Chapter 2: Secrets in the Dark

I tapped on the profile of the guy who sent the message. His avatar wasn’t some anime character or viral meme—just that old-school yin-yang symbol, like something off a dusty martial arts VHS. It felt out of place, unsettling. Maybe it was just late, or maybe the way his words echoed in my head, but he suddenly seemed less like a friend-of-a-friend and more like a shadow lurking at the edge of a gas station parking lot. My thumb hesitated, curiosity prickling at my skin.

The hour and his cryptic message made him seem more like a ghost story than a real person. The kind of legend you’d swap at summer sleepovers, half-laughing, half-hoping it wasn’t true. I almost chuckled, but the unease wouldn’t leave.

I tagged him: “Man, what do you mean by that?” I tried to sound chill, but my fingers were clammy on the glass. No one in the group ever talked like this. It was way past midnight, and a car rumbled by outside, its headlights slicing through the blinds. I shivered.

The truth was, my wife really did have a red line on her neck. It’d been there since we first met.

At first, I thought it was a birthmark, or maybe a scratch—something from way back. I’d noticed it a thousand times but never thought much about it. But it never faded.

I’d asked her once. She’d shrugged, half-laughing, and said she was just allergic to everything, that her skin was weird and stress made it flare up. She made it sound so normal—like the kind of thing every Midwest kid deals with once in a while.

But I’d seen hives before—blotchy, angry, irregular. This line wasn’t that. I remembered poison ivy from summer camp in Indiana, the splotches and rashes. But this was different. It was perfectly straight, bright red, almost as if someone had drawn it with a Sharpie. Sometimes it glistened in the light. Friends had noticed, but she always waved them off. Eventually, people stopped asking—except me.

After we got married, I suggested we see a doctor about it. We were at our tiny kitchen table, afternoon sun pouring over the linoleum. She clamped her hand over her neck and glared at me—harder than I’d ever seen. “If you still want to be my husband, don’t ever mention this again.” I dropped it, not wanting to spoil our first year. But that moment stuck, like a splinter in my mind.

Time passed. Life rolled on—work, Netflix, lazy Sundays. Sometimes I’d catch a glimpse of that red line in the mirror, but I never brought it up again. We settled into our routines.

But now, with this guy in the chat calling it out, the memories flooded back. Her weird habits—scarves in summer, hating doctors—came rushing back. I chewed my thumbnail, glancing over my shoulder like I’d been caught doing something wrong.

Half an hour ticked by before he finally answered:

"Let me give you a friendly reminder: right now, you should call your friends and family and have them ready to collect your body. If it gets you, there won’t even be enough left to bury."

The words glared up at me from the screen, cold as ice. I could hear the fridge humming, the clock ticking. Sweat prickled my scalp. The whole apartment seemed to freeze.

He knew about the red line. My blood ran cold. I reread his message twice, heart hammering. Was he trolling me, or did he know something real? I wiped my palms on my sweatpants, wishing I’d left the hall light on.

"Are you just messing with me? What’s with all the spooky talk?"

I tried to sound brave, but the words felt empty. My hands hovered over the keyboard.

The group jumped in:

"Dude, we’re just joking! Saying someone’s about to die is way too far."

"Yeah, man, that’s messed up."

The group chat swung back into sarcasm and bravado. Someone dropped a skull emoji, another posted a GIF of a guy fainting at his own wedding.

But the mysterious guy came back fast:

"I’m not cursing him. He really is about to die. If you don’t believe me, ask him: has the red line on his wife’s neck gotten redder and thicker?"

His words sliced through the banter like a cold wind. My hands trembled, and I glanced over my shoulder again, swallowing hard before I typed.