The Absent Author

In The Coma It Waits

Chapter 5: What Followed the Static

🖤 by The Absent Author

They found the restraints on the floor.

Still tied.
Still knotted.
Still warm.

Isaac was gone.

Not escaped.
Not discharged.
Gone in a way that felt deliberate, like a decision had been made, and the room was no longer required.

The mattress held his shape. A shallow indentation rose and fell, almost imperceptibly, like something unseen was still breathing there. The ventilator hissed on a loop, waiting for lungs that no longer existed.

The monitors displayed vitals that belonged to no one.

After the Bed Went Empty

Dr. Kael stood frozen in the doorway of Room 500, unable to cross the threshold. The smell hit him first. Not blood. Not rot. Something electrical and sharp that burned the back of his throat. Ozone. Heated wire. Storm air trapped inside a box.

His hands shook as he reached for the bedside rail.

The metal was warm.

The overhead light flickered in a pattern that made his chest tighten. Three quick flashes. A pause. Three more.

It matched his pulse.

When he stepped forward, the floor vibrated beneath his feet. A single heavy thud, as if something massive had shifted position inside the building. The vibration traveled up his legs and settled behind his eyes.

The intercom crackled.

“He’s still dreaming,” a calm voice said.
“He just took his body with him.”

Kael backed away so fast that he collided with the wall. His stethoscope tangled around his neck, pulling tight. For a moment, he thought it was tightening on its own.

He tore it off and dropped it on the floor.

The humming grew louder.

Not from above.
Not from below.

From inside the walls...

Security never recovered the footage cleanly.

Every monitor showed a hallway, but none of them matched the building’s layout. The angles were wrong. The distances stretched. The lights buzzed too loudly, like insects trapped in glass.

Every hallway ended the same way.

Room 306.

Nurse Anika noticed herself on one of the screens.

She was walking down the fifth-floor corridor, posture stiff, arms at her sides. The timestamp looped. 3:06. 3:06. 3:06.

On screen, she reached the corner and turned.

Her reflection did not.

It continued straight ahead, shoulders loosening, head tilting as if listening to something just out of frame. The mouth moved silently.

Anika unplugged the monitor.

The screen stayed on.

The reflection raised its hand and waved.

Anika screamed, then ran out the room...

They found her later in the stairwell; knees pressed to the cold concrete; clenching a broken pen in her fist. She had written her name over and over, hundreds of times, until the ink bled into her skin and stained her fingers black. Each repetition grew worse. Letters warped, stretched, collapsed, as if something unfamiliar was practicing how to shape them.

She rocked gently, staring at the mess she had made, whispering to no one,

“It knows how to spell me now.”

At 2:41 a.m., the hospital intercom activated on every floor.

No chime.
No announcement tone.

Just breathing.

Slow. Wet. Mechanical.

Myles, the night janitor, froze mid-step, his mop bucket sloshing across the tile. The voice came through the speakers and directly into his chest.

“You’re hearing me because he’s awake,” it said.
“We don’t dream anymore. We broadcast.”

Myles laughed, a sharp, panicked sound. He told himself it was exhaustion, told himself hospitals always sounded wrong at night, but then his pager vibrated.

No number.
No alert code.

One word blinked on the screen.

BEHIND

The hallway mirror rippled.

Something stepped through it.

It wore his face, but the proportions were wrong. The skin sagged where it should not. The smile pulled too far back, splitting the corners of the mouth.

It leaned close and spoke in his own voice.

“Do not worry. You are already inside.”

Myles ran...

They never found his body. Only his shoes, neatly placed outside Room 306.

In the morgue, freezer doors began to unlatch.

One.
Then another.
Then all of them.

Bodies twitched on their trays. Fingers flexed. Jaws worked slowly, opening and closing as if rehearsing words they had forgotten how to say.

The toe tags began to blacken, edges curling inward like scorched paper, and across every one of them the same phrase surfaced, written in red.

HE’S BUILDING A BODY

A technician read the words once, then again, before the smell and the meaning caught up to him. His stomach lurched. He barely made it to the sink before vomiting, retching until his throat burned. When he finally looked up, the humming had grown louder, and he ran.

Another stood still, staring at a co**se that had begun to hum softly, its chest vibrating in time with the building...

At 3:06 a.m. the power surged.

Every monitor in the hospital activated at once.

Every screen showed Isaac.

Not as he had been. Not pale. Not still.

He was smiling.

