.

The cop agreed that it was strange. "Give me a moment," he told me. "I'll try and get some answers."

Casey and I watched as he went up to the line, starting with the man at the front. I could see their mouths moving, but there was no way to know what they were saying from there. The man nodded at something, and the cop shrugged. Everything seemed very ordinary, as if none of this was anything of any urgency. Casey and I shared a nervous look.

"Here's the thing," the cop said when he finally returned to my front door, after seeming to speak to a few more of them. "They don't seem very talkative. Best I can assume is this is some kind of social experiment type deal. Or a prank. But they don't seem to be aggressive or of ill intention."

I could do nothing but stare at him. Casey was the one to speak, after a moment of empty air.

"Can't you tell them to go away?"

The cop sighed, taking a moment to speak in a low voice into his radio. "They're on public property."

"They're in front of my house!" I managed to squeak. "They're inches from my lawn!"

The man nodded sympathetically, in a way that didn't feel entirely sincere. "I understand that. Unfortunately, I can't do much unless they pose an active threat." I could tell he was already detaching himself from this situation, losing interest in our conversation. "Call us again if they do anything else."

I watched him go, offering me one last curt nod. I couldn't believe it. When I turned, Casey was shaking his head in dismay, looking just as exasperated as I was feeling.

He stayed for a while, then told me he would have to go home. It was dark by then, the streetlights illuminating the standing bodies lined down the sidewalk. They weren't even leaving for the night.

"I'm sorry," he winced. "I have to feed my dog and try to get some rest. I'll call you first thing in the morning and check in, okay?"

I just nodded. My throat felt tight. It was taking everything in me not to beg him to stay. I didn't want to be alone. But even more than that, I didn't want to seem desperate.

He searched my face, apprehensive. I could tell he felt guilty. "Will you tell me if anything changes?"

I nodded again, summoning my strength. "Don't worry, Casey. I'm good. Are you sure you're okay walking home? I could give you a ride."

I said it thinking of the people outside, as if one of them might chase him down, but as soon as it left my mouth I remembered his weird phone calls. It occurred to me that he might be scared right now, too.

Still, he shook his head. "I'll be fine. I'm fast. I'll run." He punctuated the sentence with a laugh.

"Cool… okay. I'll see you tomorrow."

"Cool." He hovered awkwardly by the door for a moment before giving me a handshake, slapping my hand. I was sure I was sweaty, but he didn't show any acknowledgement, which I immensely appreciated.

As soon as he was gone, the house settled into an uncanny quiet. I turned on all the lamps, closed all my shades, and double checked that all the doors were locked.

Then I went to bed, praying that when I woke up, things would be back to normal.

But they weren't. The second I opened my eyes the next day, a deep feeling of dread closed in on me.

There had to be more than seventy people now, lined up down my street. I walked down my driveway, staring in horror.

Some of them had brought chairs. Some were sleeping, curled up against the rain gutters. Some seemed wide awake, bouncing anxiously on the balls of their feet. I couldn't even see all the way to the end of the line, as it curved where the street did, disappearing around a bend.

I felt like my brain was breaking. I sucked up all my nerves and walked down the line, trying to determine if I recognized a single one of them.

Some were more willing to talk to me than others. Some of them just looked at me nervously, or avoided my eyes entirely. I started asking each of them what they were waiting for, to varying degrees of success, but no one would give me a completely straight answer.

"I'm here for my son. I need another chance," one woman told me, but when I asked what she meant, she only shook her head at me apologetically.

"They all think that being first in line means they'll be first," another woman said, as if she was just gossiping, as if I had any idea what she was talking about. "But I don't even think that's how it works. Still, it's good to be here early, probably. Shows you really want it."

One man, when I focused in on him, burst into tears. The people next to him in line rubbed his back.

I was walking back up the line towards my house, in a daze of confusion and still half awake, when someone grabbed my sleeve.

Her eyes were wide and watery, and her fingers trembled as she held on to me.

"It'll happen soon," she whispered quickly, quietly. The faces of the people around her darkened, glaring at her. "You know what to do. I know you know what to do."

I sprinted back to my house, slamming the door behind me.

I had two missed calls from Casey. I called him back, and he answered on the first ring.

"Dude! I was worried! I know you're always up by now."

