Stay a While

Sue had grown tired of the city—the noise, the constant movement, the feeling of being surrounded yet completely alone.

So she left.

Two weeks off. No obligations. No one to answer to. Just a quiet drive from California to a small rural town in Lafayette County, Arkansas—a place she’d read about online, known for an exclusive, underground fashion showcase.

Lewisville.

The drive felt like a release. Open roads. Empty skies. Silence that didn’t demand anything from her.

But the town felt different the moment she arrived.

The locals were welcoming—too welcoming. Their smiles lingered a little too long. Their eyes followed her even after conversations ended, as if they were waiting for something she didn’t understand.

Still, Sue stayed.

The show began at 10 p.m.

Late enough to feel deliberate.

The first night, the venue was nearly empty. No crowd. No excitement. Just a handful of people—two designers, a few kitchen staff, and a man seated in the shadows controlling lights and music.

No one spoke much.

But the clothes…

The clothes were stunning.

Textured in a way that felt… real. Soft, yet structured. Almost alive beneath the dim lighting.

Sue returned the next night.

And the next.

Each night, the show started later. Ten became eleven. Eleven became midnight. The silence stretched longer between each model’s walk. The air felt heavier, thicker—like something unseen was pressing in around her.

And each night, there were fewer people.

By the fourth night, Sue realized something unsettling.

No one ever left.

Not the staff. Not the models. Not the few attendees she had noticed on the first night.

The exits were there.

But no one used them.

By the fourth night, Sue stopped checking her phone.

There was no signal anyway.

No service. No messages. No time stamps she could trust.

Even the clocks inside the venue felt wrong—always a few minutes behind, or ahead, or frozen entirely.

She asked one of the staff about it.

They just smiled.

“You don’t need time here,” they said.

That was the first moment she felt it—truly felt it.

Not fear.

But something heavier.

Like the building itself was holding its breath.

On the fifth night, Sue decided she would finally buy something. Something beautiful. Something worth taking back with her.

The lights dimmed lower than ever before.

The room fell into a stillness that felt unnatural.

The models stepped closer this time. Close enough for Sue to see the details.

Too close.

That’s when she noticed it.

The seams.

Not stitching.

Something else.

Uneven lines, faintly raised beneath the surface. Edges that didn’t match. Patterns that looked… assembled.

Her stomach dropped.

It wasn’t fabric.

It was skin.

Not worn.

Reused.

Reconstructed.

The realization hit all at once.

Everyone who had stayed…

had become part of the collection.

The silence broke—not with screams, but with breathing.

Slow. Deep. Surrounding her.

Sue turned.

The room was full now.

Not empty like before.

Full of people she had never seen arrive.

Watching.

Waiting.

The designers stepped forward, their movements calm, almost gentle.

“You stayed,” one said softly.

“All five nights.”

Sue backed away, her pulse racing.

“I need to leave.”

The words barely came out.

The nearest door stood behind her.

She ran to it.

Pulled.

Nothing.

Locked.

She turned back—

And the lights went out.

Weeks later, Sue returned to California.

At least, something wearing her did.

Her coworkers noticed immediately.

She spoke less. Ate less. Slept less.

And her skin…

It didn’t sit right anymore.

Like it had been stretched too carefully into place.

When they asked about her trip, Sue would smile.

Too wide.

Too still.

And sometimes, late at night, she would stand in front of the mirror—

Tracing the faint lines along her arms.

Following the seams.