The Thing Inside
Iris sat on the cold warehouse floor, her back against the wall, her hands trembling in her lap. The older version of herself stood by the window, staring out at the darkness, her silhouette sharp against the dim light. The silence between them was heavy, thick, suffocating.
The white room. Never leave.
“What does that mean?” Iris finally asked. Her voice was hoarse, barely a whisper.
The older Iris turned. Her face was unreadable.
“The white room is not a place. It’s a state of being. It’s where you go when the thing inside you takes over. It’s where you hide from the truth.”
“I don’t understand.”
“You will.”
“How?”
The older Iris walked back to the desk and sat down. She opened a drawer and pulled out a worn leather journal. The pages were yellowed, the edges frayed. She slid it across the metal surface.
“This is my journal. I started keeping it thirty years ago, when the blackouts first began. Read it. You’ll find answers.”
Iris stared at the journal. She didn’t want to touch it. She didn’t want to know what was inside.
“What happens if I don’t read it?”
“Then you stay where you are. Confused. Afraid. Alone.”
“And if I do read it?”
The older Iris leaned forward.
“Then you learn the truth. And the truth will either save you or destroy you.”
Iris reached for the journal.
Her fingers brushed the leather cover. It was cold, smooth, worn. She opened it to the first page.
The handwriting was her own — but older, shakier, the letters pressed deep into the paper.
I am writing this because I am forgetting. The thing inside me is getting stronger. It wants me to forget. It wants me to believe I am innocent.
But I am not innocent.
I have killed twelve people. I know their faces. I know their names. I know their screams.
I am writing this so I will remember.
And so, someday, she will know the truth.
Iris looked up. “She? Who is she?”
The older Iris smiled. “You.”
Iris turned the page.
January 15, 1995.
I killed my father today.
I don’t remember doing it. I woke up with blood on my hands and a pillow in my lap. His body was cold beside me. His eyes were open.
I didn’t call the police. I didn’t call an ambulance. I cleaned the room, went to school, and pretended everything was normal.
The thing inside me was quiet for the first time in years.
It liked what I had done.
Iris’s stomach turned. She wanted to close the journal, to throw it across the room, to pretend she had never seen these words. But her hands kept turning the pages.
February 3, 2001.
I killed a man today. His name was David. I met him at a bar. He was kind. He bought me a drink. He walked me to my car.
I don’t remember what happened next. I woke up in my apartment with his blood on my clothes.
The thing inside me was hungry again.
I am afraid of what it will want next.
Iris closed the journal.
She couldn’t read anymore. The words were burning into her brain, searing images of violence and death.
“I didn’t do those things,” she whispered.
“You did. You just don’t remember.”
“Because of the thing inside me?”
“Because you chose to forget.”
Iris stood up. Her legs were weak, but she forced herself to stand.
“I want it out of me.”
“Good.”
“How?”
The older Iris reached into her pocket and pulled out a small glass vial. Inside was a dark liquid, thick and shimmering.
“This is a sedative. It will put you to sleep. And when you sleep, you will return to the white room. And in the white room, you can face the thing inside you.”
“What happens if I face it?”
“You either defeat it. Or it consumes you completely.”
Iris stared at the vial.
“And if it consumes me?”
The older Iris’s eyes filled with tears.
“Then you become me.”
Iris took the vial.
Her hands were shaking. The glass was cold against her palm.
“How do I know you’re telling the truth?”
“You don’t.”
“Why should I trust you?”
“Because I am you. And I have nothing left to lose.”
Iris looked at the vial, then at the older woman, then at the journal filled with horrors she couldn’t remember committing.
“I need time to think.”
“You don’t have time. Detective Walsh will be at your apartment in the morning. The fingerprint will match. You will be arrested. And once you’re in custody, the thing inside you will have no choice but to come out.”
“What happens then?”
The older Iris walked to the door.
“Then everyone in the precinct dies.”
She left.
The door closed behind her. The room was silent. The only light came from the single lamp on the desk, casting long shadows across the floor.
Iris stood alone in the warehouse, the vial in her hand, the journal at her feet.
She had a choice.
Take the sedative. Face the thing inside her. Risk being consumed.
Or run. Disappear. Become the woman waiting in the shadows, the woman who had killed twelve people and would kill again.
She looked at the vial.
She looked at the door.
She looked at her own reflection in the dark window.
What if I’m already her? she thought.
What if I always have been?
She sat back down on the floor.
She opened the journal to the first page and began to read again.
I am writing this because I am forgetting…
Outside, the sun was beginning to rise.
And in the distance, she heard the sound of sirens.