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Speaker 1: Welcome to Fiction Revies. For each episode is a short story, rewritten, reimagined,

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and reshaped into a different genre, which is chosen at random.

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Our story this week is called coming Back. It is

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in the horror genre, and it is the first version

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of the story. By the time Cole reached the clearing,

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the sun was already sinking, smearing the sky and bruised

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purples and burnt gold. The house sat in the middle

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of the field, stubborn, defiant. It shouldn't be standing, not

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after the fire, not after the collapse, not after what

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he'd done. A faint wind moved through the weeds, hissen

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around charred posts and blackened beams. The roofs sagged in

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the middle. The front porch leaned. Smoke stains crawled up

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the siding like ribcages. The windows were all blown out,

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dark and hollow. Good, Cole thought, at least you cannot

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disappoint dead things. He shifted the empty pack on his shoulders,

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empty for now. If he was right, there was still

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a hidden cash of antibiotics, painkillers, bandages, antiseptics, tucked behind

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a panel in the pantry wall. Supplies no one else

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knew about but him. Supplies that could keep people alive,

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people who no longer wanted anything to do with them.

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He could still hear Jenna's voice from the settlement, flat

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and tired. We're not asking you to fix it, Coal,

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just stop making it worse. Her hand had tightened around

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her son's shoulders when he walked past, as if coal

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might break the child just by existing too close, cold

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and argue. You know they followed him once, they believed

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him once, but the last time he said, trust me,

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I know what I'm doing. People died. He looked at

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the house again, at the warped front door hanging off

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its hinges. You promised you'd stay away from that place,

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Jenna said, crossing our arms, eyes hard. Nothing good at

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the end of that road. We don't know what is

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still there, He replied, I have to try. They needed antibiotics,

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they needed real pain meds, needed anything more than boiled water,

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reused rags and hope winter was clawing closer. Infection didn't

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care that. They were tired of being afraid it would

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get cold soon, and that never made it easier. Now

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standing in front of the house, he took a breath.

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The air tasted faintly of ash and mold, or maybe

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that was just a memory. Thickness throat. He stepped forward,

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boots sinking into the soft, overgrown dirt. Get in, get

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the supplies, get out, he said to himself, simple on paper.

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Cole climbed the cracked porch steps. They groaned under his weight,

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a long, complaining sound that set his teeth on edge.

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Up close, the door was worse than it looked from

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a distance, swollen, warped, its paint blistered and peeling from

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the fire and from years of weather. For a moment,

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he saw the way it had been solid wood, a

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brass handle, polished by a thousand casual touches, a welcome

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met that read this is fine with a cartoon dog.

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Jenna had laughed at the first time she'd visited. That

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was before the world turned, before the shortages, before the

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desperate armed strangers, before the arguments on the porch, the shouting,

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the gunshot, the whoosh of fire racing along the wall.

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Was hungry and unwilling to stop. Before he decided he

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knew better than everyone else. Cole set his shoulder against

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the door and pushed it. Resisted, then lurched inward with

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a guttural scrape, A cloud of cold, stale air rolled

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over him, carrying the smells of mold, wet ash, and

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something sweet underneath, like fruit that had been forgotten in

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the fridge. He stepped inside. The silence hid first, not

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the easy quiet of an empty home, but a hollow,

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padded stillness that swallowed sound. No wind, no birds, just

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the slow settling of rotten wood, and his own breathing,

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too loud in his ears. The living room was a wreck.

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The ceiling had partially collapsed, dirty insulation hung down and

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sagging tuffs. The couch was half burned, springs ex bosed

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like ribs. A dark handprint was seared into the wall

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near the doorway, the fingers spread wide, locked in a

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permanent blistered reach. Cole's chest tightened. He knew that handprint,

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knew who had slammed a palm against the wall. While

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the fires climbed, coughing and begging for help, he tore

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his eyes away. He forced his focus to the layout

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living room, kitchen, beyond pantry, off the kitchen, back corner,

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lower wall, behind the shelving, where he installed the false panel.

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Like an over cautious prepper, he walked carefully. The floor

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complained under each step, the long boards groaning and flexing.

