Chapter 1
THE FIRST SUNDAY
The first time Evelyn Hart died, she was alone. There was nothing unusual about the evening. No storm, strange phone calls, or shadow outside her window. Just thin, steady rain falling since late afternoon. Evelyn stood before the kitchen window, holding coffee gone cold. Across the street, houses vanished behind the rain. It was Sunday. She glanced at the clock. 11:47 PM. Eleven minutes before midnight.
On the kitchen table, her notebook held the same entry she'd written for three nights, I keep having the same dream. Beneath it, There is a house. There is a woman. She knows my name. Evelyn didn't remember writing the last sentence. That frightened her. She flipped through earlier pages. Most held grocery lists, bills, appointments, and a reminder to call her mother. Scattered between them were sentences in her handwriting she couldn't recall: Don't open the blue door. Someone is standing behind you. Sunday is not the first time. Her fingers stopped. "What does that even mean?"
The house was silent. Then—Knock. Knock. Knock. Evelyn froze, nearly dropping her cup. Three slow taps against the front door. She looked toward the hallway, suddenly hearing the refrigerator's hum and the clock's faint tick. Nobody was supposed to be there. She lived alone. Another three knocks.
Knock. Knock. Knock.
She set down the notebook and approached the door. The rain seemed to fade with every step. "Who is it?" No answer. Through the peephole, she saw only an empty porch and rain. Slowly, she reached for the lock, then noticed wet footprints on the floor. They began at the door and ended directly behind her.
Evelyn turned. The hallway was empty. Her heart hammered. When she looked down again, the footprints were gone. "Okay," she whispered. "I'm tired."
She stepped back and struck something with her heel. Her phone. She had left it on the kitchen counter. Its screen glowed with one notification
UNKNOWN NUMBER.
The message read: DON'T GO OUTSIDE.
Another appeared: YOU HAVE ELEVEN MINUTES.
She looked at the clock. 11:49 PM. She typed: Who is this?
The reply came immediately. YOU.
Then You already know what happens at midnight.
She dropped the phone. A fragment surfaced—darkness, a hand at her throat, her own voice begging—then vanished. The lights went out. Thunder rolled outside. In the silence, she heard breathing from inside the house, slow and close.
Evelyn ran. Her shoulder struck the wall, and she seized a kitchen knife from the counter. The house appeared empty. Then she looked toward the window. The rain had stopped. Across the bright street stood a woman with long dark hair, a white dress, and bare feet. Evelyn couldn't see her face, but knew the woman was watching her.
The woman pointed at Evelyn's house, then at the clock. 11:58 PM.
She disappeared.
Evelyn rushed to the front door. It was locked. She pulled the handle until the metal cut into her palm. "Come on!" The living-room clock grew louder. 11:59 PM.
The phone rang from the kitchen counter. One ring. Two. Three. Then the answering machine activated. Static filled the room, followed by Evelyn's voice—older, terrified—whispering, "Please..." The recording crackled. "Don't let me die again."
The clock changed. 12:00 AM.
Every light returned. The front door unlocked. Footsteps sounded behind her. One. Two. Three.
At the end of the hallway stood the woman: long dark hair, pale face, and Evelyn's eyes, mouth, and scar beneath the left eyebrow.
Evelyn stared at her own face.
The woman smiled. "You finally remembered me."
"Who are you?"
"You."
The lights went out again. Something cold and wet closed around Evelyn's throat. She tried to scream, but no sound came. The last thing she saw was the clock. 12:01 AM.
Then darkness.
---
Evelyn Hart opened her eyes to morning sunlight. She sat upright, heart pounding, sheets twisted around her legs and damp with sweat. Her throat burned. Her bedroom looked normal. She touched her neck. No bruises. No blood.
At the mirror, her reflection appeared pale, tired, alive. A faint ache pulsed beneath her left eyebrow, exactly where the other woman's scar had been. She looked at the clock. 6:00 AM. Sunday.
Her phone held no strange messages, unknown numbers, or missed calls. She opened her notebook. The pages were blank. Maybe it had been a nightmare, exhaustion turning a dream real.
She closed the notebook, then noticed the last page.
Four words, written in her own handwriting:
See you next Sunday.
