LOCATION: SUBURBS OF CORAL GABLES, MIAMI]

  [DATE: JANUARY 1, 2020 - 00:10 AM]

  [STATUS: DAY 1]

  ?The celebration in the Miller household had been quiet. No clubs, no crowded streets—just a bottle of cheap champagne, a cartoon special on the TV for seven-year-old Sarah, and the humid breeze of the Florida night.

  ?Artur Miller leaned against the doorframe of the patio, watching his wife, Elena, adjust the party hat on Sarah’s head. He should have been happy. It was a new year, a clean slate. But a knot of unease had been tightening in his gut for hours. It was the air. It felt heavy, charged with a static that made the hair on his arms stand up.

  ?"Artur, come on! Ten seconds!" Elena called out, her smile bright but tired.

  ?Artur forced a grin and walked over, glancing out the window toward the house next door. Mr. Henderson’s lights were on. The old man had been sick for a week—a "bad flu," he’d said over the fence. But Henderson wasn't in bed. He was standing on his lawn, perfectly still.

  ?THREE! TWO! ONE!

  ?The sky over Coral Gables erupted in a barrage of red and green. Sarah cheered, jumping on the sofa. Elena kissed Artur, the smell of her perfume momentarily masking that strange, ozone-like scent in the air.

  ?"Happy New Year, Artie," she whispered.

  ?"Happy New Year," he replied, but his eyes drifted back to the window.

  ?Mr. Henderson had moved.

  ?Under the flickering glare of the fireworks, the old man was kneeling on his driveway. He wasn't looking at the sky. He was looking at the concrete. In his hand was a stiff-bristled push broom.

  ?"Is Mr. Henderson okay?" Sarah asked, her voice small, joining her father at the window.

  ?Artur squinted. Henderson began to sweep. But he wasn't clearing leaves. He was sweeping the same six-inch patch of driveway, over and over. The movement was fast—mechanically fast. The shrrp-shrrp-shrrp of the bristles was audible even through the glass.

  ?"He’s probably just... confused by the noise, honey," Elena said, though her voice lacked conviction.

  ?Artur grabbed a flashlight. "I’m going to check on him. Elena, stay inside with Sarah. Lock the door."

  ?"Artur, don't—"

  You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.

  ?"I’ll be two minutes."

  ?The night air hit him like a wet shroud. The smell was stronger here—a metallic, sharp tang that tasted like copper on his tongue. As he crossed the lawn, the sound of the broom became a rhythmic scratching that set his teeth on edge.

  ?"Mr. Henderson? George?" Artur called out, clicking on the flashlight.

  ?The beam hit the neighbor. Artur froze.

  ?Henderson’s back was arched at an unnatural angle, his spine looking like a row of jagged stones beneath his thin pajama shirt. He was sweeping so hard that the wooden handle of the broom had snapped, but he didn't stop. He was gripping the jagged, splintered end of the broom head with his bare hands.

  ?The wood was driven deep into his palms. Blood—dark, thick, and sluggish—was leaking out, coating the broom and the driveway. But Henderson didn't flinch. There was no grunt of pain, no indrawn breath.

  ?"George, stop! You’re hurting yourself!" Artur lunged forward, reaching for the man’s shoulder.

  ?The moment Artur’s hand touched him, he felt it. The vibration. It wasn't a shiver; it was a high-frequency hum that vibrated through Artur’s own bones. It felt like touching a live wire.

  ?Henderson turned his head. It was a slow, agonizing pivot. His neck made a sound like dry gravel being crushed.

  ?His eyes were the worst part. They were wide, the pupils blown out until there was no iris left, reflecting the white light of the flashlight like a pair of mirrors. He looked at Artur, but there was no George Henderson behind those eyes. There was only a terrifying, focused vacuum.

  ?Henderson didn't attack. He simply moved Artur’s hand away. The strength was impossible—Artur felt his own wrist bones groan under the pressure. Then, the old man turned back to the driveway and resumed sweeping with his mangled, bloody hands.

  ?Shrrp. Shrrp. Shrrp.

  ?"Artur!" Elena was at the door, her face pale. "The news... Artur, look at the TV!"

  ?Artur backed away, his heart hammering against his ribs. He ran into the house, tripping over the threshold. On the screen, a news anchor was staring blankly at the camera. Behind her, the studio was a mess. People were standing in the background, staring at the monitors, their bodies swaying in a synchronized, haunting rhythm.

  ?"...reports of a mass medical event in Miami and Fort Lauderdale," the anchor’s voice was a monotone drone. "Authorities are advising citizens to stay indoors. Do not approach those exhibiting repetitive behaviors. We are experiencing... we are..."

  ?The anchor stopped. She looked down at her desk. Her hand reached for a pen. She began to click it. Click. Click. Click. She did it with the same mechanical speed as Henderson’s broom.

  ?"We have to go," Artur said, his voice a ragged whisper.

  ?"What? Where?" Elena asked, clutching Sarah to her chest.

  ?"I don't know. Away from the city. Away from the people." Artur grabbed his car keys. Through the window, he saw other neighbors coming out of their houses. They weren't screaming. They weren't running.

  ?The man across the street was washing his car in the dark, using a dry rag that was stripping the paint. A woman was standing by her mailbox, opening and closing it, the metal hinge screeching in the night.

  ?They were all performing their "Routines." A neighborhood of ghosts, trapped in the echoes of their own lives.

  ?"Get in the car. Now!" Artur yelled.

  ?As they backed out of the driveway, the flashlight he’d dropped on Henderson’s lawn stayed on. It illuminated the old man, still sweeping, his blood-soaked broom head leaving long, dark streaks on the concrete.

  ?He was perfectly in time with the distant fireworks.

  ?[SITUATION REPORT: CORAL GABLES]

  [OBSERVATION: SUBJECTS EXHIBIT OBSESSIVE MOTOR LOOPS.]

  [BIOLOGICAL NOTE: PAIN RECEPTORS APPEAR NON-FUNCTIONAL. TISSUE INTEGRITY IS SECONDARY TO THE ROUTINE.]