THE REFRESH BUTTON

Mara used to be normal. That’s what she tells herself, anyway. She used to wake up, make coffee, scroll through her messages once, maybe twice, and then go about her day. She used to go hours without touching her phone. She used to sleep through the night.

Now she checks the same page over and over again, refreshing until her thumb aches and her eyes burn. She checks it in the morning, at work, in the bathroom, at stoplights, in bed. She checks it even when she knows nothing new will be there. She checks it because she can’t stop.

It started three weeks ago, the night her neighbor disappeared.

Her neighbor, Elise. Twenty‑seven. Blonde. Quiet. The kind of girl who always held the door open for others and never parked too close to the line. The kind of girl who didn’t deserve whatever happened to her.

The police posted a hotline number for tips, and Mara called it once, just to report the strange noise she heard around midnight. A thud. A dragging sound. A door closing too softly, like someone didn’t want it heard. She didn’t see anything, but she heard enough to feel sick.

They thanked her and hung up.

But then the updates started.

A community alert page. A live feed. A tiny red banner that said NEW INFORMATION AVAILABLE.

She checked it the next morning.

Then again at lunch.

Then again every hour.

Now she checks it constantly.

Her friends joke about it—“Mara, you’re obsessed”—but they don’t understand. Every time she refreshes, she feels that same cold prickle down her spine, like the page is about to show her something she isn’t supposed to see. Like it’s waiting for her.

Tonight, the page loads slower than usual. She’s sitting on her couch, knees pulled up, thumb hovering over the screen. The apartment is quiet except for the hum of the refrigerator and the occasional creak from the hallway. She hasn’t turned on the TV. She hasn’t eaten dinner. She hasn’t done anything except stare at the screen.

Refresh.

Nothing new.

Refresh.

Still nothing.

Refresh—

A new alert pops up.

NEIGHBORHOOD SAFETY NOTICE:Residents on Willow Lane should remain indoors.Suspect believed to be in the area.

Mara’s breath catches. Willow Lane is her street.

She refreshes again, even though she knows she shouldn’t.

Another update appears.

Suspect may be monitoring online activity.

Her stomach drops.

She refreshes again.

The page glitches—just for a second—but long enough for her to see something that shouldn’t be there.

A photo.

Blurry. Dark. Taken from outside her apartment window.

Her window.

She freezes, staring at the image. The angle is unmistakable. It’s her living room. Her couch. Her lamp. And her—sitting exactly where she is right now.

She refreshes again, hands shaking.

The photo disappears.

The page returns to normal.

No alerts. No warnings. No photo.

Just the same old hotline number.

Her heart is pounding so hard she can barely hear anything else. She forces herself to look away from the screen, to turn toward the window behind her.

The blinds are closed.

But there’s a shadow on the other side.

Tall. Still. Waiting.

Her phone buzzes.

A new alert.

She doesn’t want to look.

She looks anyway.

STOP CHECKING.HE KNOWS YOU’RE ALONE.

Mara drops the phone. It hits the carpet with a soft thud. Her breath comes in shallow bursts. She doesn’t move. She doesn’t blink. She just stares at the blinds, waiting for them to shift, waiting for a hand to reach through.

But nothing happens.

The shadow doesn’t move.

She forces herself to stand. Her legs feel numb. She tiptoes toward the window, each step slower than the last. She reaches out and touches the blinds. They’re cool beneath her fingertips.

She lifts one slat.

The shadow is gone.

She lets out a shaky breath and backs away. Maybe she imagined it. Maybe the photo was a glitch. Maybe she’s losing her mind.

Her phone buzzes again.

She doesn’t want to pick it up.

She picks it up anyway.

The alert is gone. The page looks normal. Completely normal. No warnings. No messages. No photo. Just the hotline number and the same old updates from earlier in the week.

She closes the app.

She opens it again.

Still normal.

She refreshes.

Normal.

She refreshes again.

Normal.

She refreshes again—

A new update appears.

SUSPECT IDENTIFIED.NAME: MARA HILL.RESIDENT OF WILLOW LANE.

Her blood turns to ice.

She stares at the screen, unable to breathe. Her name. Her address. Her photo. A photo she didn’t take. A photo she’s never seen. A photo of her standing outside Elise’s apartment the night Elise disappeared.

That’s impossible.

She wasn’t outside Elise’s apartment. She was inside her own. She was asleep. She remembers being asleep. She remembers waking up to the noise. She remembers calling the hotline.

She refreshes.

The update disappears.

She refreshes again.

Nothing.

She refreshes again.

Nothing.

She refreshes again—

Another update appears.

SUSPECT MAY BE ARMED.APPROACH WITH CAUTION.

She drops the phone again. Her hands are shaking so badly she can barely breathe. She backs away from the couch, from the window, from everything. She grabs her keys and her jacket and runs out the door.

The hallway is empty.

She runs down the stairs, out the front door, into the cold night air. She doesn’t stop. She doesn’t look back. She just runs.

She reaches her car, fumbles with the keys, gets inside, locks the doors, and starts the engine. Her hands are trembling so violently she can barely hold the steering wheel.

She drives.

She doesn’t know where she’s going. She just drives.

