The Between

Short Story

September 2026

THE BETWEEN
It was while I was trying to come to terms with my peculiarity that I met Anna. I met her at Angel station on the Northern Line, drawn to her like a moth to a flame. Her father, a military man by the look of him, stood beside her with such rigid posture it seemed to push me forward. His fixed stare left me no choice but to approach.
She had her back to me at first, hair falling in a soft curve over her coat collar, but when she turned, I understood what people meant by love at first sight. Anna was an artist, though to me she should have been the model. She listened with quiet relief and open honesty, and even though the exchange was awkward, her gentle enthusiasm made me feel as though I had stepped into a life I’d been waiting for without knowing it.
Afterwards, she offered to take me for a meal. Looking back, I realise how incredible that was — not to be scorned or driven away but accepted. In the short time we were together she taught me many things: what love was, how to make love, and most importantly how to love life. With her I began to discover a new spiritual dimension to my existence, though not a religious one.
I know this will sound strange, but if any of this is to make sense, you need to accept certain things. The life you perceive now is only a pit stop on a journey we cannot comprehend. Once this life leaves us, we continue on, though sometimes there is a delay — caused by violent death, denial, or a refusal to accept progression. When that happens, we enter The Between. We become reflections of our former lives, looking back without being part of them.
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Once, the living could perceive these souls. Most animals still can, but we have evolved to hold such visions at bay. Think of it as a waiting room for those who missed the train. It used to be open, but what we saw was so disturbing that it was decided it should be closed, and so we built a door.
The door stems the flow of souls from The Between. It creates a threshold, just as a real door does, but manifested in our minds. A threshold has power, even there.
It takes a huge amount of energy for spirits to cross the threshold unless the door is opened to them. Everyone has a door, though most never realise it. It’s passed down through our psyche from generation to generation, much like antibodies passed from mother to child. In some people the door is weak, little more than a garden gate; in others it’s an impenetrable barrier. But we all possess one, and it protects us from those who would return.
Most spirits are content to stay put and watch while they wait to move on. Sometimes, when they are especially close to a person or place, they try to intervene. They seek out someone like me to pass a message or guide you through difficult moments, offering comfort or peace. Some protect a location and take an interest in anyone who enters, but most simply follow out of curiosity. They have no desire to harm you or force emotions upon you. If you are like me, you can see them. Good spirits appear as white light shaped like a human figure, each carrying a faint, indistinct shadow of their former selves — a kind of light-shadow.
But there is another side to The Between. A darker one. Some spirits envy the life force we carry and will come back by any means to feel it again. They can take control of your mind and force you to harm yourself or others. They mean to replace
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your life force with their own. They can twist your emotions, give you visions, nightmares, hallucinations. When they are close, and have absorbed enough of your energy, they can even affect the physical world. When I see a bad spirit, it appears as black mist or smoke shaped like a human body, sometimes shifting into an animal form. I know this may frighten you. I know how not to fear them, but if I’m to confide my story, you need to understand. The line between insanity and mysticism is thin, but the line between reality and The Between is thinner.
My relationship with Anna developed quickly — from the torrid passion of new lovers to the deeper fire that consumes true soul mates. We spent as much time together as we could, often sitting up through the night watching films, talking, planning our future. It was normality at its best. But like all normality, madness was only a few steps away, waiting in the shadows for its chance to consume us.
Then one day she asked me to show her. She said this gift, as she called it, was meant to be used and appreciated. She insisted I teach her how to calm her mind so she could see what I saw. At first I didn’t think it possible and was afraid to try, but she embraced the challenge and persuaded me to look past the fear. She knew I couldn’t deny her for long. I began to train her, and she absorbed everything with a childlike enthusiasm. She had ability — undeniable ability — and if I’m truthful, I saw it as a reason to show her more.
I hadn’t realised my ability was meant only for use with my own door. It was never meant to be taught. Each person’s door is of their own making, only as strong as it needs to be. I taught her to open a gate with a bulldozer. I obliterated the door and let The Between walk straight in.
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Like the day I met Anna, the day our relationship ended was a Saturday. I’d been to a reading and brought home food for us both. I remember the weight of the carrier bag, the faint warmth inside it, and the quiet satisfaction of knowing she would smile when she saw what I’d brought — one of those small domestic pleasures that feel like the foundation of a shared life.
