The People Never existed

A girl returns home to find a stranger in her bed, no one believes her truth.

One
December 2nd
2:03 a.m.
Holly shouldn't have been out driving. Not tonight. Not at this hour. But the road didn't ask questions, and there was no one left to answer them anyway.
Her hands were locked around the steering wheel, knuckles pale from how tightly she was holding on. The speedometer hovered just above one hundred. She didn't slow down.
Fast felt better. Or at least it felt like something. Something other than the hollow inside her chest.
Grief didn't come with instructions, and hers didn't follow the rules.
My grandmother is dead, she thought quietly. Felt like a scream in her head.
Just four words. A fact. Simple. Unavoidable. But thinking them--really thinking them--felt like pressing down on a bruise that never stopped hurting.
So she didn't. Couldn't. Because thinking meant remembering, and remembering meant falling apart.
Her grandmother had taught her to drive. They'd take early morning trips together, just the two of them. Empty streets. Cold wind sneaking in through the open window. Her grandmother's travel mug full of black coffee. That one playlist always playing at low volume, like the music had somewhere else to be.
Now there was no passenger. No playlist. No coffee. Just Holly and the hum of the engine.
The silence in the car used to be peaceful. Now it felt sharp, like glass in her lungs. It filled the air. It filled her.
She couldn't stop driving. She didn't want to. The house had become too quiet. But not the peaceful kind of quiet--more like a buzzing, humming stillness that felt like it was crawling under her skin. Like the kind of silence that makes you feel like the last person alive.
Her fingers were red from the cold as she unlocked the car. December had arrived without warning. The kind of winter that went straight through gloves and settled in your bones. The steering wheel was frozen against her skin, but she didn't flinch. She liked it. The sharpness grounded her. Made things feel real again.
The car started with a low, rough rumble. Loud in the still street. But no lights came on in the house behind her. No footsteps upstairs. No one standing at the window. Her parents were asleep. They always were. And they had no idea she'd been sneaking out every night for the past five nights.
If she could help it, they'd never find out.
She reversed out of the driveway and hit the main road, picking up speed fast.
Seventy.
Eighty.
Ninety.
Back to one hundred.
Like every night before.
Her pulse ticked up with it.
Fast was easier than still. Still meant thoughts. And thoughts led back to her.
Her grandmother had died five days ago. The funeral was four days back. The house had already started erasing her--room cleared out, mug in the trash, chair moved to the garage. Like pretending she hadn't existed would make the grief disappear faster.
It didn't.
Her grandmother had always been there. Always. On those morning drives. Quiet but present. Resting her hand near the gear shift, just in case Holly needed help. Just in case.
Now, it was just Holly. Alone behind the wheel. No one in the passenger seat. No sound except the engine and the tires slicing through wet pavement.
She didn't have a destination. Didn't need one. The roads knew where to take her. She drove past the usual places--the gas station no one used, the broken billboard that hadn't changed in years, the river that shimmered like black glass under the moonlight.
It had all become routine.
Leave the house at 12:05.
Start the car at 1:09.
Hit ninety by 1:10.
Crack the window at 2:10 to keep herself awake with the freezing air. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat.
If all the nights blurred together, maybe the grief would too.
But tonight wasn't the same.
She noticed it just past the bridge. The trees leaned in too close. The road felt narrower than usual. The silence felt heavier. Not empty--watchful.
She pushed the thought away and kept going.
When the sky started to lighten at the edges, she turned around. The drive home was slower. Her headlights caught on frosted grass. Her fingers were stiff on the wheel. She had to blow on them to warm them up when she pulled into the driveway.
Inside, everything looked normal.
The hallway was dark. The floor creaked in all the familiar places. The hum of the fridge was the only sound in the kitchen.
But something was off.
Holly paused on the stairs. There was a smell. Subtle. But wrong.
Lavender.
Her mother's favorite. But the diffuser had been packed away 4 days ago--the same day they buried her grandmother. Her mom said it reminded her too much of hospitals and whispered goodbyes.
So why could Holly smell it now?
She froze at the top of the stairs.
Maybe it was from her hoodie. Or maybe she was imagining it. She didn't know.
She walked past her bedroom.
And stopped.
Something moved.
Or she thought it did. A noise. A shape. Just for a second. Her fingers tightened on the doorknob.
She leaned in, listening.
Nothing.
But that was the problem.
There was too much nothing.
And for the first time in five nights--
Holly wasn't sure she wanted to be alone.



