DAAAVID..

You ever feel like life’s just some big cosmic joke, and you’re the punchline? Yeah, that’s me. Always has been. The guy people forget about before they even remember your name. David Harris, the invisible man. They say life kicks you when you're down, but for me, it never really stopped. Ever since I was a kid, I’ve been the guy everyone laughs at, pushes around, or just plain ignores. The scrawny kid in school who always got his lunch tray knocked over. The guy in college who got stood up for dates he never even had the courage to ask for properly. And love? Yeah, that’s a joke.

School was hell, college was a nightmare, and love? Don’t even get me started.

I fell hard once. Thought I was head over heels for a girl who barely knew I existed. She had her arm wrapped around some smooth-talking athlete with a car daddy paid for. Meanwhile, there I was—just her friend, the guy she texted when they had a fight. But just the next day I saw them making out in the parking lot and I was always watching from the sidelines, never in the game.

By the time I hit my twenties, I’d already lost my folks to a car crash, leaving me with nothing but a rundown apartment and bills I couldn’t pay. I drowned it all in booze, chain-smoking like I was on a mission to kill myself slowly. Cigarettes, cheap whiskey, and a parade of meaningless nights with women I didn’t care about but paid for just to feel like someone might want me, even if it was fake.

Fast forward a few years, and here I am. Thirty-two, chain-smoking my way through life, stuck in a dead-end job where my boss, Mr. Walsh — a balding man with the charisma of wet cardboard — treats me like dirt.

"David," he barked across the office that morning, "you missed the deadline on the quarterly report. Again."

"I— I just needed a little more time—"

"Time? You need a miracle, Harris. Maybe if you spent less time daydreaming and more time working, you'd be worth the paycheck we’re wasting on you."

The office snickered. I bit my tongue, tasting copper.

That was the day I decided I was done.

By midnight, the decision was made.

Rough day at work. Got chewed out for missing a deadline. Crying like a fool in my car afterward, thinking, "Why the hell am I even here? What's the point?" I finished what I swore would be my last beer and flicked the empty can into the backseat. My fingers trembled as I lit what I told myself would be my final cigarette.

The plan was simple: Devil’s Point. One hard turn, and it’d all be over.

I revved up the car, headed straight toward Devil’s Point. That cliff outside of town? Yeah, the one people whisper about. Perfect spot to take the final leap. No note. No mess. Just gone.

The road was slick from rain, shining like glass under the headlights. My knuckles went white on the steering wheel as I pushed the old rust-bucket harder.

I was driving to Devil’s Point like a man with nothing left to lose—because I wasn’t sure I had anything to begin with. Same old streets, same old places, but tonight they hit different. Nostalgia, guilt, pain—it all wrapped around my chest like a vice.

There was that rickety old gas station off Main, the one Dad and I used to haunt every summer. He'd wipe grease off his hands with an oily rag, cigarette dangling from his mouth, and yell, "C'mon, Davey! Get your hands dirty, not just your mouth!" That bike never ran right, but man, we sure tried.

A little further down the road? The lot with the busted swings. Mom used to take me there when Dad was too busy playing backyard mechanic. She’d push me until I swore I could touch the sky, laughing that big, bold laugh of hers. Haven’t heard anything like it since she died.

Then there was Hank’s Diner—the place with those sticky vinyl booths that always squeaked when you sat down. They had pancakes piled so high they were practically a dare. Mom wouldn't let me leave without cleaning the plate. "Waste not, want not," she'd say, wagging her finger like she was God’s gift to discipline.

Every crack in the pavement, every broken streetlamp felt like it had a story tonight. Memories stitched together my miserable excuse for a life. And here I was, speeding past them, ready to jump off a damn cliff.

Thing is, I wasn’t just driving toward Devil’s Point—I was heading to Heaven. Or that’s what I told myself. Maybe Mom and Dad were up there, waiting. Maybe Dad still smelled like motor oil and Marlboros, and Mom would wrap me up in one of those bone-crushing hugs that made the world feel right.

Yeah, wishful thinking. But it was enough to keep my foot steady on the gas.

Then it happened.

Right as I was passing Gregory’s Four Corners Burial Ground, I saw her. Pale, shimmering, floating right there in the middle of the road. I slammed on the brakes so hard the tires screamed like banshees. The car fishtailed before coming to a stop. My chest heaved, heart pounding like a drumbeat in my ears.

But she was gone.

I blinked, trying to focus through the fog and rain. Was it the booze? The cigarettes? Some sick hallucination from my fried brain?

Curiosity—or madness, I guess—got the better of me. I got out, the cold air biting through my jacket. The burial ground loomed ahead, shadows twisting between rows of weathered stones.

I flicked ash from my cigarette, taking a shaky drag to calm my nerves.

My boots squelched through the mud as I wandered toward the spot where I thought I’d seen her. Rain dripped from gnarled tree branches, mixing with the smell of damp earth. I kept walking until I saw it.

A gravestone slick with rain. The name carved deep into the stone.

Hannah Cranna.

I froze. My breath caught in my throat.

You grow up in Monroe, Connecticut, you hear the stories. She was the so-called Witch of Monroe, cursed the town before she died, or so the legends go.

I took a step back, my pulse hammering. "No way," I whispered to myself, the words barely audible over the wind.

Then came the voice.

Soft, lilting, like it was carried on the breeze.

"Daaavid..."