Interlude: Greg Pt II – A Gate Best Kept Closed

  At least a few days had passed now. And Greg was starting to worry.

  No texts. No calls. Nothing but a cryptic message that kept popping up on his phone nearly every hour—Whittaker. Over and over again.

  It didn’t even come from Nathaniel’s number. Just… appeared.

  He tried calling James and Clayton as well….. Nothing. There phones seemed to ring endlessly with no signs of change.

  Day after day. Hour after hour.

  He knew Nathaniel would’ve wanted him taking care of Kevin while he was gone. That had always been the deal. And Greg was honoring it. But that didn’t mean he couldn’t dig—just a little.

  Maybe Nathaniel was being absent minded. Maybe he overestimated how long he’d be gone. Or maybe he didn’t think anyone would notice.

  He always had a miserable time remembering to shut off his computer.

  Normally, Greg would harp on it—fire hazards, overloading circuits, the usual lecture—but tonight, it worked to his advantage.

  Greg didn’t want to invade Nathaniel’s privacy. Not after the way Nathaniel had treated him lately. The silence. The detachment. But something about this—about all of this—didn’t sit right. The message, the disappearances, Sarah.

  It didn’t add up.

  And Greg refused to let the world close around him. Not like this.

  Something was happening, and he had the sinking feeling Nathaniel had found a piece of it.

  The screen was still glowing when Greg stepped into the bedroom. Nathaniel hadn’t even locked it. Typical.

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  He walked over, hesitated, then started typing. First: the messages.

  Nothing unusual—just some dead-end flings, the usual gaming banter with a couple friends. Normal.

  But when he searched for Sarah’s name, for the thread he knew had to be there—nothing.

  No record.

  It didn’t mean much. Maybe she just called him. Or maybe they’d spoken in person.

  Greg pulled out his phone. Nathaniel always said, “If something happens to one of us, we don’t even need to call.”

  They shared locations.

  He checked the map. Nathaniel’s location showed as here. Right here—inside the house. Not just the house. This room.

  Greg stared at the screen. Laughed, uneasily.

  Then flipped the chair over. Looked under the bed.

  Within twenty minutes, the entire bedroom had been torn apart.

  No phone. No signs of Nathaniel.

  Greg tugged at his collar. The sweat was pooling now, sticking his shirt to his skin. The room was hot. Too hot.

  He’s just having a meltdown, Greg told himself.

  Threw his phone. Took off. Went to his parents’ place.

  But the longer he stood there, the less he believed it.

  Something wasn’t right.

  He sat down again, cracked his knuckles, opened the browser, and typed in: Whittaker.

  Nothing.

  He widened the search. All of Arizona. Then the entire U.S.

  No records. No articles. No history. No people.

  No town.

  Greg laughed again. But it sounded wrong—too loud. Too sharp.

  He was sweating through his shirt now.

  Why was it so hot in here? Why wasn’t anything making sense? Why?

  And then the power went out.

  A thick, deafening silence dropped over the house like a weighted sheet.

  Greg sat frozen in the chair, staring at the dead monitor.

  The screen was black—but it still showed something. A faint reflection.

  Greg on the right.

  And on the left…

  A figure.

  Hanging upside down from the ceiling.

  Its arms limp, dangling past its head. Its head—

  Turning.

  Slowly.

  Toward him.