AmococaOnze

The hotel hallway. Empty. Then a figure walked past the camera. Face blurred. But the walk was familiar. Tom's walk. The video ended. Another text. "Nice room. The bed looks comfortable. Save me a spot." I grabbed Claire. We left through the stairwell. Didn't use the elevator. Didn't go past the front desk. We drove to the police station. I have a friend there. Detective Mears. Old partner. I told him everything. The texts. The photos. The video. The forgetting. He listened. Didn't interrupt. When I finished, he pulled up Tom's file. "Thomas Greene. Died three years ago. Cause of death: seizure. Body was cremated. Family took the ashes." He looked at me. "The widow's name?" "Claire Greene. My sister." He shook his head. "The widow's name on file is Margaret Greene. Different woman. Different address. No record of a Claire." I looked at Claire. She was sitting in the waiting area. Staring at the wall. "Claire. When did you and Tom get married?" She turned. Her face was blank. "I don't know." "What do you mean you don't know?" "I mean I don't know. I remember a wedding. I remember a dress. I don't remember the date. I don't remember the year. I don't even remember the city." She looked at her hands. "I don't remember anything before last year." Detective Mears pulled me aside. "Your sister isn't in any system. No ID. No driver's license. No social security number. No medical records. No school records. Nothing." "That's impossible. She's been alive for thirty years." "According to what? Your memory?" I stared at him. "I grew up with her. We shared a room. We fought over clothes. She dated my ex-boyfriend. I have photos. I have videos. I have Christmas morning on VHS." He nodded slowly. "I'm not saying you're lying. I'm saying someone erased her. Or she was never there to begin with." "What does that mean?" He looked at Claire. Still staring at the wall. "What if the thing wearing Tom isn't new? What if it's been here a long time? What if it's been wearing different faces? Different bodies? What if Claire was never Claire?" "That's not possible." "Neither is a dead man sending photos from inside your hotel room."

He was right. I walked back to Claire. "Claire. Look at me." She turned. "Do you remember being a kid? Do you remember our house? Our school? Our dog?" She thought for a long time. "I remember you," she said. "I remember your face. I remember your voice. I don't remember anything else." "When did you start remembering me?" She looked at the floor. "The day Tom came back. The day he started wearing his face. You were there. You were always there. But I don't remember you from before." "You only remember me from the last year?" She nodded. "Like someone put me in your head. Like someone wanted you to have a sister. So you wouldn't be alone." My hands were shaking. "Claire. I'm going to ask you something. And I need you to be honest." "Okay." "Am I your sister? Or do you just remember me that way?" She started crying. "I don't know. I don't know anything anymore." Detective Mears drove us to his house. Safe house. Off the books. No windows in the basement. He put Claire in a guest room. Locked the door from the outside. "She stays here until we figure this out." "What about me?" "You stay too. Both of you. No phones. No internet. No contact with anyone." I gave him my phone. He looked at the screen. Forty-seven messages from Tom's number. He opened the most recent. A photo. Detective Mears's house. Taken from the street. And a message. "She's not your sister. She's mine. I made her. I can take her back. Give her to me. Or I'll come get her myself." Mears looked at me. "When did this thing attach to Claire?" "I don't know. A year ago? When Tom came back?"

He shook his head. "This message says 'I made her.' Not 'I found her.' Made her. Like she didn't exist before." I looked at the basement stairs. Claire was up there. Locked in a room. "What is she?" Mears handed me the phone. "I don't know. But I don't think she's human." I stared at the message. Then I noticed something. The timestamp. The photo of Mears's house was taken ten minutes ago. We've been here for twenty. He was watching us before we arrived. I went upstairs. Unlocked Claire's door. She was sitting on the bed. Same position as the waiting room. Staring at the wall. "Claire. I need you to tell me the truth." She didn't move. "Did Tom make you?" She turned. "Yes." "What are you?"

She looked at her hands. Then at me. "I don't have a name for it. I just know I wasn't here. And then I was. And the first thing I saw was his face. The thing wearing Tom's face. And he told me I was Claire. He told me you were my sister. He told me what to remember. What to say. How to act." She started crying again. "I didn't know I wasn't real. I thought everyone felt like this. Like they were made of fog. Like they could disappear if someone stopped looking at them." "You're real to me." She shook her head. "I'm real because he's watching. When he stops, I'll stop. I'll forget. I'll go back to wherever I came from." "Then we'll make him watch. We'll keep you here." She smiled. Small. Sad. "You can't. He's not watching anymore. He's waiting. There's a difference." She looked at the door. "He's here." She shook her head. "I'm real because he's watching. When he stops, I'll stop. I'll forget. I'll go back to wherever I came from." "Then we'll make him watch. We'll keep you here." She smiled. Small. Sad. "You can't. He's not watching anymore. He's waiting. There's a difference." She looked at the door. "He's here."

