The storm began without warning.
One moment, the group stood in the haunted hush of the manor's parlor, their reflections twitching unnaturally in shattered mirrors. The next, a roar surged through the room—a wind not of air, but of memory, of madness. It tore through like a reel of film unraveling, shredding the curtains from their rods and toppling furniture. Chairs slammed against the
walls. The chandelier above them shattered in eerie silence, glass droplets hanging in the air for one impossible second—then reversing, spiraling upward like time had glitched.
"Hold on to something!" Lena shouted, but her voice was stolen, dissolved in the howling current.
The floor beneath them convulsed, buckling like the chest of something alive. Then, above them, the ceiling tore open—not into sky, but into darkness, pure and endless. A vortex churned with invisible force. And one by one, they were lifted—flung—swallowed by the void.
Lena
She hit the ground hard, skidding across plush velvet.
When she opened her eyes, she was alone.
A single spotlight blinked on, illuminating a stage. It was familiar. Too familiar. Rows of empty seats stretched out into blackness, but their silence was not comforting—it was expectant.
At center stage stood a younger version of herself. Early twenties. Confident. Sharp eyes and sharper posture. Beside her was Eden—smiling nervously, fiddling with her mic, her energy a nervous fidget instead of stage charisma.
Lena's stomach dropped. She knew this day. Not a show. A rehearsal. The sketch with the train station. The beginning of everything—and the beginning of the end.
"Tell them what you told me," Eden's younger voice said softly. "About the bit… the one with the awkward commuter."
Young Lena grinned. "I think we should run it. You and I, center stage. You're the uptight commuter, I'm the stranger who—"
"That was my sketch," Eden interrupted.
"You showed me a rough draft. I tightened it."
Eden's smile faltered.
Present-day Lena stepped forward, invisible. Helpless. Say something, she thought. Tell her the truth. Apologize. Stop this before—
"You said we'd write it together," Eden whispered.
"We are," younger Lena replied, leaning in with a fake warmth that made Lena's skin crawl. "But you need me to sell it. Don't you?"
Eden nodded.
And then—clapping.
Slow. Mocking. It echoed across the theater, not from the seats, but from shapes—silhouettes—with too many hands and too-wide mouths. Their laughter turned into static, and the static became the sound of Eden crying backstage, alone.
The velvet floor rippled beneath Lena like muscle. She fell to her knees, curled into herself as the scene dissolved into red mist.
Marc
The light above the mirror flickered. He was back in the dressing room.
The bulb buzzed in rhythm with his pulse. In the reflection, he saw himself—Marc, at his peak. Slick. Flashy. Wearing one of Eden's signature red blazers like it belonged to him. Practicing a grin that wasn't his.
"You're stealing," Eden said from the doorway.
He didn't turn. "I'm elevating."
"That joke—about funerals and cupcakes—that was mine."
"You had the skeleton. I gave it flesh."
In the reflection, Marc's smile deepened. And behind them, the shadows gathered. Dozens of Edens. One crying. One staring. One gripping a microphone so hard her fingers bled.
"You knew," they whispered in sync. "You knew."
Eden stepped forward, her face glitching like bad footage. Her cheek peeled back, revealing raw bone. Her eyes stayed fixed on his.
"You said we were partners."
Marc looked away.
The shadows advanced, clapping offbeat. Their laughter didn't sound human—it was like teeth grinding inside a radio. One raised a mic stand over its head like a weapon. Marc tried to run, but the mirror refused to release him. It held him still. Forced him to watch as version after version of himself performed Eden's words under hot lights while she waited in the wings, unseen.
Vivian
She stood at a podium.
Her stomach twisted.
This was the roast.
The Roast of Eden Gray.
The moment she burned every bridge with gasoline and applause.
"Eden Gray walks into a bar… and that's it. That's the punchline."
Laughter.
"She's like a ghost—shows up uninvited, ruins the vibe, disappears for months."
More laughter.
"She wanted to be a legend. Congrats, sweetie. You nailed the 'dead inside' part."
Vivian's face burned as her past self delivered the lines with venom dipped in sugar. The crowd roared. Cameras flashed. A career milestone.
And at the dais, Eden sat frozen. Her expression was still—a smile carved in wax. But now, in this twisted vision, she began to laugh. Loud, echoing. One by one, the guests seated beside her dissolved into ash, leaving only her. Flickering between beauty and rot. She stood and pointed.
"Tell another joke."
Vivian backed away.
"Come on," Eden crooned. "Roast me again."
Her own voice answered. Distorted, deeper:
"Maybe if your career died faster, you wouldn't have had time to crash this badly."
The floor cracked beneath her.
Vivian plunged into black.
Darren
Rain tapped on the windshield.
The van idled in the dark outside a gas station. Eden sat curled in the back seat, her voice hoarse.
"I haven't slept in three days," she whispered. "My chest hurts."
Darren, younger, didn't turn. "We've got Denver tomorrow. You can sleep after the set."
"I think something's wrong."
"We're all tired."
Present Darren reached for his younger self, tried to grab him, force him to look, to listen.
But the scene played on.
Eden's reflection fogged the glass. Her hands shook. She rocked slightly, small as a child.
Then—movement.
In the front seat, beside Darren, sat a version of himself. Grinning. Pleased.
"She needed you," the shadow-Darren said. "And you gave her a schedule."
Outside, the rain distorted, turning into applause. The gas station sign blinked. The van lights went out.
And Eden was gone.
Theo
A desk. A screen.
The headline glowed:
"The Breakdown of a Comedian: Eden Gray's Final Set?"
His cursor hovered over the "Publish" button.
Beneath the article: grainy photos of Eden crying backstage. Mentions of erratic behavior, slurred words. A trainwreck dressed as entertainment.
She'd left voicemails. Pleading. "Please, Theo. I'm not okay. Don't do this. It's just a bad week."
He hadn't responded.
He clicked.
The lights in the room dimmed. The screen stretched, warped—spilled into the walls, into his skin.
And then she was behind him.
Eden. Silent. Still.
Her mouth opened. Laughter spilled out like water. Then stopped.
"You got what you wanted," she whispered. "They saw me die before I did."
Then the screen went black.
They returned.
Each of them slammed back into the manor like broken dolls.
No longer together.
Each deposited in a different hallway, corner, stairwell.
Alone.
The walls pulsed as if satisfied, as if they had fed well.
Doors slammed shut on their own. Floorboards twisted into new patterns. The house had shifted—labyrinthine, alive.
And always, behind it all—
That laughter.
Softer now.
But constant.
Starving.
The curtain had risen.
And Eden's show was far from over.