When I got in, I called to her, asking whether she wanted tea or coffee. No reply. I walked into the living room expecting to see her curled up with a sketchbook, but instead she lay on the couch with her eyes open, fixed on nothing. Her skin had taken on a pale, yellowish tint, and when I touched her cheek, the cold travelled through my hand and settled somewhere deep inside me.
They were gathered around her — the spirits — drawn to her like mourners arriving too late. Their shapes hovered close, reaching out with desperate curiosity, as though they believed they could move on through her. I screamed at them to leave, the sound tearing out of me with a force I didn’t know I possessed. I cradled her and forced them back, pushing with every ounce of strength I had. Futile, but all I could do.
Anna had died of an aneurysm, they said. Cause unknown. A phrase so clinical it felt like an insult. I tried to reach her in the only way I knew, but she never came. She never responded. The silence that followed was worse than any scream.
I blamed myself — for showing her, for letting her see what I saw, for allowing them in. Sensing my grief, they tried to come through, drawn to the rawness of my emotions, but I fought them back and slammed the door shut. I barricaded my mind. For years I kept it closed. When she died, a large part of me died with her. I swore
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never again to become emotionally involved with anyone. I suppressed everything I felt about Anna, and the door stayed firmly shut.
At first I continued with a semblance of existence others called life. I pretended it had never happened. My grief, my loss, my hatred of the world festered inside me, but still I kept the door closed. I found a job writing for a fortnightly magazine, Third Eye, and it worked out for a while. I rented a flat in Clerkenwell, a place neutral enough to disappear into. But grief finds you. It settled into the corners like dust.
I couldn’t focus on my work. The only relief came when I’d drunk myself into oblivion. My articles became ramblings — bitter attempts at retribution against something I couldn’t name. But still I kept the door closed.
In no time I became a pitiful sight. My clothes grew dirty, my hair unkempt, and I was more often drunk than sober. Alcohol hides your problems at first; by the time you realise it’s making everything worse, you’re already well on your way to addiction.
Eventually my boss told me I had four weeks to get my act together. Four weeks later I was out of work, losing my home, and on my way — though I didn’t know it then — to my first encounter with psychiatric services. I was hospitalised, and though recovery took time, I eventually got sober. But in those weeks my guard fell. My emotions returned, and unfortunately this resonated in The Between.
Shortly after I was discharged, still on crutches, I heard a voice for the first time since she died. I was in my kitchen waiting for an omelette to stiffen when a voice behind me said I’d done it wrong. I turned, expecting someone to be there, but the room was empty.
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Within six months that single voice had been joined by others. They spent most of the day screaming at me, pressing against my thoughts with a weight that felt almost physical. Those who wanted to return were drawn to my despair. They became the concrete weight that slowly pulled me down.
Eventually I couldn’t take any more. I phoned the Samaritans, and after much talking went to see my GP. He ended the consultation with, “I am going to arrange for you to see a specialist.” I assumed it would take weeks. Instead, he led me to a small side room and asked me to wait. A nurse arrived to sit with me. She barely spoke, watching me with cautious stillness, as though any sudden movement might provoke something she didn’t understand.
After an interview I was passed to a psychiatrist who told me I was ill and should come into hospital for a short time. I told him exactly what he could do with his hospital and fled. Three days later I was dragged into the Royal Free Hospital and subjected to another psychiatric interview. The conclusion was schizophrenia.
The next thing I knew, I was booked in, sitting in a chair, about to undertake something that pushed even my boundaries. The psychiatrist told me medication would eradicate the voices and symptoms, and that within two weeks I’d be back to something like my old self. He was wrong.
Two weeks passed, and I was worse. So I stopped taking the medication and decided to leave. That was when I discovered the real power of the system. I was put on a section two of the Mental Health Act, holding me for up to twenty-eight days against my will. A section three followed quickly, allowing them not only to detain me
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but medicate me forcibly if necessary. Two years passed before I found a way out, but by then the door was wide open.
Despite the most vigorous treatment regimens, the voices remained as virulent as ever. Medication gave me no respite. Eventually the doses were so high I became little better than a zombie, viewing life through a legalised drug-induced smog. The journey through madness is an individual one. I can only share part of it with you; most of it is mine alone. I wouldn’t wish it on anyone, but I was lucky. I got out.