His eyes tracked movement on the other side of the cameras. He looked aware. Present.

“You called this a hospital,” his voice said calmly through every speaker.
“But this was always a hive.”

Staff ripped wires from the walls and smashed screens until their hands bled, but the images kept coming. The sound did not falter.

Isaac blinked.

Slowly. Deliberately.

The image stuttered as his eyelids closed, then opened again, and for that brief moment every screen went black. When the picture returned, his smile was wider, steadier, as if the blink had not been a reflex but a signal.

The lights dimmed, not all at once, but in a slow, sinking wave that rolled through the building.

Then the fifth floor groaned.

Ceilings cracked. Panels split open. Wires screamed as sparks poured down like burning rain.

Something forced its way through the fractures.

At first, witnesses called them arms. Long. Veined. Flickering with static and shadow as they pushed out of the broken ceiling. But others said that was wrong. Said they were not arms at all.

They were antennae.

They were not reaching for help.

They were listening.

And when they were finished, the noise slowly bled away.

Room 500 no longer existed.

In its place was a smooth, circular hole, its edges fused and glassy, as if the floor itself had been melted down and reshaped. It hummed softly, a low vibration that could be felt in the chest more than heard with the ears.

At the center lay a single restraint strap, coiled with careful precision, left behind like shed skin.

From deep within the walls, something breathed.

“Wake up,” it whispered.
“It is your turn now.”

by The Absent Author

Adorned in Chains

🕯️ The Absent Author

You called me beautiful - and I believed.
Each word a thread you softly weaved,
around my wrists, my throat, my pride,
a ribboned cage I wore inside.

You dressed my wounds in velvet lies,
hung halos under hollow skies.
Said love was sacrifice - divine,
so I carved your name into mine.

At first, I bloomed beneath your gaze,
a garden fed by phantom praise.
But petals wilt when roots are chained,
and mirrors crack from love unfeigned.

The gifts, the praise, the gentle sway...
they dulled my voice and stripped my way.
You adorned me till I disappeared,
a masterpiece of what you feared.

Now I see it - clear, obscene,
you loved the vessel, not the being.
What I thought was love’s confession,
was just devotion’s last possession.

Adorned, obsessed - the two entwined,
I lost myself to being mine.

A Mother’s Story

🕯️ The Absent Author

Before your name was ever known,
I dreamed of love I’d call my own.
A tiny heartbeat soft and clear,
the universe whispered - you are near.

You came to me through pain and grace,
a light the darkness could not erase.
I held your hand, I held my breath,
and learned the meaning of life and death.

Through sleepless nights and endless care,
I built a world to keep you there.
Each tear you cried, each giggle’s sound,
became the rhythm my heart had found.

You grew like dawn across my skies,
with wonder glowing in your eyes.
I watched you stumble, rise, and play
my pride expanding day by day.

The years moved fast - they always do,
and suddenly, you needed room.
You reached for dreams, for friends, for air
I stood behind you, always there.

There were days we didn’t see eye to eye,
days we hurt, days we’d cry.
But even when the silence grew,
my heart still whispered, I love you.

Then came the time to let you go,
to trust the strength I’d come to know.
I smiled through tears, though quiet inside,
for every goodbye holds love and pride.

Now the house hums soft and slow,
echoes of laughter come and go.
I walk through rooms still warm with years,
painted in joy, in hope, in tears.

If ever you forget your way,
remember what I’d always say:
“You are enough, brave, kind, and strong
the world is yours - where you belong.”

And when the night feels cold and wild,
remember this, my dearest child
I gave you wings but kept no chain,
my love’s the sun through every rain.

Where the Truth Lies
🕯️ The Absent Author

Beneath the tongue, beneath the grin,
a whisper curls - soft as sin.
It speaks in silver, cloaked in grace,
a mirror’s smile, an unseen face.

The truth, they say, will set you free
but chains can glimmer beautifully.
It sleeps beneath the tales we tell,
a heaven dressed in threads of hell.

Each word a blade, each vow a snare,
confessions bloom in poisoned air.
The liar prays, the prophet schemes,
both worship gods inside their dreams.

And somewhere deep - where silence dies,
you’ll find the truth… right where it lies.

Whispers in the Glass

by The Absent Author

Long before humankind shaped words from breath, the Jinn were already here...
creatures of smokeless fire, born from the void between light and shadow.
They lived unseen, watching the rise of empires and the fall of faith,
free to choose between devotion and destruction.