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Dust spun lazily in the thin light filterin through the

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broken windows. At the entrance to the dining room, his

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boots bumped something soft. He looked down. A child's shoe

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lay and the debris melted pink. The rubber walked into

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it like a little blackened curl. Cole's throat locked. He

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hadn't thought about all that could happen when he shouted

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at the armed man on the porch that there were

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children inside the house. Hadn't thought, in the middle of

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his righteous fury to consider who else lived there before

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he accused the man of profiting off of desperate neighbors.

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He stepped around to the shoe without touching it. It

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felt like a line he shouldn't cross. In the kitchen doorway,

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he had to duck under a low hanging beam. The

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roof sank of wet brought and old smoke, cabinets sagging

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off the walls at odd angles. Mold carpeted the counters

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in furious black patches. The sink was full of rubble

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and a dead bird. The pantry door stood closed. His

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hope sank slightly. He remembered leaving it wide open that night,

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cupboards spilling flour and canned beans. As he grabbed whatever

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he could carry, Smoke had crawled along the ceiling. Heat

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licked at his back. Maa had screamed his name from

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the hallway. When he was so focused on what he

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could say, he didn't consider who needed saving. Cole's fingers

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tightened on the hatchet at his belt. Without thinking, he

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crossed the kitchen and wrapped his hand around the pantry knob.

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It was cold and slick under his palm. He opened

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the door. The darkness breathed out. The narrow pantry. Shelves

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were half collapsed, jars shattered on the floor. The smell

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inside was worse, mildew, dust, a faint sour taste. He knelt,

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reaching behind the lowest shelf, where the hidden panel should be.

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His fingers scraped along bare walls, no latch, his pulse hitching,

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he searched higher, lower along the baseboards. Nothing, no metal,

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no raised edge, just rough wood. No, he muttered, come on,

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come on. He pulled the shelf away from the wall

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with a grunt. It snapped loose, spilling a cascade of

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dirt and glass onto the floor behind it. The wall

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was solid, newer boards, cleaner than the rest, seamless. The

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panel was gone. Someone had been here, someone who knew

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exactly where the look. His heart beat slammed in his ears.

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If the supplies were gone, if he went back with nothing,

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they'd be right to shut him out for good. He

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would have risked everything for another failure. Hole straightened slowly,

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the pantry closing in around him. The house seemed to

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hold its breath. He stepped back into the kitchen. That's

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when he heard it. A soft creak above him, one

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floor up. A weight shifted on old boards. Not an animal,

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not the wind footsteps. Coal's hand found the hatchet properly.

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This time. He stood still, letting his own breathing quiet.

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The sound came again, two slow steps, then a pause,

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like whoever was up there was listening to. He swallowed hello.

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His voice sounded thin in the ruined room. No answer.

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The silence thickened. He considered leaving, walking out the way

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he came across the clearing, back along the cracked road,

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back to the settlement with empty hands and a simple story.

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Houses empty supplies are gone, I tried, But leaving meant

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staying exactly who he was in their eyes, who he

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was in his own eyes. He moved toward the living room, forward,

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where the stairs rose along the far wall, or had risen.

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Half the staircase had collapsed. Only a crooked spine of

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steps clung to the wall. Now the landing above was

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a slice of deep shadow. Coal stepped closer, heart thudding

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a little too fast. If you're here for the same

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thing I was, I'm not looking for a fight, he called,

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Just talk to me. Silence. Then a boy drifted down

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from the landing, so soft he almost thought he imagined it.

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He stopped dead. His brain supplied the memory before he

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could push it away. Mars's face streaked, with eyes wide,

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hand on his arm yelling his name over the roar

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of the fire coal. We have to go, We have

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to go now. He hadn't heard her voice since he

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buried what was left of her. He licked his lips.

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Who's there? The house creaked, beams shifting. Something moved just

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beyond the railing, a shape. It appeared to lean in

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his direction. He couldn't make out a face, just an outline.

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It was too still. The voice came again, and clearer

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this time. You shouldn't have come back. The sound crawled

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under his skin. It was almost hers, almost the cadence,

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the softness, but it was hollow, like someone was repeating

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the lines without understanding them. He took a step back

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without meaning to the floor creaked. The figure didn't react,

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didn't flinch, just watched. Coal cleared his throat. If you're

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squatting up there, I don't care. I just need medicine.