Two
December 3rd
1:15 a.m
Yesterday's scent was still lodged in her memory.
Lavender.
The scent was still there.
Faint, but sharp in her memory--lavender. Soft and floral, the kind her grandmother used to wear, like the ghost of a hug.
Last night, she'd searched for its source. Every room, every corner. She even opened the dryer, wondering if maybe one of her grandmother's old scarves had slipped in. Nothing. No lavender candle, no room spray, no essential oil bottle half-open and forgotten on a shelf. Nothing.
No candle. No spray. No trace.
It had to be imaginary. A trick of the mind.
That's what she told herself.
Because no one else smelled it. Not even her mother, who wrinkled her nose and said, "Lavender? Are you sure, Holly? There's nothing."
Still, something felt off. Like a piece was missing, or like the edges of reality had started to blur.
She drove faster tonight.
She drove to escape it.



Too fast.



Faster than she did yesterday.
Faster than she ever had.
110 miles per hour.
Then 115.
Her foot was steady on the gas, eyes glued to the road ahead. The lines blurred. The tires trembled beneath her.
Lavender. Lavender. Lavender.
The word repeated in her head like a heartbeat.
The kind of speed where you stop thinking, stop feeling, stop existing outside the motion.
Her hands gripped the wheel, but she barely noticed. The road was empty, the world rushing past in a blur of night and headlights. Her tires hummed, and the car trembled underneath her like it knew something she didn't.
She wasn't thinking anymore. Not really. Not about what day it was, or what time it was, or what her parents would say if they knew she was out here again. She was only thinking about the road, and the scent, and her grandmother.
She remembered how they used to drive together, never more than sixty. Her grandma would hum along with the radio and offer her those strawberry candies she always had in her coat pocket.
Now, Holly barely did sixty. Now, Holly didn't have a passenger. Now, she was pushing the car faster and faster like it would take her somewhere else. Somewhere real.
But tonight wasn't about limits.



2:50 a.m
She arrived thirty minutes later than the night before. The same destination. But it felt heavier this time. Like she had crossed a line. Like going back wouldn't be as simple as it was yesterday.
She turned off the engine. The silence inside the car was deafening.
Climbing out, she moved toward the back door. Her usual way in. Quiet. Familiar.
She reached for the handle.
It didn't move.



Locked.



Her heart gave a small jolt.
Her heart kicked once in her chest, sudden and sharp.



She never locked it.
Not last night. Not ever.
She stared at the doorknob like it might unlock itself if she waited long enough.
"Weird," she whispered aloud. Her voice barely made a sound.
But then she shook her head. Maybe her dad had locked it after she left. Maybe she forgot. Maybe.
She circled around to the front of the house. That door was open.
As soon as she stepped inside, it hit her.
The smell.
Lavender. But stronger.
Overwhelming.
It was suffocating. More powerful than anything she remembered.
Stronger than the hospice room where her grandmother had taken her last breath. Died.
The scent was everywhere--clinging to the walls, the air, her skin.
It was almost visible, curling like smoke in the corners of the room. But she still couldn't tell where it was coming from.
But still, no source. No explanation. She climbed the stairs slowly, every step a drumbeat in her ears.
Her room was at the end of the hallway.
Door shut.
She opened it.
Stopped.
Her breath caught and twisted in her throat.



Her eyes locked on the bed.
Someone was sleeping in it.
A girl.
Same age. Same size. Same face.