The lights went out. I heard Mears shout from downstairs. Then a crash. Then silence. I grabbed Claire's hand. Pulled her into the hallway. The front door was open. Moonlight. Shadows. Something was standing in the doorway. Not Tom. Not a person. A shape. Tall. Thin. Wrong proportions. Arms too long. Head tilted at an angle necks don't bend. Claire squeezed my hand. "Don't look at his face," she whispered. "If you look at his face, he can take your memories. He can make you forget who you are." "What happens then?" "Then you're empty. And he fills you with something else." The shape stepped forward. I closed my eyes. I heard footsteps. Slow. Deliberate. Coming closer. Then Claire screamed. I opened my eyes. She was on the floor. Holding her head. Shaking. The shape was standing over her. Its hand on her forehead. "Claire!" She looked at me. Her eyes were wrong. Blank. Like someone had wiped them clean. "Claire, it's me. Your sister." She tilted her head. The same angle as the shape. "I don't have a sister," she said. Her voice was empty. No emotion. No recognition. "I don't have anything." The shape turned to me. I closed my eyes again. Footsteps. Coming closer. Then a whisper. Right next to my ear. "Open your eyes." I didn't move.

"Open your eyes, or I'll take her. Not her memories. Her. Every part of her. She'll never have existed. No one will remember her. Not even you." I opened my eyes. The shape was gone. Claire was gone. The house was empty. No furniture. No lights. No doors. Just walls. Floor. Ceiling. I walked outside. No street. No houses. No cars. Just grey. Everywhere. Like the world had been erased. I stood there for a long time. Then I heard a voice. Not the shape's. Not Claire's. Mine. "You're still here," my voice said. "That means he wants you to remember." "Remember what?" Silence. Then the grey started to fade. The street came back. The houses. The cars. I was standing in front of Mears's house. The door was closed. The lights were on. I walked inside. Mears was at his desk. Typing. He looked up. "Hey. You okay? You look like you saw a ghost." "Where's Claire?" He frowned. "Who's Claire?" I stared at him. "My sister." He shook his head. "You don't have a sister. You never did."

I drove to my apartment. Checked my photos. My videos. My Christmas mornings. Claire was gone. From every picture. Every memory. Every frame. I found a photo of me and my mom. I was ten. Mom was thirty. There was a gap between us. Like someone had been cropped out. I called my mom. "Hey, honey. What's up?" "Mom. Did I have a sister?" Silence. Then she started crying. "I don't know," she whispered. "I think I did. But I can't remember. Every time I try, it's like reaching into fog." "Mom. Listen to me. Her name was Claire. She was my sister. She was your daughter." "I want to believe you," she said. "But I don't remember. I don't remember anything." She hung up. I sat on my floor. Staring at the gap in the photo. My phone buzzed. A text. Unknown number. "Claire is safe. She's with me. She's happy. She doesn't remember you. She doesn't remember anything. That's the gift I gave her. Peace. Forgetting." I typed back. "Where is she?" Another text. "Everywhere. Nowhere. Inside you. You remember her. So she exists. As long as you remember, she's real. But you're forgetting already. Aren't you?" I tried to picture Claire's face. It was blurry. Like a photograph left in the sun. I couldn't remember her voice. Her laugh. Her favorite color.

I typed back. "Please. Don't take her." No answer. I called the number. Disconnected. I sat there for an hour. Trying to remember. Her face. Her hands. The way she said my name. It was all fading. By morning, I only remembered two things. Her name was Claire. And she was my sister. Nothing else. I went to Claire's house. The one she lived in with Tom. It was empty. No furniture. No photos. No signs anyone had ever lived there. I checked the basement. Fresh concrete on the floor. Poured recently. Still soft in some spots. I left. Didn't look back. I went to the cemetery. Tom's grave. The real Tom. The headstone said: THOMAS GREENE. BELOVED HUSBAND. DIED 2022. No mention of a wife. No mention of Claire. I asked the groundskeeper if he remembered the funeral. "Which one?" he said. "Thomas Greene." He thought for a minute. "Three years ago. No family showed up. Just a man in a suit. Paid in cash. Left before they lowered the casket." "What did the man look like?" He shrugged. "Average. Forgettable. Like he didn't want to be remembered." I drove home. My phone buzzed. A text from an unknown number. A photo. Claire. Standing in a field. Sunflowers behind her. Smiling. She looked happy. Peaceful. Like she'd never been afraid. Another text. "She's safe. She's real. She's mine now. Don't try to find her. You won't remember why you're looking." I saved the photo.