Chapter 2: The Human Machine

Chapter 2: The Human Machine

Two weeks in, the novelty of freedom had curdled into a specific kind of dread. Clarice’s life was now set to the rhythm of a machine—the human machine named André. His routine was no longer a curious quirk; it was the metronome of her anxiety.

4:00 a.m. The brutal whir of the coffee grinder, a mechanical scream in the dark. 4:15 a.m. The soft, final click of the front door. 5:45 p.m. The click of the door reopening. 6:00 p.m. The hum of the microwave for precisely 120 seconds. 10:00 p.m. The whisper of his bedroom door.

Every sound was an anchor point in a day filled with oppressive silence. She found herself subconsciously adapting, holding her breath around these scheduled events. She wouldn’t use the kitchen between 5:45 and 6:05 p.m. She’d make sure she was showered and in her room before 10:00 p.m., as if his schedule was a law she dared not break. The house was immaculate, sterile, and the silence was so profound that she could hear the hum of the refrigerator from her bedroom. Fátima’s joke about him being a serial killer echoed in her mind during the long, quiet afternoons, and she no longer found it funny.

This Friday night, the weight of the silence became unbearable. She was twenty-three years old. She had escaped her parents' suffocating judgment to live in a tomb presided over by a ghost in a suit. No more, she thought, a spark of defiance flickering to life. She deserved a normal Friday night.

Her desire was simple: to watch a movie, to fill the house with noise, to pretend for two hours that she was a normal person living a normal life.

The living room felt like a forbidden zone. The plush, grey sofa and gleaming television had sat unused, a perfect diorama of a life that never happened here. Taking a deep breath, Clarice turned on the TV, the sudden blast of a car commercial feeling like a gunshot in the stillness. She sank into the sofa, pulling a throw blanket over her legs, her heart thudding with a ridiculous mix of fear and exhilaration. She was just watching TV. It shouldn't feel like an insurrection.

She was halfway through the opening credits of some mindless action movie when a shadow fell over her. She hadn’t heard him approach. Not a footstep on the hardwood, not the creak of a floorboard. André was just… there.

He stood beside the sofa, his tall frame a rigid silhouette against the flickering light of the screen. He wore the same perfectly pressed grey suit, his pale face a mask of placid neutrality. His smile was fixed in place.

“Clarice,” he said, his voice the same flat monotone as always. “The volume is too high.”

The sound was barely above a conversational level. “Oh. Sorry,” she said, fumbling for the remote. “I can turn it down.”

She tried for a friendly smile, an attempt to bridge the chasm of weirdness between them. “Bit of a loud movie, I guess. Did you have a long day at work?”

André’s smile did not waver. His empty eyes remained locked on her. He didn’t answer her question. He didn’t even seem to register it. “Please lower the volume.”

The repetition, devoid of any emotional inflection, sent a chill down her spine. It wasn’t a request; it was a command issued by something that only knew how to state its programming. The placid facade hadn’t shattered into anger, but something far more terrifying: it had revealed the complete emptiness behind it. There was nothing there. No frustration, no irritation, just a blank, persistent instruction.

“Right. Okay.” Her voice was a nervous squeak. She muted the TV entirely.

The sudden silence rushed back in, heavier and more menacing than before. The confrontation, if it could even be called that, was over. She had tried to inject a sliver of normalcy into the house, and the house, through its warden, had rejected it absolutely. André gave a single, precise nod, turned with an unnervingly fluid motion, and walked back towards his room, his footsteps now audible, as if he had only allowed them to make a sound once his objective was complete.

Clarice sat frozen on the sofa, the silent movie playing out on the screen. The feeling of being an intruder in her own home was overwhelming. Defeated, she turned off the TV and retreated to the one place that was supposed to be her sanctuary: her room. She locked the door, a flimsy defense that offered little comfort, and climbed into bed. The silence from the other side of the door was no longer passive. It felt active, watchful, and deeply disapproving.

The next day, a listless Saturday, Clarice resolved to reclaim her room, at least. If she couldn’t inhabit the rest of the house, she would make this small corner of it unequivocally hers. She put on music through her headphones, a buffer against the quiet, and began to clean, rearranging her plants and dusting surfaces that were already spotless.

Her attention turned to the small, inoffensive couch that sat against the wall opposite her bed. It came with the room, a piece of furniture she’d barely touched, preferring her desk chair or her bed. She went to fluff the cushions, to beat some life into them.

As she lifted the first cushion, her fingers sank into a strange depression. She pulled it away and stared.

In the foam padding beneath, a perfect impression was worn into the material. It was the distinct shape of a person sitting—the curve of their thighs, the dip of their weight. It was deep, permanent, as if created by thousands of hours of pressure in the exact same position.

A cold wave washed over her, so intense it made her feel sick. This wasn't her impression. She never sat there. She ran her hand over it. The foam was compressed solid, with none of the springiness of the surrounding areas.

Her gaze darted from the impression on the couch to her bed. The two were perfectly aligned. Anyone sitting in that exact spot would have a clear, unobstructed view of her while she slept.

The logical part of her brain tried to find an explanation. It must have been from a previous tenant. It was just old furniture. But the house was too pristine, André too meticulous, to leave behind worn-out furniture. Every other object was in perfect condition. This was different. This felt deliberate.

The timeline of André’s routine flashed in her mind. He left at 4:15 a.m. and returned at 5:45 p.m. She was always at work during those hours. At night, he was in his room by 10 p.m. So when could anyone…

The thought died before it could fully form, replaced by a more terrifying possibility. The schedule wasn't about where he was. It was about where she was. He was gone when she was awake and active. But what about the hours in between? The long, silent, dark hours when she was asleep and vulnerable?

The impression wasn’t a leftover from the past. It was a mark of a current, ongoing ritual.

Her safe space, the very reason she had endured his strangeness, was a lie. It had never been her room. It was a viewing gallery. And she was the exhibit. The human machine wasn't just living in the house with her. It was studying her.