Marine was returning back to her home from the usual route. Suddenly, she smelled an awful scent coming from the newly opened shop.

Marine froze halfway up the cracked sidewalk.

“Marine!”

Her mama’s voice drifted across the parking lot, sharp and worried. The evening air carried it strangely, stretching the syllables like the wind didn’t want to let them go.

Marine glanced back toward the car.

Her mama stood beside the gas pump, one hand shielding her eyes from the sinking sun. “Don’t wander off!”

“I’m just looking!” Marine called back.

Then the smell hit again.

Not burnt donuts.

Not grease.

Not even rotten milk.

It smelled… wrong.

Like wet dirt mixed with metal and something sour underneath. The kind of smell that made your stomach tighten before your brain understood why.

Marine turned slowly toward the donut shop.

The flickering sign buzzed overhead.

HOT DONUTS — OPEN 24 HOURS

Only three letters still worked consistently. The rest blinked on and off like tired fireflies.

The windows were fogged from the inside.

But the parking lot was empty.

No cars.

No customers.

No lights except a faint yellow glow near the kitchen.

Marine took one careful step closer.

Then another.

The smell grew stronger.

A buzzing noise came from somewhere behind the building.

Not electrical buzzing.

Flies.

A LOT of flies.

Marine swallowed.

Okay. That was definitely not normal donut-shop behavior.

She reached for the door handle.

Before she could touch it—

THUMP.

Something hit the inside of the door.

Marine jumped back so hard her shoe scraped against the pavement.

The glass trembled slightly.

Then everything went still.

Her heart hammered.

“Marine!” her mama yelled again, closer this time. “Get back here right now!”

Marine stared at the fogged window.

For one second, she thought she saw a shape move behind the glass.

Tall.

Too tall.

And then, slowly, words appeared in the condensation.

Not written.

Pressed from the other side.

RUN.

Marine stilled for a moment. Then she ran.

Her mama kept asking "What happened?" as she ran into the car and told her mama to drive really fast. Her mama didn't see the need for the panic but the panic she saw on Marine's face was material enough to move her to action.

On getting home, Marine kept looking towards the door and would not answer her mama's questions. When she tried to speak, the tremors raging her body would cause her tongue to start shaking and then she could not hold the words in her mouth.

Her mama didn't know what to do except to wrap her with a cotton blanket and dab her skin with a cold towel, hoping the fever would go down and that the tremors would cease.

They went like that for hours, her mama never leaving her side and whispering softly to her that it was going to be okay. Slowly her tongue stopped clattering when she opened her mouth and her mama noticed and repeated the question in a tender voice: "What happened?"

"I think- I think there was something wrong with that donut shop."

"What donut shop?"

"The one by the gas station with the flickering HOT DONUTS -- OPEN 24 HOURS sign."

"Marine, my dear, the fever must have really gotten into you," her mama says, feeling her now cool scalp for an unusual temperature.

"What do you mean, Mama?"

"There were no donut shops or any shops at all at the gas station."

The fever did not cease.

By morning, Marine could no longer tell whether she was awake.

The walls of her bedroom breathed slowly in the gray dawn light. Shadows stretched where they shouldn’t have. Every few minutes she heard the buzzing again, that thick, crawling hum of flies, but whenever her mama opened the curtains or checked beneath the bed, there was nothing there.

Apart from the smell. Mama blamed it on her sickness, her nose not working right, but it was unmistakable. And it was getting stronger.

Her mama sat beside her with tired eyes and a bowl of cold water. “You need rest,” she whispered.

Marine tried to answer.

Instead, she gagged. The scent had returned stronger than before, flooding her nose with wet earth and metal and rot; and beneath it, the scent of freshly fried dough, warm sugar and glaze, sickly sweet and cloying.

Marine’s stomach twisted violently.

“Mama…” she croaked.

Her mama leaned closer. “What is it?”

“He followed me.”

The words barely escaped her lips.

Her mama brushed damp hair from Marine’s forehead. “Nobody followed you, baby.”

THUMP.

Both of them froze. The sound came from downstairs, a slow, heavy knock sounding from the front door.

THUMP.

Marine’s entire body locked up.

“No,” she whispered immediately. “Don’t open it.”

Her mama frowned toward the hallway. “It’s probably Mrs. Alvarez checking on us.”

THUMP.

This time the knock rattled the walls.

Marine grabbed her mama’s wrist with surprising strength. “Please.”

For a moment, uncertainty crossed her mama’s face.

Then, the doorbell rang.

Her mama gently freed herself from Marine’s grip. “I’ll be right back.”

“No!” But her voice cracked apart into coughing.

Her mama hurried downstairs and Marine heard each creaking step disappear into the lower floor.

Then silence. A long silence. Marine stared at the bedroom doorway for what felt like hours. The buzzing had returned, louder now, in the walls, in the hallway, in her head. She needed water, needed her mother back, needed—

“Mama?” she called weakly.

No answer. Then, from downstairs, came her mama’s voice, quiet, almost dreamy.

“Marine,” she called. “The nice man from the house down the road is here.”

Marine’s breathing slowed. The smell was all around her now, in her brain and eyes and fingertips, that cloying sickly smell of frying oil, sugar and cinnamon, sticky glaze on greasy napkins.

“He brought you something warm.”