When I finally left the system, I felt as though I’d been spat out of a machine that had no interest in whether I lived or died. I walked back into the world with a fragile determination — the kind that comes from surviving something you can’t fully explain. The flat I found was small and unremarkable, neutral walls and a view of nothing-in-particular. It suited me. I wanted somewhere that asked nothing of me, somewhere I could exist without being noticed.
For a while, I managed. I kept sober, kept fed, kept occupied with small routines that felt safe. I would wake, make tea, sit by the window, and watch the street below. People passed with the quiet urgency of lives that had direction. I envied them, but only distantly, as though watching a film about people I would never meet.
The voices had quietened, though not gone. They lingered at the edges of my thoughts, murmuring like half-remembered memories. I learned to ignore them or at least pretend I did. The Between had retreated, but it hadn’t forgotten me. I could feel it sometimes — a faint pressure behind my eyes, a reminder that the door was no longer the barrier it once had been.
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It was during one of those quiet mornings that I sensed something different. I was in the kitchen waiting for the kettle to boil when the air shifted. Subtle, barely noticeable, but carrying a faint scent I hadn’t smelled in years. Jasmine. Anna used to wear a perfume with jasmine in it, a soft fragrance that lingered on her clothes and in the spaces she touched. I stood still, letting it settle around me, and for a moment it felt as though she stood just behind me, her presence as familiar as the warmth of her hand on my arm.
I turned, expecting nothing, and found exactly that. The room was empty. The kettle clicked off, the sound echoing through the flat with a clarity that felt sharper than usual. I poured the water, made tea, and told myself scents drift in from anywhere — old pipes, open windows, neighbours with clinging perfumes. It was nothing. It had to be nothing.
But the scent returned the next day. And the day after.
Sometimes it was jasmine. Sometimes the faint smell of paint, the kind she used on her canvases. Once, the warm, slightly sweet scent of her hair conditioner. Each time it arrived, it settled into the room with quiet confidence, as though it belonged there.
I tried to ignore it, but ignoring something that feels like memory is difficult. It presses against you, nudging at the edges of your thoughts, reminding you of what you’ve lost. I found myself listening more closely to the silence, waiting for something to break it. The hum of the fridge seemed deeper, the creak of the floorboards more deliberate. Shadows in the hallway lingered a fraction longer than they should, as though deciding whether to move.
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One evening, as I sat on the sofa with a book open on my lap, I felt the air thicken. Not dramatically — nothing that would make someone else sit up — but enough to make me look up. The room felt heavier, as though someone had just walked through it. I waited, listening, my breath held in a way that felt instinctive rather than fearful.
A soft sound came from the hallway. Not a voice, not a footstep, but something in between — a faint disturbance, the kind that happens when someone moves past you quietly. I stood, walked to the doorway, and looked down the hall. The light was dim, the bulb slow to warm, and for a moment I thought I saw a shape at the far end. A familiar outline. A posture I knew better than my own.
I blinked, and the hallway was empty.
I told myself it was nothing — a trick of the light, a shadow from a passing car, the mind playing games with memory. But the feeling stayed, settling into my chest like a weight I couldn’t shift.
Over the next few days, the flat began to feel different. Not hostile, not threatening, but charged — as though the air itself were waiting. I found myself pausing in doorways, listening for sounds that never came. I caught glimpses of movement in reflections: the television screen when it was off, the window at night, the glass of picture frames. Each time it was subtle — a shift of light, a suggestion of shape — but each time it felt familiar.
One night, as I lay in bed, I felt a warmth settle beside me. Gentle, almost comforting, the kind that comes from another body lying close. I opened my eyes, expecting to see the empty space beside me, and found exactly that. But the warmth
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remained, lingering on my arm, spreading across my chest in a way that made my breath catch.
I whispered her name. Not loudly, not with expectation, but with the quiet hope of someone who has spent years trying to forget and failing.
The warmth faded, but the air in the room stayed still, as though listening.
I slept poorly, drifting in and out of dreams that felt more like memories. When I woke, the room was cold, and the scent of jasmine hung faintly in the air.
I knew then the door was no longer closed. Not fully. Not safely. Something had begun to seep through — something that recognised me, something that remembered.
And I realised, with a quiet dread, that I was not alone.
In the days that followed, the flat settled into a strange rhythm. It was still the same neutral space it had always been — quiet rooms, unremarkable furniture, soft ordinary light — but something beneath the surface had begun to shift. I felt it most clearly in the mornings, when the air was cool and the silence carried an expectant quality, as though the flat were holding its breath.
