One late evening you came back home from work, the house unusually quiet as you wandered through the house, that strange feeling of dread tightening in your chest. The back door was slightly ajar, and a faint rustling came from outside. A chill ran down your spine. Something was off.

Pushing the door open, you stepped into the backyard. The cold night air wrapped around you as your eyes adjusted to the moonlit darkness. Then you saw him—Mike, standing by the shed, his back to you, completely still.

His posture was tense, almost rigid, and the scene felt… wrong. You took a hesitant step forward, trying to shake the unsettling feeling gnawing at you.

“Mike?” you called softly, your voice barely above a whisper.

He didn’t turn around. Didn’t even flinch. His shoulders stayed stiff, and the silence felt thick, suffocating.

“You shouldn’t be out here,” he murmured, his tone low, almost warning, still not facing you.

That cold dread gripped you harder, and you could see it then—the shadow cast by the faint moonlight. The dark smear on the ground near his feet, the vague shape of something… or someone.

Your breath caught. “Mike, what’s going on?”

He remained still, refusing to turn. But now you saw it, the shadow stretching across the ground, the outline of something more. The moonlight barely illuminated it, but there was enough to make out the smear of blood on his hands, dripping onto the dirt. Your eyes widened, your pulse quickened, panic surging inside you.

“I didn’t want you to see this,” Mike said, his voice tight, filled with a guilt that made your stomach churn. He didn’t move. He couldn’t bring himself to turn and face you.

The shadow told you everything. Blood. Lots of it. Dark, wet, and glistening, dripping from his hands. You weren’t sure what was worse—the sight or the fact that Mike had known you were there all along but hadn’t turned around.