PROLOGUE
“I realize that Jane is dead. That the body which is floating right now in front of me, is not Jane herself. Her eyes are oozing some sort of black fluid which pools around her. The girl that could light up even the darkest room is now somehow making a room already shrouded in darkness appear more ominous. With a heavy heart, my hand reaches for the dagger kept and…”

JAKE
“Saturday Sun” by Vance Joy blears through the phone kept beside Sam. Probably just another person calling to check up on her after she left the party that was supposed to be hers. She could not understand what was happening to her. She checks the clock kept beside her. It reads 12:10 a.m. She got home at 9:30 and since then has been trying to finish writing her book. Her editor might call her tomorrow again. She wished creativity didn’t have a deadline. Here she was, finally succeeding in a career her parents still did not approve of, something usually chalked up to mere passion or hobby in her family. Though she was at a point in her life where she was supposed to “live her life”, whatever that means. She just felt too tired to bring herself to do that. The “best” times of her life were supposed to be these, the 20s. It is not like she did not try enjoying. Since she had started this book, things had turned dull for her. Every time she walked away from the screen on her laptop, it felt like she was abandoning the main role of a drama on the stage in front of a huge audience. It happened today too. The book kept calling her. And yet, she could not seem to complete it. Like everything she was writing was wrong. She kept waiting for a “click” that would lead the book in the right direction. She wondered if she’d be successful again in weaving stories from all her childhood dreams, a thread that could go up to infinity.

A FEW DAYS LATER
SAM
I didn’t remember falling asleep on my kitchen countertop. I try to remember the events of the last few hours. I was yet again sitting in front of my laptop, wondering what to write. Then, I had come to the kitchen for a glass of water. I was pondering the same thing I had been since the past 3 days. If this was my book to write, if I could actually do it. Probably must have fallen asleep then. I check the time on the clock hung up on the wall behind me. 4:52 a.m. That time stamp is one of the most crucial things about my book. I try to shrug off the weird feeling in my gut that says this isn’t a mere coincidence. Surely I’m not going to die? I get up from the chair and make my way back to my room. I have lived in this house for 4 years now. I have navigated my way several times in the dark in this very house. But today, I stumble. I bump my leg against something squishy and almost trip. I feel something scurrying away in the dark. I’m too scared to go check it so I just rush to my room as fast as I can. My laptop is asleep but the lights in the room are still on thankfully. My mind is too addled to think straight so I slump on my bed and try to catch some sleep.

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I wake up at 10 a.m. Luckily it is Sunday so I won’t have to worry about calls from my editor. I feel so refreshed that my mind doesn’t bother to think about all the unsettling events that took place in the night. I take a shower and go to get a coffee from the café down the street. They serve some of the best espressos. While I’m walking down the street, I notice a familiar face. It looks like Jake. Or well, what I imagined Jake would look like. The same green eyes and messy brown hair on a sullen face. To most people, he would like just another human but I know that beneath that demeanor hides a monster.

JAKE
A split second of eye contact was all it took to intrigue poor Sam, befuddling her very bright morning. I am pretty sure the doubt has crept into her mind. How could it not? After all, I am her creation. A fictional one, true. But a creation nonetheless. Only one thing remains, 4:52 a.m. next morning.

SAM
My mind goes blank. I am trying to grasp the reality right now. Was it true? Was it really him?
How can it be him? He can’t be alive. Be real.
I ditch the idea of the espresso and go back home. I sit down in front of my laptop. I open it and go to the draft of the book saved. I look at the footnote at the last page. It reads “Jane isn’t dead yet.” I try to remember if I had written this. No recollection whatsoever. Panic grips me by the shoulders and shakes me to the core. There is something wrong.
My brain tries to recollect every odd thing that has happened to me and try to piece it all together. My phone rings. It is an unknown number. I pick it up. “Be awake tomorrow at 4:52 a.m.” The line goes dead and with it falters my heart.