I tried to keep to my routines. I made tea, opened the curtains, sat by the window, and watched the street below. People walked past with the same quiet urgency as before, but now I studied them more closely, wondering whether they sensed anything unusual. They moved with the ease of those firmly rooted in the world,
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untouched by the thin places between realities. I envied them more than I liked to admit.
The scents continued — jasmine, paint, the faint sweetness of her conditioner. They arrived without warning, drifting through the rooms with a confidence that made them feel almost tangible. I found myself pausing mid-step, breathing them in, letting them settle around me like memories that had slipped back into the present. Each time, the scent faded slowly, reluctant to leave.
One afternoon, as I sat at the small kitchen table, I felt a more pronounced shift in the air. Nothing sudden, nothing dramatic, but enough to raise the hairs on my arms. The room felt warmer, as though someone had walked in from outside and brought the heat of the day with them. I looked up, expecting to see the empty doorway, and found it unchanged. But the warmth remained, settling across my shoulders like a familiar hand.
I closed my eyes and let the sensation wash over me. It was gentle, almost comforting, and for a moment I allowed myself to believe she was there, standing just behind me, her breath soft against my neck. I whispered her name quietly, as though speaking too loudly might break whatever fragile connection had formed.
The warmth faded, but the air did not return to normal. It held a deliberate stillness, as though waiting for me to acknowledge it. I sat for a long time, listening to the hum of the fridge, the distant sounds of the street, the faint creak of the building settling. Everything felt sharper, more defined, as though the world had shifted slightly out of alignment.
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That night, I dreamed of her. Not as a memory or a fragment of longing, but with a clarity that felt almost real. We were sitting on the couch — the same couch where I had found her — and she smiled at me with the soft, knowing expression she used when she wanted me to stop overthinking. Her hand rested on mine, warm and solid, and she leaned into whisper something I couldn’t quite hear. When I woke, the room was dark, and the warmth of her hand lingered on my skin.
I lay there, staring at the ceiling, letting the remnants of the dream settle. It had felt too vivid, too immediate, to dismiss. I turned onto my side, and for a moment I thought I saw a shape standing near the doorway — a familiar outline, a posture I knew as well as my own reflection. I blinked, and the doorway was empty, but the sense of presence remained.
The next morning, the flat felt different again. The air was cool but carried a faint vibration, as though something unseen moved through it. I walked from room to room, trying to pinpoint the source, but the sensation followed me, settling around me like a shadow. When I reached the hallway, I paused. The light was dim, slow to warm, and in that soft half-light I saw a flicker of movement near the far wall.
It was subtle, barely more than a shift in the shadows, but familiar enough to make my breath catch. I stepped forward slowly, letting the quiet settle around me. The movement came again — a gentle sway, as though someone were standing there, waiting.
I whispered her name, and the shadows stilled.
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I stood there for a long time, letting the silence stretch between us. The hallway felt charged, the air thick with something I couldn’t name. I reached out, my hand trembling, and for a moment I thought I felt the faintest brush of warmth against my fingertips. It vanished almost immediately, but the sensation lingered, settling into my chest with a weight that felt both comforting and terrifying.
I returned to the living room, sat on the sofa, and tried to steady my breathing. The flat felt alive — not hostile, but no longer just a place. It had become a threshold, a space where the boundaries between realities had begun to thin. I could feel The Between pressing against it, not with the chaotic force I’d known before, but with quiet insistence, as though trying to find its way back to me.
I told myself I needed to be careful. The door had been closed once, sealed by grief, but it had never been meant to withstand this kind of pressure. I could feel it now — not fully open, but no longer secure. Something had begun to seep through, something that recognised me, something that remembered.
And somewhere in the quiet of the flat, I felt her presence again — soft, familiar, impossibly close.
The days that followed settled into a suspended quiet. The flat felt neither hostile nor welcoming; it simply existed around me with a stillness that suggested it was listening. I moved through the rooms with cautious awareness, not out of fear, but out of the sense that something had begun to share the space. The Between had always been distant, a realm I’d learned to keep at bay, but now it felt close enough to touch, as though the thin places between realities had begun to breathe.
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I tried to anchor myself. I made tea, opened the curtains, watched the street below — ordinary rituals. But each action carried a faint echo, a sense that I was not performing them alone. The scent of jasmine drifted through the flat with increasing confidence, settling into the air as though it belonged there. Sometimes it arrived in the morning, soft and familiar. Sometimes at night, lingering near the bedroom door with a quiet insistence that made my breath catch.