She ends up in the parking lot of a grocery store twenty minutes away. She parks beneath a bright streetlight and sits there, breathing hard, staring at her phone on the passenger seat.

She shouldn’t check it.

She checks it anyway.

The page loads slowly.

Refresh.

Nothing.

Refresh.

Nothing.

Refresh—

A new update appears.

SUSPECT VEHICLE LOCATED.BLUE HONDA CIVIC.LICENSE PLATE: 7KX‑392.

Her license plate.

She drops the phone again. It bounces off the seat and lands on the floor. She reaches down to grab it, but her hand freezes halfway.

Someone is standing outside her car.

She doesn’t see their face. She only sees the shadow. Tall. Still. Waiting.

She locks the doors again, even though they’re already locked. She presses her back against the seat, heart pounding so loudly she can barely hear anything else.

The shadow moves closer.

A hand touches the window.

She screams.

The hand taps the glass. Once. Twice. Three times.

She fumbles for her phone, grabs it, opens the app.

A new update appears instantly.

STOP CHECKING.HE’S RIGHT THERE.

She looks up.

The shadow is gone.

She gasps for air, chest tight, vision blurry. She unlocks the door, throws it open, and runs. She doesn’t look back. She doesn’t stop. She just runs across the parking lot, past the shopping carts, past the empty storefronts, past everything.

She reaches the far end of the lot and collapses behind a dumpster, breathing hard, clutching her phone like a lifeline.

She opens the app again.

Refresh.

Nothing.

Refresh.

Nothing.

Refresh—

A new update appears.

YOU CAN’T RUN.YOU CAN’T HIDE.YOU SHOULDN’T HAVE CALLED THAT NIGHT.

Her breath catches.

She refreshes.

Another update.

YOU HEARD MORE THAN YOU THINK.

She refreshes again.

Another update.

YOU SAW MORE THAN YOU REMEMBER.

She shakes her head. No. She didn’t see anything. She didn’t remember seeing anything. She was asleep. She woke up to the noise. She called the hotline. That’s all.

She refreshes again.

Another update.

LOOK CLOSER.

Her hands tremble as she scrolls down. A video appears. She presses play.

The footage is grainy. Dark. Taken from a phone. It shows Elise’s apartment door. It shows someone standing outside it. Someone wearing a hood. Someone holding something heavy.

The person turns.

It’s her.

Mara.

She screams and drops the phone. It clatters against the pavement. She scrambles backward, shaking her head, tears streaming down her face.

That’s not her. It can’t be her. She wasn’t there. She didn’t do anything. She didn’t hurt Elise. She didn’t even know Elise that well.

She picks up the phone again, hands trembling.

Refresh.

Another update.

YOU DON’T REMEMBER.BUT YOU WILL.

She closes the app. She opens her camera. She turns it to selfie mode.

Her face appears on the screen.

But something is wrong.

Her eyes look different. Darker. Wider. Like she’s not herself. Like she’s someone else entirely.

She drops the phone again.

Footsteps echo behind her.

Slow. Steady. Getting closer.

She scrambles to her feet and runs again. She doesn’t know where she’s going. She doesn’t care. She just runs until her lungs burn and her legs ache.

She ends up behind the store, near the loading dock. She hides behind a stack of pallets, breathing hard, clutching her jacket tight around her.

Her phone buzzes.

She doesn’t want to look.

She looks anyway.

A new update.

STOP RUNNING.COME BACK.

She shakes her head. No. She won’t go back. She won’t go anywhere near her apartment. She won’t go anywhere near that window or that shadow or that page.

Her phone buzzes again.

Another update.

YOU’RE MAKING THIS WORSE.

She closes the app.

She opens her messages.

There’s a new text from an unknown number.

It says:You forgot what you did.

Her breath catches.

Another text.Come home.

She drops the phone. It hits the pavement and cracks. She doesn’t pick it up. She doesn’t want to see anything else. She doesn’t want to know anything else.

She backs away from the pallets, from the loading dock, from everything.

A voice speaks behind her.

“Mara.”

She freezes.

The voice is calm. Familiar. Soft.

She turns slowly.

Elise is standing there.

Alive.

Her blonde hair is pulled back. Her clothes are clean. Her face is pale but uninjured. She looks exactly the same as she did three weeks ago.

Mara’s mouth opens, but no sound comes out.

Elise steps closer.

“You need to stop checking,” she says softly.

Mara shakes her head. “You’re dead.”

Elise smiles faintly. “No. But you will be if you keep refreshing that page.”

Mara backs away. “I didn’t hurt you.”

“I know,” Elise says. “But someone wants you to think you did.”

“Who?”

Elise doesn’t answer.

Instead, she reaches out and touches Mara’s arm.

The world goes black.

Mara wakes up in her apartment.

She’s on the couch.

Her phone is in her hand.

The page is open.

A new update appears.

WELCOME BACK.

She drops the phone and screams.

The blinds rustle.

A shadow moves behind them.

She runs to the door, grabs the handle, pulls—

It’s locked.

She didn’t lock it.

Someone else did.

She turns around slowly.

The shadow behind the blinds grows taller.

Her phone buzzes.

She doesn’t want to look.

She looks anyway.

A final update.

STOP CHECKING.HE’S INSIDE.

The blinds fall to the floor.

And Mara finally remembers the truth.