Do Not Park

I watched it all unfold from my fifth-floor hotel room, peering down onto the quiet street below. At first, I thought nothing of it—a lone old-looking woman in a wheelchair, inching her way down the sidewalk. She was slow and careful, maneuvering around a “Do Not Park” sign as if she had all the time in the world.

A well-dressed man appeared below, striding along the street, looking polished and put together. He noticed her struggling and paused, then called, “Ma’am, do you need help?”

His voice carried up to my window, the way voices echo at night. He stepped into the street, eyes fixed on her. “I can help you,” he called again, kindness lacing his voice.

Then everything changed.

Before he could reach her, the woman sprang from her chair with a speed that froze me. She crossed the distance between them in three bounding steps and shoved him back against the hotel wall, a guttural, animalistic growl tearing through the night. She wasn’t screaming words—just rage and hunger, it seemed.

From above, I could see her now clearly. The frail, elderly form was gone, replaced by something pale and gray, skin pulled too tight over bones that barely looked human. Blood smeared across her face and her hands; she crouched, almost crawling, her limbs contorted. She moved toward the shadows behind the “Do Not Park” sign and vanished into the darkness like she was a part of it.

Now, police cars are everywhere—sirens, flashing lights, men and women scouring the scene for clues, for the man, for anything that makes sense. But I’m up here, still staring down, lights on, unable to sleep because before it vanished and became one with the shadow, it looked up at me.

Am I next?