"I'm okay," I muttered, still out of breath from running back. "Casey, there are so many people now. They're all the way down the block."

"Oh my god. Are you serious?"

"Yes. And they're so weird. I don't know what they- hang on, why are you up so early?"

I could almost hear him shrugging through the phone. "Didn't sleep much."

"Why?"

There was a beat. "I kept feeling like someone was in my house."

I could feel myself frowning, my mouth turning down. I swallowed hard. "Casey…"

"I know, I know. It's stupid. Are you coming to work?"

I walked down the hall to my room, still holding the phone up to my ear, just to do something. Just to keep moving. "I guess so. I don't know what else to do."

He sighed in relief. "Okay. Great. I'll see you there?"

"I'll see you there."

When I got back out to the living room, I nearly leapt out of my skin.

There was a man standing at my window, his hands pressed to the glass, peering inside. As soon as he noticed me he sprinted away, and I watched him reclaim his spot in line, about five houses down from my own.

The next few days kept me in a constant state of fight or flight. When I drove home from work, I started passing the line five minutes before I pulled into my driveway. Then six. The line only multiplied: it was like the population of an entire town had coordinated to stand right in front of my doorstep.

I called the police several more times. To their credit, they did finally try and tell the line to leave, threatened them with loitering charges: once they really did start to disperse, and the relief I felt was incomparable, but as soon as the squad car pulled away, they were back. I started to feel hopeless.

On my days off I just sat inside with the blinds drawn, obsessively checking to see if anything had changed every few minutes. I wasn't sure at this point if it would unnerve me more if it did or if it didn't. Either way, I would have no explanation.

The atmosphere was changing. The buzz that had been hovering in the air since those first few people arrived was only growing stronger.

They were waiting for something, and it was coming. It was getting closer.

The next Wednesday, Casey called me as I lay in bed, waiting for exhaustion to hit me.

It was around ten PM, long past when I used to go to bed so I could wake up early. I had given up on routine.

"John," he said when I picked up.

I immediately sat up in bed. His tone was different. This was not the usual bubbly, self assured Casey.

"What's wrong?"

I could have sworn I heard a whimper. "Can I come over? Can I sleep over there?"

"Of course," I said right away. It was so scary to hear him like this. "Of course you can. What's going on?"

"There's someone here. I know it. You have to believe me."

I felt like my heart might crack one of my ribs. "I do. I believe you."

"I'll be over in ten," he said, and hung up the phone.

The next ten minutes were torture. I watched out my window, this time almost completely ignoring the line. I hardly cared about the line right then, for the first time since it began.

When his headlights illuminated the front of my house, I opened the front door. He pulled in behind my van.

It started slowly, quietly, from somewhere mid line.

Someone started cheering.

Slowly, they all joined in, until the neighborhood was flooded with the sound of clapping hands.

I ushered Casey inside. He wasn't himself, dragging his fingertips through his hair and licking his lips. If I didn't know him, I might have assumed he was on drugs.

His phone rang, and the sound made both of us jump. He shook his head, staring at it for a moment before chucking it at the floor. It shattered.

"Okay," I said slowly, putting my hand carefully on his back. "Okay. Let's sit down."

I watched TV with him late into the night, glancing at him from the corner of my eye until I saw his shoulders slump a little and his breathing slow. At around two AM, I realized he was asleep, his head half resting on my shoulder.

I eased him down onto the couch, covered him in a blanket, and retreated quietly to my room, careful to shut the door softly so as not to wake him.

I woke up about an hour and a half later to the sound of cheering. My headphones had fallen off at some point when I must have rolled over. It was muffled, dampened only by the walls between my room and the outside, but it was loud enough to force my eyes open.

I sat up, groggily rubbing my eyes, trying to comprehend what was happening. Then I remembered Casey, out on the couch, asleep.

And then I heard something from the kitchen.

I got out of bed, my feet hitting the carpet, warm from the summer night. The cheering kept going, like the backtrack of a sitcom. It made my stomach twist like someone had their hands in there, tying my intestines into knots.

The pieces of Casey's shattered phone was still scattered on the kitchen floor.

As my eyes adjusted to the light, I could see that wasn't the only thing different about the room. Half of my drawers were open, the contents emptied on to the counters. A chair had been tipped over, too, sitting on its back on the tile floor.