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Then I'll go. And there was silence for a while,

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then softly come up stairs. A chill slid down his spine. No,

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he said, automatically, stairs, don't look too friendly. Somewhere in

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the house gave out a low, dragging groan. Dust sifted

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from the ceiling. The figure at the landing seemed to

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ripple just a fraction, then drifted backwards out of sight.

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Cole realized he was holding his breath. He let it

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out slowly. If someone was up there, and he was

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almost sure that there was, they'd have access to the

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whole second floor. If supplies had been moved, they might

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have gone somewhere else in the house, somewhere safer than

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a burnt pantry, somewhere sealed. He remembered the small storage

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closet at the end of the upstairs hall. He'd always

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meant to tear it out and expand the room behind

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it to make more space, but he never had. He

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glanced at the broken stairs again. This is stupid, he thought,

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you're going to die, and hear chasing ghosts and hopes.

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Then he remembered the kid at the settlement, the one

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with the infected leg, feverish and glassy eyed. He thought

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of the way that Jenna looked at him when she

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thought he wasn't paying attention, like she wanted to forgive him,

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and couldn't find a way o grid his teeth. He

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didn't risk the stairs. Instead, he took the hallway at

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the back of the living room, the one that had

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led to the ground floor bedrooms and the tiny closet

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where he kept his tools, the one They used to

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smell like laundry detergent and Mars shampoo. Now it smelled

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like wet dirt and old plaster. Wallpaper peeled in long

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strips from the walls. His old bedroom door hung half open,

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shadows pooled inside. He kept walking. Mar's door stood across

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from his. He did not look. His ladder was where

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he had left it. He stayed focused get in, get

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the supplies, get out. The narrow storage closet waited at

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the end of the hall door. Leaning slightly inward, Coal

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took hold of the knob, half expecting it to be

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jerked from the other side. It turned easily cold. Air

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swept out when he opened it, sharper than the chill

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the hallway. The closet was small, barely deep enough for

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him to stand inside. Empty shelves lined the walls with

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the back. The back was wrong. The boards were newer, straighter,

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not scorched or warped. Someone had replaced them after the

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fire reinforced them. He stepped in the walls, feeling too

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close around his shoulders. Coal ran his fingers over the boards, solid,

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no seams. He knocked The wood gave back a dull,

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thick sound, but underneath it faintly it echoed hollow. He

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glanced over his shoulder. The hallway was empty, the doors

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on either side remained closed. If someone hid the supplies,

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this is exactly where they'd do it. He raised the

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hatchet and brought it down on the boards. The first

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flow barely dented them. The second sent a spider web

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crack across the surface. By the fourth hit wood splintered,

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a narrow gap opening between the planks. Dust puffed into

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his face. He coughed, blinking grit out of his eyes.

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From the other side of the wall came a sound, soft, labored.

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He heard breathing, coal froze. It wasn't the slow, wet

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rasp he'd heard above him earlier. This was different, smaller trembling,

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a voice, followed muffled by wood coal. His heart jolted

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so hard it hurt. That was her, not the hollow

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mimic from the landing, not the bronz cadence from his memory.

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This sounded like Mara, the way she used to talk

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when they were alone in the kitchen table at two

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in the morning, Small, tired, honest. His throat went dry.

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Mara a quiet shivering inhale from behind the boards. I'm cold,

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she whispered. He cracked wider than the walls, pressing his

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palms against the wood. It was icy, almost burning. I'm

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here now, he said, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have. The

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house rumbled around him, a long groan running through the beams,

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as if the structure disapproved. Cole raised the hatchet again

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and tore into the boards, splinters flew. The whole widened

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enough for fingers than a hand, and his arm he

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pulled the broken wood aside. Each time he ripped a

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piece free, the cold rushed in sharper. He shoved the

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last board down with a grunt. Behind the wall was

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a narrow space, a secret room, no windows, bare studs,

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and tucked into the back corner, knees pulled up to

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her chest, arms wrapped around her shins. Mara or her

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shape at least. Her shadowed hair hung in clumps around

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her face. Her clothes were the ones she'd worn that night, smoked,

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stained jeans, a shirt he vaguely remembered teasing her about.

