She vanished just as the year ended.

One moment, Poppi stood under the flickering streetlight, her breath curling into the cold December air, eyes fixed on the fireworks bursting over the city skyline. The next, she was gone.

I was the last person to see her.

We had met at that very spot every New Year's Eve for the past five years. It started as a coincidence—the first time, we were both trying to escape separate parties, seeking solitude in the quiet corner of the park. The second year, I found her there again. By the third, it was tradition. We’d watch the fireworks, make cynical jokes about resolutions we’d never keep, and part ways, only to meet again twelve months later.

But this year was different.

Poppi had been… off. She arrived late, her usual wry smile absent. Her hands trembled when she lit a cigarette, and she barely met my eyes.

“Everything okay?” I had asked, watching her exhale a shaky stream of smoke.

She hesitated. “I—yeah. Just a weird year.”

I didn’t press. Poppi had always been private. I only knew fragments of her life—she was a writer, she moved around a lot, she had a complicated past she never spoke about. But that night, her silence felt heavier, like she was carrying something she didn’t know how to set down.

The countdown began. Ten, nine, eight…

She turned to me. “If something happens to me, don’t look for me.”

The words sent a chill through me, sharper than the winter air. “What are you talking about?”

Seven, six…

She gave a small, sad smile. “Just… remember me, okay?”

Five, four, three…

I reached for her hand, but she stepped back.

Two, one.

Fireworks exploded in the sky. Gold and red and blue, illuminating her face for a fraction of a second. And then—

She was gone.

I spun around, heart pounding. “Poppi?”

The streetlight flickered, casting long, distorted shadows. The street was empty. No sign of footsteps, no echo of retreating footsteps—nothing.

I searched for her for hours. I called her phone. I checked her usual haunts. But it was as if she had never been there at all.

By morning, I went to the police. They were less than helpful. No evidence of foul play, no proof she was even missing. “Maybe she just left,” they said. “People disappear all the time.”

But Poppi wasn’t just people.

I started digging.

Her social media accounts were gone. Her apartment was abandoned, mail piling up at the door. No one seemed to know where she had gone—not her old coworkers, not her few scattered friends. It was as if her entire existence had been erased.

And then I found the notebook.

It was buried under a pile of discarded papers in my apartment—something she must have slipped into my bag that night. Inside were pages of frantic handwriting, strange symbols, half-finished stories. But one entry stood out.

They are watching. They know I know. If you’re reading this, it’s too late for me. Don’t follow me. Don’t ask questions. Some people don’t just disappear. Some people are taken.

The words sent ice through my veins. Taken? By who? Or what?

I should have listened. I should have let it go.

But I didn’t.

And now, as another year ends, I stand in the same spot under the streetlight, hoping for a glimpse of her.

Because I know—whatever took her is coming for me next.

Tamra Mosher

@Tammos

Oklahoma

Tamra Mosher has not written a story.