I heard a rustle from the other room, and my head flew up so fast I heard my neck pop.

A man stood in my living room, in the dark.

He was reaching for the zipper of his black rain jacket, the hood covering his hair. We made eye contact as he zipped it up, to cover his face.

But not before I recognized him as the man from the store. The one who had been so upset about the phone return.

The one who had threatened Casey in the parking lot afterwards. The one who had been calling him nonstop ever since.

He dropped something, and hit the living room rug with a thump. Then he ran, leaping out of the back window that I must have forgotten to lock the night before.

My fear kept me frozen in place, completely still. I didn't even think to chase him.

I looked at what he'd dropped. It was one of my kitchen knives, and it was covered in something dark and red and viscous.

I looked at the couch, facing away from me, where Casey's hand was draped over the arm.

Limp.

Casey was dead. I knew it before I even rounded the corner, and looked into his slack, pale face.

When the cops got there I was kneeled in front of the couch, my face buried in his chest, my clothes soaked in his blood. It had been all I could make myself do. All I could say to him was forgive me, forgive me, forgive me.

Forgive me for not saving you.

As they dragged me outside, needing three officers to even support my full weight, the cheering got louder. It echoed down the street, a raucous and grating sound that made my head spin. I saw some of their faces under the street lights, some beaming at me and some looking utterly heartbroken on my behalf.

Like they knew.

It felt like slow motion as they hauled me into the squad car. As I watched out the window as we pulled away, and the ambulances pulled up, lights not even on. Siren replaced with that awful cheering.

And down the street, down the line, someone began to rise. A figure was plucked out of the line and began to rise in the air as if there was some invisible beam drawing them up, and up, and up, hovering above the rest.

They had been chosen.

The cheering began to die down. Some cried out in distress and protest, falling to their knees or pulling at their own hair. Some just watched.

I watched in horror as my surroundings began to flicker, and to change before my eyes. My house shuddered and rippled, and then it wasn't my house anymore. The neighborhood shifted and it was no longer my neighborhood. We were in the city, the street filled with cars, and my home was now a tall apartment building, spotted with window lights cutting through the darkness.

In my holding cell, I was nothing. I was no one. All feeling had left my body, leaving me cold and numb. They asked me if I wanted to make a call, and I said nothing. I had no one I wanted to call.

I kept thinking, maybe if I had done something differently. If I had stayed on the couch with him, or taken all the warning signs more seriously… if I hadn't worn headphones to bed…

If I had done something differently, he would still be here. My best friend. He would still be alive.

I hardly noticed when someone started talking to me. Not until they touched my arm.

"You failed," they said, their wispy voice hardly penetrating my ears. "Nothing changed."

It was a man, maybe a cop that was out of uniform, but maybe not. He felt strange, like something I couldn't fully get a grasp on, even while looking directly at it. I couldn't describe to you what he looked like.

I nodded. It was all I could think to do.

I just wanted to go back. I wanted to go back to last night, or before then even, and do it differently. If I could just try again, I would have saved him.

"It's okay," he said sympathetically. He took my hand through the bars. "You can try again. Do you remember me?"

I shook my head.

He took a sharpie out of his jacket pocket, and began to write on the back of my hand. I let him.

"Go to this address," he said softly. "On this date. Wait there. If you're chosen, you won't remember this. You won't remember anything. You'll be taken back to before it happened again." He spoke to me as if I were a child, his eyes looking over my face, searching for any recognition. He found none. "If you interact with anyone while you're waiting, do not tell them why you're there. You cannot help them change what they need to change. They need to do it on their own."

He smiled at me. He had a kind face, but something was slightly wrong about it. Slightly sharpened like the tip of a knife.

"Good luck, John."

And then he was gone.

I'm home now. My real home, not the shifting fabricated one from before my friend was murdered. I got out on bail, and I've been put on house arrest for the time being. I'm still a suspect, but my lawyer is hopeful. He says if they let me out at all, they must know deep down that it wasn't me who killed Casey.

I haven't washed off what that man wrote yet. I just keep staring at it.

The date is in a week. My court date is a few days after that.

I'm not sure if I'll try again. I'm not sure if anything would change. I think it's in my nature to be a coward.

Maybe that's what he's trying to teach me.

I'm just not sure if I'm ready to learn.