The Hollow Rhythm

Mara had always been the grounded one, the anchor in her relationship with Leo. For two years, they had built a life together in their small, rented duplex on the edge of town—a place with creaking floorboards and a furnace that groaned at night. But lately, the house felt different, and so did Leo. It started with small things: scratches appearing on his back, bruises on his arms that he couldn’t explain. He’d laugh them off, blaming the old house or his own clumsiness, but Mara saw the fear flicker in his eyes. She tried to ignore it, to chalk it up to stress or the creaks of an old building, but the night before last, everything changed.

Mara woke to Leo thrashing beside her, his face contorted in a silent scream. She shook him awake, and he gasped, his eyes wild. He told her about a dream so vivid it felt real: he had been in their kitchen, and from the direction of the utility room, he heard bongo drums—a steady, ominous boom-boom-boom. Curiosity pulled him toward the sound, and as he entered the kitchen, he saw a mallet hovering above the bongos, beating them with increasing vigor. The mallet rose, hung in the air for a heartbeat, then lunged at his face. It stopped inches from his eyes, then dropped to the floor. He bent to pick it up, and as he straightened, a figure stood before him—a thing he could only describe as the devil. It had hollow eyes, a grin stretched too wide, and skin like cracked leather. The devil reached out, grabbed Leo’s chest, and squeezed.

Mara tried to calm him, to tell him it was just a nightmare, but Leo’s face was pale, and he kept rubbing his sternum as if he could still feel the pressure. She held him until he fell asleep, but she couldn’t shake the unease. The next morning, Leo was covered in fresh bruises, dark and angry against his skin. He insisted it was just from the dream, but Mara knew better. Something was wrong.

That day, Mara tried to convince Leo to see a doctor, but he refused, saying it was nothing. But as the day wore on, she noticed he was quieter than usual, his eyes shadowed. That night, she stayed up, watching him sleep, and she saw it—a faint, rhythmic pulsing under his skin, like a heartbeat, but off-beat, slow. She placed her hand on his chest, and the pulse seemed to quicken under her touch, as if it was responding to her. A chill ran down her spine.

The next night, they both went to bed early, exhausted from the tension. Mara dreamed she was standing in the kitchen, and she heard the drums—same steady beat. But when she followed the sound, she found not a mallet, but a huge, dark figure, its face hidden in shadow. It pointed at her, and spoke in a voice that sounded like Leo’s, but twisted: ‘You’ve been playing with things you don’t understand.’ She woke with a start, her heart pounding.

Leo was sitting on the edge of the bed, his back to her. She reached out to touch him, and he flinched. When he turned, his eyes were wrong—dilated, almost black. He smiled, but it wasn’t his smile. ‘Mara,’ he said, his voice cold, ‘I’ve been waiting for you.’ She wanted to scream, but no sound came out. He reached for her, and she saw that his hands, which were usually warm and familiar, were cold and grey, with fingers that seemed too long. She stumbled back, fell off the bed, and scrambled to the corner of the room.

Leo didn’t move. He just sat there, staring at her with that hollow smile. ‘I’m not Leo anymore,’ he said. ‘He’s gone. It’s just me now.’ Mara’s mind raced. She had to do something, but she was frozen, trapped in a nightmare she couldn’t wake from. The room seemed to close in, the walls breathing, and she could hear the drums again, booming in her skull, each beat a hammer on her sanity.

She screamed, and she woke—or did she? She was in bed, drenched in sweat, and Leo was asleep beside her. But the drums still echoed in her ears, and she could feel a cold spot on the bed where his hand used to be. She got up, moved to the kitchen with trembling legs, and there, on the counter, was a bongo drum and a mallet she had never seen before. She picked up the mallet, and it was warm to the touch. The drum had no skin, but the mallet drifted down, hitting the wood with a hollow, wet thud. She turned to run, but there he stood—the devil, his grin reaching ear to ear, his hand outstretched toward her chest.

‘You’re next,’ he whispered, and the world went black.