»The Urge«

It was a crisp winters night in London, England. It was that particular time in late January where there was no longer any frost, but simply biting cold air in what felt like a completely empty atmosphere. Dan Howell was walking down the road; his tall, black silhouette cast shadows from the artificial amber glow of street lamps. His breath formed swirls of mist with every exhalation and he decided to slide his exposed hands in his coat pocket to retain some warmth.

The street was empty at this time and his footsteps echoed up and down around him only interrupted by the cruising hum of a taxi driving past. He wasn't totally alone after all.

Dan had time to think on this journey. Time to think about what had happened the night before. The events had played in his head so many times over that he didn't know if he could trust their accuracy, or if his own perceptions had rewritten how the events unfolded. Anyway, he thought about it, one thing was certain. His friend, Phil Lester, was dead.

Phil always had a habit of being at the worst place at the worst time. It was an endearing quality that often resulted in funny stories for him to share with his friends, or followers on the internet. He was a kind person, perhaps that's why he was singled out as a victim. It wasn't fair. A painful stab of recollection shot through Dan's brain as if forcing itself through a wall he had built to protect himself.

He saw it again. The dead, lifeless eyes. The way it moved so swiftly out of the darkness. The blood. The blood was the most vivid memory of all. Dan had somehow found himself collapsed in a corner, unable to move. But out of the corner of his eye, he saw the crimson trail of his friends life weaving around the cobblestone of the street and down a drain. Dan saw his hand twitching, those last moments of resistance and hope that something, someone, would be able to save him.

Then it stopped. That is the last time he saw Phil Lester alive.

Dan arrived home at their apartment. It felt wrong, opening the door to the living room. The usual bright colors of their possessions seemed inappropriate, disrespectful even. How could anything dare to be so bright at this time? He turned off the lights and collapsed on the grey carpet of their hallway. Sleep.

The next day was to be Phil's funeral. Dan had no interest in going. His friendship with Phil was personal to him, and not something he wanted to share with family and friends, who would mean well, but insult with every word of comfort. He decided that even if he had to attend physically, he would be somewhere else in his mind. He had to.

Dan remained silent and stoke through the service. People left to return to their lives, the relatives trading condolences, leaving Dan alone in the room with the coffin. He didn't want to look, it would real if he saw. He wanted to run away as fast as he could from this nightmare, but he had to see. Dan strode over and and gazed into the box. Lifeless. Even with Phil's typically pale skin, you used to see the warm glow of life within. All that could be seen here was the sickly pale green color of death.

Dan went to turn away, to walk out of the room into life where everything familiar was gone, when something grabbed his wrist.

"Don't go! It's okay."

Dan turned to see the same pale skin he just burned into his memory gripping at his shirt. He looked up slowly to see his dead friend sat bolt upright.

Dan ran, not stopping to blink, breath, or process a single thought, he sprinted out of the back exit and all the way across the grounds of the building to underneath a tree. He vomited. It wasn't real...he was hysterical. He tried to rationalise the thoughts in his head as he shook his eyes with distress.

"Dan, stop running, I'm not going to hurt you!"

He spun around to see Phil, standing upright as if completely fine, with his hands forward as if anticipating Dan's rational behavior.