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Her skin was pale, stretched thin across her cheeks. Her

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eyes and the beam of his flashlight were wide and dark,

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pupils swallowing almost all the color. Cold. She whispered, voice

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hoarse and breaking. You came back. He fell to his knees,

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without meaning to. Every apology he'd swallowed for years, piled

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up behind his teeth. At once, I thought you were dead.

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She flinched at the word, a tiny twitch in her shoulders. Cold,

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she repeated, and the way she said it and made

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his chest hurt. He slid one knee closer across the

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dusty floor. I'll get you out, he said. Well, he

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stopped looking at her hand, her fingers where they clutched

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her own arm. They were wrong, too long, the nails dark, cracked,

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thicker than nails ought to be. He took a step back.

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She followed his stare, then slowly uncurled her grip, stretching

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her fingers towards him. Palm open up. We have to go,

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she whispered, soft pleading. The phrase slid over his skin

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like ice water. He realized she had said that before

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we have to go. We have to go. Now. Behind her,

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against the far wall, he saw boxes, plastic crates, faded labels,

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medical seals. His breath caught supplies, his supplies, Some he

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recognized from his prep days. The others newer, picked off, conboys, traded, scavenged.

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Someone had been feeding this little hidden room for a

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long time. Mara, did you take those? He asked. Her

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head tilted to the side in that familiar way that

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is used to mean I don't understand the question. So

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now it went just a little too far, neck bending

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at an angle that made his stomach twist. Her eyes

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didn't leave his face. You left, she said instead, not accusing,

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just naming it. He swallowed, I know, I know. The

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house shuddered. The closet door behind him swung on its

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hinges and slammed shut. The sound cracked through the space

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like a gunshot, and the darkness seemed to press closer.

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He twisted around on his knees. The door was solid, pale,

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light leaking in only around the edges. His mouth went dry.

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Cool Mar whispered behind him. He turned to face her.

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She had shuffled closer without making a sound, her knees

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still drawn up, but she was almost within reach. The

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cold coming off her was stronger, like she carried winter

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in her bones. His mind focused on the settlement, the

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kid with the fever, Jenna's guarded face, the way everyone

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had silently stepped aside when he walked past, as if

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guilt might be contagious. If this was really Mara, if

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somehow she survived trapped in here, changed by smoke and

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cold and whatever else lived in this house. He couldn't

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leave her again, But every instinct screamed at him that

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whatever sat in the corner beckoning was not meant to

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walk back out under open sky. He forced his voice

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to work. I'm taking those supplies, he said, nodding towards

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the grate. I can help people, I can make some

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of this right. Her gaze flickered barely to the bar,

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then back to him. Her pupils dilated further, swallowing the

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last ring of color. Stay, she whispered, They don't need you.

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He flinched, like she'd hit him. That was the knowledge

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that kept him awake most nights, that the settlement had

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learned to survive in spite of him, not because of him.

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Her hand extended fully, fingers trembling, waiting for him to

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take it. He thought of dying here, the house ceiling

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up behind him, his bones slowly joining the rot in

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the walls. Mara or what wore her face, never being

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alone again. And he thought of the boy with the

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lay of Jenna's son, sitting on the makeshift caught jaw clenched,

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pretending not to WinCE. Cole's breath shook. I can't stay,

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he said. Her expression barely changed, but the temperature in

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the room dropped a few more degrees. The frost began

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to creep along the floor where he sat, delicate white

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veins reaching for his knees. Her voice layered, then a

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second tone, sliding underneath the first, deeper hollow. Bold. You

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left us, it said, you left, you left, you left.

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He grabbed the nearest crate without taking his eyes off her.

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His fingers went numb when they brushed the plastic, like

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the cold had teeth. When he tried to drag it

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towards the opening, she lunged, not like a person, like

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a puppet, pulled forward with strings. Limbs jerked too fast,

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too sharp. Her hands lambed into the crate, pinning it

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to the floor. Her head snapped up for the first time,

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her mouth pulled back from her teeth. Those were wrong, too. Stay.