The old ones said they dwell in the corners of forgotten places...
in deserts, mirrors, and ruins where silence has a pulse.
Some Jinn are gentle, drawn to music and prayer.
Others hunger for memory, warmth, and name - the one thing that gives them power.

It is said that if a Jinn ever learns your name in the dark,
you are never truly alone again.

The Story

Leila inherited the mirror the night her grandmother’s body turned to ash.
It arrived without a return address, wrapped in black linen and bound with coarse twine. A single note was tucked beneath the frame, written in trembling script:

Do not speak to what moves inside. It remembers names.

The mirror was impossibly old... its brass edges carved with symbols that pulsed under candlelight, its glass darker than any reflection had a right to be. When she lifted it, the air around her warmed, thick with the scent of iron and smoke.

That first night, her dreams crawled with sand and fire.
Something whispered in a language she didn’t know but somehow understood...
syllables twisting through her bones like heat.

On the third night, her reflection blinked when she didn’t.

Her phone camera caught the movement too... a faint shadow behind her image,
its outline tall, head wreathed in flame, eyes ember-bright.
The more she stared, the more it took shape.

A voice crawled through the speakers of her phone.

“Your blood called me.”

She dropped the device, but the whisper didn’t stop.
It came from the glass now - low and heavy, like breath in a tomb.

“Your grandmother bound me. You will free me.”

The air shimmered. The reflection smiled.
Her own lips did not.

Leila tried to cover the mirror with a blanket,
but it burned through the fabric like acid.
She heard chanting in her walls - a rhythm of grief and sand,
her grandmother’s prayers unraveling.

When they found the apartment, every screen was shattered, every bulb melted.
The mirror still stood upright, its glass clear and still…

…until someone leaned close enough to see their breath fog the surface.

Inside, a woman’s face stared back... eyes hollow, lips moving soundlessly.
The brass frame was warm to the touch, almost alive.

And if you listen closely,
you can still hear it whisper:

“Do not look too long.”

I’m quick to forgive, but forgetting? That’s not my specialty... my mind keeps receipts like a haunted journal.

The Oni’s Lantern

🕯️ The Absent Author

In Japanese folklore, an Oni is more than a monster... it is wrath given form. Born from the souls of the wicked or those consumed by vengeance, Oni wander the border between worlds. Their bodies are immense, their skin often crimson or indigo, their horns curved like grief itself. Once human, they become Oni through corruption... a punishment and a curse. They feast on sin, on sorrow, on the echoes of cruelty that never fade. Where they walk, storms gather; where they rest, the earth remembers pain.

It began in a remote shrine buried deep within Ashvale Forest... a place few remembered and fewer dared to speak of. Locals whispered that the forest once belonged to a forgotten mountain god, one who fell when mortals stopped offering prayers. His spirit, hungry for reverence, twisted into something else: an Oni called Akuro.

The legend said his lantern still burned somewhere among the mist, glowing faintly red when someone carried a grudge too heavy for their heart.

Mina didn’t believe in legends. Not until that night.

She had come to Ashvale seeking quiet, running from a betrayal that had hollowed her chest. Her sister’s laughter still echoing in the arms of the man she loved. The forest was colder than she’d imagined. Every step cracked the frozen leaves like bones. When her flashlight flickered out, another light appeared in its place... a lantern, hovering low, its flame pulsing like a heartbeat.

Drawn forward, Mina whispered, “Who’s there?”

From the fog stepped a tall figure... skin the color of dried blood, eyes black and endless. Two horns curved from his brow like crescent moons. His voice rolled through the air, heavy and calm.

“You called me.”

“I didn’t...” she began, but her voice trembled.

“All who curse another call me,” the Oni said, lowering the lantern. Its light spilled across her face, showing every wound that wasn’t visible... heartbreak, envy, the wish that her sister would suffer as she did.

“Take it back,” Mina pleaded.

“Too late,” he growled. “A curse spoken is a bridge built.”

The Oni reached into his lantern, and inside, she saw her sister’s reflection... screaming behind the flame. Mina fell to her knees. “Please,” she sobbed. “Take me instead.”

Akuro tilted his head, almost tender.

“All offerings are accepted.”

When the villagers found the shrine days later, there was no sign of Mina... only a new lantern hanging from the altar, burning softly with red fire. Sometimes, when the wind passed through the trees, the flame flickered and a whisper followed:

“Don’t carry your hatred too long… it might start walking beside you.”