The Uninvited Guest

 

It was a late Thursday night, just one more day until the weekend. Sam, ever the social spark in the office, decided to lift everyone’s spirits with a karaoke night. But this wasn’t just about singing—it was also a low-key group date. He’d invited two of his male colleagues, three single female coworkers, and even arranged for his high school friend, Byron, to join them later. Sam had someone he hoped to match Byron with.

The venue? A newly built karaoke center that stretched out over the sea like a long pier, glass walls giving a romantic, uninterrupted ocean view. It was the kind of place where the waves whispered lullabies against the foundation.

Before the singing began, they grabbed dinner at a restaurant housed in the same building. Byron messaged to say he’d be late, stuck with work. Sam didn’t mind—as long as he came.

Among the group was May, who had joined partly to socialize, but mostly to distract herself. She’d recently gone through a tough breakup and wanted to feel normal again. While the others chatted, May quietly excused herself, saying she needed the restroom. There was one inside the karaoke center, but instead, she stepped outside.

The breeze was soft and cool. The night had a peaceful hum. As she walked toward a public washroom farther along the stretch, something caught her eye—a yellow paper charm, fluttering slightly from a sealed door marked "Out of Order."

Intrigued, she reached out. Just then, she heard someone entering, and in her startled reaction, she accidentally scratched the paper's edge. It tore slightly.

She thought nothing of it.

Back in the karaoke room, the mood was high. Sam had picked the best sea-view room, stocked with light snacks and booze. Everyone was laughing, singing, loosening up.

Then May took the mic.

At first, it seemed like she was just a bit tipsy—singing sad songs, her voice strained. But then, it changed. Her voice morphed, as though her throat was filled with water. The notes came out garbled, drowning. Everyone grew quiet. Another woman tried to take the mic, saying May might be too drunk.

That’s when May stared at her.

A stare that froze the air in the room. Her eyes were blank, dead, but filled with something watching from the inside. Everyone flinched. A second later, May turned back to the screen and continued singing.

Another sad song cued. This time, she wailed like a grieving widow. Her body trembled. Her face twisted in agony—but the voice wasn’t hers.

Sam and the others stepped outside. The two other women were clearly shaken. "That’s not May," one of them whispered. “She doesn’t sing like that. That voice… it’s not human.”

Sam agreed—and he was terrified. He called the other male colleague to help take the mic from her, maybe escort her home. But May wouldn’t let go. In a frightening surge, she flung them away with one hand.

Sam had seen enough. He prayed Byron would arrive soon.

And then—he did.

Byron came walking down the hallway, cheerful at first. But the moment he neared the karaoke room, he stopped.

His expression darkened. “Something’s here,” he said quietly.

He turned to Sam. “Clear the room. Now.”

Inside, Byron faced May, who looked up from the screen.

And smiled—but it wasn’t May’s smile.

“Leave me alone,” she growled, her voice like stone grinding on stone.

Byron’s voice was firm. “No. This isn’t yours to claim.”

They argued. Not with words alone, but with presence. The energy in the room felt like two forces pressing on reality itself.

And then—May collapsed.

She was unconscious but breathing. Byron walked out, wiping sweat from his brow. “It’s not over,” he said. “It’s latched. Anyone know where she lives?”

One of the women raised her hand.

Byron shook his head. “I need to drive her. You can follow, but don’t ride with us. She’s not fully cleansed.”

They did as instructed. At May’s place, Byron performed a quiet ritual just outside, murmuring in a language none of them recognized. He nodded. “She’ll wake up fine. Just tired.”

Then he left.

As Byron’s car rolled out of sight, the eerie sense of something not fully cleansed lingered in the air. Sam couldn't shake the feeling that whatever happened tonight had left an imprint—something untouched, like a whisper they hadn't fully understood.

May, still unconscious in her apartment, would wake up with no memory of the horror she’d been part of. But the rest of them? They wouldn’t forget. Curiosity had led them here, to a night meant for fun, but it had opened a door to something they couldn’t explain.

Sam lay awake that night, thinking about everything that had unfolded. It had all started so innocently—a karaoke party, a chance to relax, laugh, and connect. But then May had stepped outside for a moment of solitude. She had no idea what she’d touched. But whatever it was—whatever curiosity had unlocked—had brought something with it.

No one spoke of it again. No one ever really talked about the yellow paper or the things they couldn’t explain. It became a silent warning that remained in the back of their minds, like a haunting refrain of an old song.

Some things are meant to remain unseen. Some questions, once asked, have answers we might not want. And sometimes, the things we least understand are the ones that change us forever.

Curiosity kills the cat. But sometimes, it also opens doors that should never have been opened