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She hissed, not loud, but close. Her breath was so

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cold that it burned his cheeks. He yanked at the

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crate towards him. Her grip was strong, inhumanly so, but

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the plastic was slick with condensation. His hands slipped. He

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changed his angle, using the hatchet his leverage, wedging the

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blade under the edge, prying the crate scraped forward an inch.

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She let out a sound then that was neither human

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nor animal, somewhere between a sob and a snarl, like

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grief and hunger, tangled, frost, climbed the walls. The beam

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above him groaned, wood cracking, cold, gritted his teeth, dug

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in his heels, and ripped a crate free. For one heartbeat,

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they were both off balance, her reaching him, pulling. Then

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he shoved backwards, dragging the k crape through the opening

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and into the closet with him. Paull slammed onto his

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back like a wave. Mara, I'm sorry, he choked, not

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looking directly at her face. Now I'm so damn sorry.

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He surged to his feet. On the other side of

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the door. The wood moved reluctantly, it gave, and the

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door flew open. Rotten lights spilled in from the hallway.

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The warmth, such as it was, hit his skin like

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a slap. Behind him in the hidden room, something thrashed forward,

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fingers scraping along the wood beside his head. Black nails gouged,

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deep furrows come back. The layered voice roared, the sound

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blowing over him in a blast of freezing air. Staggering

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into the with the crate clutched to his chest, The

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door slammed shut so hard the frame cracked. Coal ran

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down the hallway, boots pounding lungs, burning past Mar's door,

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which rattled past his own room, where something knocked once

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softly from inside, through the living room, where the handprint

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on the wall seemed darker now, fingers stretched wider, reaching

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frim The whole house groaned, its structure buckling and complaining,

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but it didn't collapse. It held itself together just long

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enough to watch him go. He burst through the front

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door and nearly fell down the porch steps, catching himself

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on the rail at the last second. The air outside

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tasted thin and weak, but alive. Sound brushed back into

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the world, the hum of wind through dry grass, the

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distant caw of a crow. His breath came in ragged gulps,

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the crate dug bruises into his arms, every muscle trembled.

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It wasn't until he was halfway across the clearing that

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he dared to look back. The house stood where it

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had been, sagging and blackened, exactly as before, silent, rodding, empty.

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If you didn't know better. From one of the broken

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upstairs windows, the shadow leaned out just a fraction too far,

359
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a suggestion of a head, maybe hair, maybe not, You

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couldn't be sure. He turned away, By the time he

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reached the road, his fingers were tingling, not from the

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weight of the crate, but from the lingering cold that

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seemed to seep from it. He was almost back to

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the settlement when he decided to open the crate under

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a cover of trees where the road curved. His hands

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shook a little as he pried the lid up inside

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neatley stacked for vials, pill bottles, gods, suture kits, more

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than he dared hope, enough to buy them months, maybe

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enough to earn him a second look, maybe a second chance.

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A small glass bottle sat on top of everything else alone.

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He picked it up. There was no label, just a

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fogging of frost along the inside of the glass, like

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it had spent most of its time out in the open,

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not tucked safe in this crate. When he turned it,

375
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something faint scraped the glass from within, like a fingernail

376
00:29:40,680 --> 00:29:46,359
tracing the curve. A whisper trickled the inside of his skull,

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as soft as breath against the back of his neck,

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and the frost was written. He came back. He shut

379
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his fist around the bottle before his hands could stick

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to shake. For a long moment, he stood there on

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the broken road, staring toward the distant edge of the settlement.

382
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Smoke from their cooking fires rose and thin lines. Voices drifted,

383
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faint and fragile. He slipped the bottle into his pocket.

384
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Then he picked up the crate and walked home. The

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wind at his back was cold, but not as cold

386
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as the memory of the house, not as cold as

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the knowledge that somewhere in that hidden room, something wearing

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Mara's face was still waiting, waiting for him to come

389
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back and stay. Thank you so much for listening. Let's

390
00:30:45,039 --> 00:30:48,400
see what I'm writing next. It's going to be another

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new story, and this one will be a romance. And

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according to the new story generator, this romance story, the

393
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location will be arrest up, the main character will be

394
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someone in love. How convenient, and the story will center

395
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on letting go of a version of themselves. So sounds fun.

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Next week the story changes, See you there,