She couldn't bear it.
Her heart slammed into her ribs. She couldn't breathe. She couldn't think. The floor tilted.
She ran.
Down the hallway. Her legs felt boneless, like they might give out. Her hand smacked against her parents' door. Hard.
"MOM! DAD!" she shouted, voice cracking. "There's someone in my bed!"
They were already awake.
Already staring at her.
But they weren't reacting like she expected.
No confusion.
No panic.
No rushing out to check the intruder.
They looked at her like she was the problem.
Like she was the stranger.
They stood there, side by side in the bed. Staring at her.
But they didn't look confused. They didn't look concerned.
They looked horrified.
Her mom gasped and stumbled back, clutching her robe like Holly had just lunged at her with a knife.
Her dad stepped in front of her, like a shield.
His eyes narrowed. His mouth moved.
"Who are you?"
The words hit her like a slap.
"What?" she whispered.
He didn't recognize her.
She took a step forward. "Dad, it's me. It's me, Holly."
He didn't budge.
"Get out of my house," he said, low and final.
His words sliced through her like glass.
"No, wait--Dad, please--"
"I SAID GET OUT OF MY HOUSE!" he shouted this time. Louder. Meaner.



Each word felt like it was ripping holes through her.
She couldn't hear this again. Couldn't watch them look at her like this.
Like she didn't belong.
She ran.
Ran.



Into the cold night air that stung her cheeks and made her lungs burn.
She didn't stop until she reached the car.
Someone was standing next to it. A guy. He wasn't looking at her--just the ground, like something there was more important than her sudden arrival. She stared, frozen. Then he said, quietly, "They didn't believe me either." His voice was rough. Like gravel. She couldn't answer.
She took a step back, breath catching again.
He spoke without looking up. His voice was quiet. Rough. "They didn't believe me either."
She stared at him.
Her lips parted. "What?"
This time, he looked at her. Right at her. His eyes met hers. Serious. Haunted.
"They didn't believe me either," he repeated, slower now. Like he wanted her to hear it exactly.



And for the first time all night, her fear turned into something colder.
Because if he was telling the truth, then something bigger was happening.
Something she didn't understand.
Something terrifying.
Like he needed her to know--she wasn't the only one.
And somehow, that scared her even more.



Three
December 3rd
3:00 a.m.
She didn't speak.
Not right away.
The boy was still watching her. His face was pale under the streetlight, his hair damp from the fog. He had this strange kind of stillness--not tense, not afraid. Just... still.
Like he'd been standing there for hours. Or days.
"They didn't believe you either?" Holly finally asked, her voice barely above a whisper. Her lips trembled. She didn't know if it was from the cold or everything that had just happened inside the house.
He nodded. Slowly. "Two nights ago. My parents. Same thing."
Her mind spun.
She tried to swallow, but her throat was dry.
"Same... what?" she asked.
The boy didn't answer right away. He stepped back, giving her space, like he could see how close she was to breaking.
"They looked at me like they'd never seen me before," he said. "Like I didn't belong."
A pause.
"I tried to show them. Pictures, messages. My voice. But none of it mattered."
Something about the way he said it made her shiver. He wasn't just telling her what happened--he was warning her.
"What's your name?" she asked.
He hesitated.
Then, "Arthur."
She'd never seen him before. Not at school. Not in town. Not anywhere. But something about his face...
It felt like she should've known him.
"Where did you come from?" she asked.
"I've been following the pattern."
She stared. "What pattern?"
Arthur glanced around, then motioned to the car. "Not here. We shouldn't stay out in the open."
That should've been the red flag.
Getting in a car with a stranger at 3 a.m. That's how people end up on missing posters.
But the house wasn't safe. Her parents weren't safe.
And this boy--he was the only one who'd looked at her like she was real.
So she nodded.
And they got in the car.



