The Vermilion Manifest

I was sixteen when the manifest first appeared, though I’d felt its presence long before, like a cold finger tracing the inside of my skull. My name is Mira, and I’ve lived in the old Craythorn Apartments with my mother since my diagnosis at fourteen. The psychiatrist called it ‘paranoid schizophrenia with delusional episodes,’ but the residents know better. They whisper about the third floor, about the woman in the window who watches the courtyard with eyes like wet coal. I’ve seen her only once, but I’ve heard her every night since.

It started with a scratch at the door, no louder than a mouse, but it grew into a rhythmic thumping that shook the frames in my room. My mother, a nurse who works double shifts, dismisses it as the building’s old pipes. But I knew the difference. One night, I turned on the lamp and saw it: a dark stain seeping through the wallpaper above my desk, spreading into the shape of a hand. I called out, ‘Who’s there?’ but the only answer was the drip-drip of my own leaky faucet.

I began to keep a journal, documenting each occurrence. The first entry was simple: ‘Day one: The knock came at 3 AM. I saw a shape in the mirror.’ But soon the entries grew longer, more frantic. I wrote about the flickering lights, the cold spots in the hallway, the smell of rotting leaves that followed me like a stray. My mother noticed the dark circles under my eyes and dragged me back to Dr. Evers, who adjusted my meds and said, ‘It’s just your anxiety, Mira. The building’s settling.’

But the manifest was real. I found it on the bathroom sink one morning, a single page torn from a ledger, written in a rusty brown ink that smelled of copper. The words were a list: ‘They are coming. They are hungry. They are here.’ I felt a cold breath on my neck and spun around, but the room was empty. That evening, I saw her reflection in the bathroom mirror—a woman with a blurred face, her mouth sewn shut with black thread. She reached out, and the glass frosted under her touch.

I tried to tell my mother, but she just sighed and said, ‘Mira, you know this isn’t real. Take your pills.’ I wanted to believe her, but that night, the manifest multiplied. Pages appeared under my pillow, in my shoes, taped to the inside of my closet. The ink was fresh, and the handwriting grew more jagged: ‘Run. Run. Run.’ I packed a bag and slept with the lights on, but when I closed my eyes, I saw her standing at the foot of my bed, her head tilted at an impossible angle.

The next day, I skipped school and wandered to the communal laundry room in the basement, hoping to escape. But the manifest was there, taped to the dryer, and this time it had a name: ‘Eleanor Voss, 1932.’ I remembered the stories—a woman who had died in apartment 3B, her throat cut by a jealous lover. I ran upstairs, my heart pounding, and burst into my mother’s arms, sobbing that the ghost of Eleanor Voss was haunting me. But my mother just held me and said, ‘Honey, we don’t live in 3B. We live in 4B.’

I began to doubt myself. Maybe the doctor was right. Maybe it was just my illness. I stopped writing in my journal, stopped looking in mirrors, but the manifest kept coming. One afternoon, I found one on the kitchen counter, written in fresh blood: ‘You are not crazy.’ I screamed, and my mother rushed in, but by the time she arrived, the page had faded to a faint stain. She looked at me with pity and said, ‘I’m calling Dr. Evers again.’

But I had had enough. I decided to investigate. I snuck into the third floor, where the corridor was dim and the air was thick with dust. I found apartment 3B, the door ajar. Inside, the room was intact, preserved like a time capsule. On the wall, scrawled in the same rusty ink, was a final message: ‘Don’t let her in.’ I heard a soft breath behind me, and I turned to see Eleanor Voss standing in the doorway, her face still blurred, but now I could make out a dark, gaping mouth. She raised a hand, and the air around me grew cold.

I ran, but I couldn’t escape. The manifest followed me home, and that night, I woke to find Eleanor Voss standing at my window, her fingers tapping the glass. I screamed, and my mother burst in, but she saw nothing. She forced me to take a sedative, and as I drifted off, I heard a whisper: ‘They are here.’

Now I live with the truth that no one believes. I carry the manifest in my pocket, its pages growing thicker each day. I’ve stopped taking my pills, because the blurry face in the mirror is the only one that shows me I’m real. I’ve learned to cope by writing my own manifest, listing the things I can control: ‘I am not afraid. I am not alone. I am.’ But every night, I feel breath on my neck, and I know that Eleanor Voss is waiting, and the manifest will continue to grow until it consumes me whole.