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File 47
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2026-04-16 23:09:55Chapter 10
The handle turned. For a breathless moment, I thought I had imagined it. My hand trembled on the knob, waiting for the sharp voice of Damien behind me or Marco’s shadow falling across the wall. But nothing came. No footsteps. No warning. The door eased open with a slow groan, the sound dragging through the silence like a warning I couldn’t ignore. My heart banged painfully in my chest, but still, I slipped inside. The air in the room was different. Heavier. The smell hit me first. Paper and dust, thick and stale, laced with something metallic, something I couldn’t name but that set my nerves on edge. I shut the door behind me, not daring to let the light from the hall betray me. The darkness inside was suffocating, absolute, until my fingers fumbled along the wall and found a switch. A single bulb flickered to life, dim and yellow, casting long shadows that swayed across the room. And that was when I saw them. Files. Dozens of them. Neat, stacked rows along steel shelves that lined the walls from floor to ceiling. Manilla folders with numbers scrawled in black ink along the spines, each one identical in size, each one deliberately placed. My throat tightened. I moved closer, every step unsteady, like walking into a nightmare I couldn’t wake from. They weren’t just files. They were files on women. Photos were clipped to the front of some, women smiling in candid snapshots, women looking straight into the camera, women whose faces tugged at the edges of my memory. And then it hit me. I recognized some of them. Not personally. But from news stories, from missing persons posts shared online, from headlines that had haunted social feeds for weeks before fading into silence. They were missing. And their faces were here. I stumbled forward, my hand reaching for the nearest folder as though it was magnetic, pulling me against my will. My fingers shook so badly that I nearly dropped it before I even opened it. The first file was thin. Too thin. A name typed neatly at the top. A photo paper-clipped inside. Details written in precise, careful handwriting. Notes about height, weight, eye color. Favorite places. Hobbies. I snapped it shut before I could take in more. My skin crawled. I didn’t want to read, but I couldn’t stop. My hand moved to the next folder. Then the next. Every file the same. Women. Young, older, different hair colors, different lives. All gone. All collected here like they were nothing more than specimens in a grotesque archive. My chest tightened until breathing felt impossible. My pulse roared in my ears, and my vision blurred with hot tears that threatened to spill. And then I saw it. One file. Different. Set apart, resting alone on the desk at the center of the room. File 47. The number was written in heavier ink, darker than the others, as though someone had pressed harder into the paper, etching it with intention. My hand hovered over it. I didn’t want to touch it. I didn’t want to know. But curiosity had already sunk its claws into me. My fingers brushed the edge before I even realized I had reached. I pulled it closer. The folder opened with a soft rustle, paper against paper. Inside was a photograph clipped neatly at the top corner. A girl stared back at me. Her hair was long and dark, her eyes wide with a kind of shy brightness. I knew her. Not by name, but from memory. I had seen her before, on a flyer taped to a streetlight, on a post shared online with desperate words beneath it. Missing. She had disappeared almost a year ago. The memory of that post hit me like a blow to the chest. The caption beneath her picture had been written by her sister, begging for anyone with information to come forward. I remembered sharing it once, scrolling past it again days later, and then forgetting. Because that’s what people did. They forgot. But Damien hadn’t. He had kept her. Here. My vision swam. My hand clamped over my mouth to keep the sound from escaping, a raw, horrified noise clawing up my throat. I wanted to drop the folder, to shove it away from me, but my grip wouldn’t release. Beneath the photo were notes. More than in the others. Pages filled with writing. Descriptions of her routines, her preferences. Records of behavior. It wasn’t just a file. It was a diary. My knees weakened, forcing me against the desk. The room tilted, shadows bending closer, pressing in on me. How many files were here? How many women had Damien taken? And why was mine not yet among them? The thought landed like ice in my veins. If every woman here had been collected, documented, stored, what did that mean for me? Was my file being written right now? Was my photo already printed, waiting to be slipped into one of these folders? The light above me flickered. Once. Twice. Then steadied. My breath hitched. My body went rigid. I wasn’t alone. The silence was too thick. Too heavy. The kind of silence that was made, not natural. I could feel it, the sensation of being watched. The prickle at the back of my neck. I forced myself to turn, the folder still clutched in my hand. The door was shut. But was it locked? The thought lodged itself in my head like a knife. My chest rose and fell in shallow bursts, every muscle coiled tight. If Damien or Marco opened that door now, there would be no excuse. No hiding what I had seen. And they would know that I knew. I slammed the file shut, clutching it to my chest. My hands shook violently, and the edges of the folder cut into my skin, but I couldn’t release it. My legs moved before my mind caught up, stumbling backward, searching desperately for another exit, a window, a vent, anything. There was nothing. Just one door. The one I had come through. The one that might not open again. The bulb flickered a second time, shadows lunging across the walls like reaching hands. My heartbeat drowned out everything else. I pressed back against the desk, clutching File 47 like it could shield me. And then, from somewhere in the silence, I heard it. A sound. Not loud, but enough to steal the breath from my lungs. A footstep. Right outside the door. 
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