3:08 a.m.
Inside, the heater hummed low. Holly wiped her face with her sleeve, the dried salt of tears burning her skin.
She stared at Arthur, her hands clenched in her lap.
"Okay," she said. "Start from the beginning."
Arthur exhaled. Leaned back against the seat.
"Four days ago, I started smelling something. Rose. Random places. My room. My locker. The street outside my house. But I didn't think anything of it. Just figured it was in my head."
She nodded slowly. It was the same story. Exactly.
Except for the rose part.
"And then, three nights ago," he continued, "I was in the library. I came home late. Around 2:50. Maybe 3 a.m. The back door was locked. It's never locked."
Her heart started racing.
"I went to the front," he said. "Same smell, but stronger. And when I went upstairs..." His jaw tensed. "Someone was already in my bed. A guy. Looked just like me."
Holly's breath caught.
Arthur looked at her like he already knew what she was thinking.
"I didn't believe it either. I thought I was losing my mind."
"And your parents?" she asked.
"They didn't recognize me. My mom screamed. My dad called the cops."
She went still. "What happened?"
"They never came," he said bitterly. "At least, not the real ones."
"The real ones?"
Arthur turned to her, eyes dark. "Something is replacing us. And no one even notices it's happening."
Holly swallowed. "Did you smell the scent at the library?"
"No. I think... it started when I got home."
"Why were you in the library?"
He shifted slightly. "I just go there. I can't sleep at night."
"Why not?"
"My grandmother died. One week ago."
Holly's chest stopped moving.
Her breath got stuck halfway.
"W-where?" she asked.
"St Ives Community Hospital."
She stared at the road.
Community hospital.
Lavender. Lavender. Lavender.
"We should go there," she said.
"Where?"
"The hospital," she said. "We need to go now."
"But why?"
"My grandmother died there too."
"Five days ago. So that means... that's where this started." she continued.
Arthur didn't question her after that.
Not out loud.
But the way he sat forward, the way he kept glancing at her through his glasses--it creeped him out. Why had both of them lost their grandmothers within days? Why was it the same hospital?
The car was quiet the whole drive.
They reached the hospital.
"Are you sure about this?" Arthur asked. His voice was softer now.
She hesitated. Then: "Yes."
They stepped inside.
A woman was sitting behind the reception desk. She didn't look surprised to see them.
Holly rushed forward. "H-Hi. Can I see the record for Elizabeth Edwards?"
The woman smiled politely. "Hi, welcome, sweetie. Can I know how you're related?"
"She's my grandmother," Holly said, trying to keep her voice steady.
"And you, young man?"
"Margaret Greenwood," Arthur said. "She's also my grandmother."
The woman blinked. "Do you two know each other?"
They glanced at each other.
"Yes," they said at the same time.
"Okay then," she said. "Follow me."
Her name tag read MRS. HANNAFORD.
She stood, her chair creaking, and led them down a narrow hallway behind the desk.
"We keep all non-digital records in the archive room," she explained. "Especially for older patients or... special cases."
The lights flickered as they walked.
Holly pulled her sleeves down over her fingers.
Arthur walked silently beside her, hands in his coat pockets.
"You said your grandmother was Elizabeth Edwards?"
"Yes," Holly said. "She died five nights ago."
"And yours?"
"Margaret Greenwood. 1 week ago"
Mrs. Hannaford stopped in front of a heavy gray door. She took out a small key and unlocked it.
The room smelled like damp paper and disinfectant.
Stacks of folders. A flickering overhead light.
A computer sat in the corner, unused.
Mrs. Hannaford moved to the E drawer and started searching.
Then paused.
She searched again, slower this time.
"That's odd," she muttered. "Spell it again?"
"E-D-W-A-R-D-S. Elizabeth," Holly repeated. "Room 204."
Mrs. Hannaford gave her a tight-lipped smile and moved to the G drawer.
Minutes passed.
Her face changed. The smile dropped. Her brows furrowed.
Finally, she turned back to them.
"There's no Margaret Greenwood either."



Four
Arthur stepped forward. "What do you mean?"
"I mean," she said carefully, "there are no patient files under those names. Not just from this week--at all."
"That's not possible," Holly said. "I was here. I was right there when she--when she--"
Mrs. Hannaford held up a hand gently. "Let me check the digital system."
They watched as she typed into the old computer. It made a few struggling processing sounds. Then stopped. She stared at the screen.
"Nothing," she said again. "No admissions. No discharge. No death certificate. Neither name has ever been in our system."
A beat of silence.
"That can't be right," Arthur said. "We were here. I saw the nurses. We signed forms. I spoke to a doctor."
Mrs. Hannaford gave a slow, nervous smile. "I've worked here for eighteen years. I remember every death that comes through this wing. We haven't had any female patients in Room 204 or 209 in... months."
Holly's voice came out like a whisper. "What about the nurses on duty last week?"
"Only me. I work night shift. And no one named Elizabeth or Margaret was in this hospital. Ever."