One evening, as I sat on the sofa with the television off, the screen reflected the room behind me in a soft, muted glow. I glanced at it, expecting only the familiar outline of the furniture, but instead I saw a shape standing near the hallway. Faint, barely more than a suggestion, yet familiar enough to tighten my heart. I turned slowly, letting the quiet settle, and the hallway was empty. But the reflection had not lied. Something had been there.
I stood, walked to the hallway, and paused. The air felt thick, as though holding its breath. The light flickered once, a soft pulse, and in that moment a warmth settled across my shoulders — gentle, unmistakable, the kind that comes from someone standing close enough for their presence to touch you. I whispered her name, and the warmth deepened, spreading across my chest with a tenderness that stung my eyes.
I reached out, my hand trembling, and for a moment felt the faintest brush of warmth against my fingertips. It vanished almost immediately, but the sensation lingered, settling into my thoughts with a weight both comforting and terrifying. I stood there for a long time, letting the silence stretch between us, the hallway charged with a presence impossibly familiar.
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That night, sleep came in fragments. I drifted through dreams that felt more like memories — the warmth of her hand, the curve of her smile, the quiet certainty of her voice. When I woke, the room was dark, and the scent of jasmine hung faintly in the air, as though she had just left.
I sat up, letting the quiet settle. The flat felt different again, not dramatically, but in a way that suggested it had become a threshold. The Between pressed against it with quiet insistence, as though trying to find its way back to me. I could feel the door now — not fully open, but no longer secure. Something had begun to seep through, something that recognised me, something that remembered.
I rose, walked to the living room, and stood in the centre of the room. The air felt still, listening. I whispered her name again, softly, letting it settle into the quiet. For a moment, nothing happened. Then the air shifted — a gentle movement, as though someone had stepped into the room.
I turned slowly, and she was there.
Not fully, not as she had been in life, but more real than any memory. Her outline shimmered softly, a shape formed from light and shadow, familiar enough to stop my breath. She stood near the doorway, posture relaxed, head tilted slightly — the way she used to stand when waiting for me to finish speaking.
I stepped forward, heart pounding, and she moved with me, her form adjusting to the space. I reached out, hand trembling, and felt the faintest warmth against my palm — soft, delicate, the warmth of a hand, held in love.
“Anna,” I whispered, and her form brightened, the light within her pulsing softly.
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She stepped closer, her presence settling around me like a memory made real. I felt her warmth, her familiarity, her quiet certainty. The Between had not taken her. It had held her, waiting, and now she had found her way back.
I closed my eyes, letting the warmth wash over me. Gentle, comforting, and for a moment I allowed myself to believe she had returned — that the door had opened not to chaos, but to love.
When I opened my eyes, the room had changed.
The warmth faded, replaced by cool stillness. The light sharpened, becoming clinical. The soft hum of the flat deepened into something mechanical. I blinked, trying to steady my breath, and the room came into focus.
It was not my flat.
The walls were pale, the air cool, the light fluorescent. A plastic mattress lay beneath me, the sheets stiff and unfamiliar. The hum came from the overhead lights, steady and unyielding. A narrow observation window stood opposite the bed, its glass reflecting the room with a clarity that made my breath catch.
I sat up slowly, letting the truth settle. The Between had not seeped into my flat. I had never left the ward. The door had not opened into my home. It had opened into my mind.
I rose, walked to the observation window, and stood before it. My breath fogged the glass, spreading in a soft bloom. I watched it fade, watched the mist clear, and in the reflection that emerged, I saw her. Perfect. Impossible. Inevitable.
Anna.
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She stood behind me, her form shimmering softly, her presence settling into the room with quiet certainty. For a moment she looked at me the way she used to — that soft, knowing smile that made the world feel as though it had steadied.
Then her eyes glazed with the fog on the glass. It was as if her gaze shifted — a small, deliberate turn — and my vision followed it to the bedside table. The pill bottle lay there, open, a single tablet resting near the rim as though waiting for me to notice.
When I looked back at the glass, she was still watching me — the same soft smile, the same impossible presence — and for the first time I could not tell whether she was warning me or calling me home.
I stayed still, letting the moment settle around us, the air charged with something I could not name. My breath trembled. The mist bloomed again. Her face sharpened.
And I slowly whispered her name.