The air in the manor hung heavy, oppressive. Shadows clung to the walls like stains that refused to fade, and every corridor seemed a degree longer than Ash remembered. He gripped the book tightly, its surface cool and smooth beneath his fingers, the whispers now a subtle pulse at the edge of hearing.
He moved with purpose, but each step felt strained, the kind that came with dragging yourself through a nightmare. It had been days he thought since he last slept, but time was a fractured thing now, slipping between memories and moments.
Ash paused in the hallway, frowning. The grandfather clock beside the window chimed softly except, he was certain it had always stood by the entrance hall. He glanced back, confusion flickering. The wallpaper's pattern twisted subtly, almost imperceptibly, like a reflection in water. He inhaled slowly, forcing calm. Had it always been this way?
"Losing it already, are we?" Ash scoffed internally, lips curling into a humorless smirk. Wonderful. Hallucinations on top of everything else. At this rate, I'll be drooling in a cell by week's end.
But the unease coiled deeper. Rational explanations faltered when the shadows moved just a fraction too slow, like they were lagging behind reality itself. He shook his head sharply. Exhaustion. That's all. Hallucinations are a symptom, not a revelation.
The study door was ajar when he reached it, though he remembered locking it. Inside, the desk lamp flickered, casting spasms of light across papers and maps. A manuscript lay open where he hadn't left it, pages covered in cramped writing he couldn't recall reading.The ink bled slightly, like veins. Ash hesitated, fingertips brushing the edges of the pages. The words shifted no, pulsed as if reacting to his touch.
"Paranoia suits you," a voice in his mind sneered. Jumping at shadows like a common fool.But the words still bled, glistening wetly. His hands tightened, knuckles pale.
The silence broke with Everett's footsteps, steady and measured. Ash looked up sharply as the man entered, gaze wary, movements too fluid, too controlled."I found something," Everett said, tossing a folder onto the desk. Inside were photos blurry, black-and white of symbols etched in stone, cloaked figures in alleyways. The Keepers' sigils."Where did you get these?" Ash demanded, voice flat.Everett's eyes flickered, just a fraction. "A contact. One who dislikes the Keepers as much as we do."The lie was paper-thin. Ash clenched his jaw, fingers curling unconsciously around the book's spine.
"A contact," Ash echoed inwardly, the taste of the words bitter. Ah yes, how comforting. And here I thought we were running out of clichés.He allowed himself a slow blink, masking the ire coiling beneath. Trust was a currency too easily spent. And Everett had been draining it fast.
Hours later, while Everett was preoccupied, Ash found a letter slipped between the pages of a ledger. The handwriting was neat, emotionless. Everett's Instructions to report on Ash's movements to an unnamed contact. A chill traced his spine. The betrayal was bitter, but not surprising.
"I suppose I should applaud the effort," Ash mused darkly, slipping the letter into his coat. Shame about the execution. Treachery's only impressive when it's unexpected.
That night, Ash tried to read the book again, its pages shifting under his gaze. The words seemed to pulse, tugging at him. His eyes burned, vision swimming until a drop of scarlet spattered the page. He touched his cheek, fingers coming away wet with blood.
The whispers grew louder, almost eager. Power always demands a price."Right," Ash thought coldly, wiping the blood away with the back of his hand. And here I thought I was dealing with an eldritch manuscript, not a tax collector.
But the room darkened at the edges, shadows bleeding into one another, twisting. His breath hitched as the whispers sharpened, forming words, promises of vengeance, of escape, of dominion.
He tore his gaze away, breath ragged, and the whispers retreated, laughing."Keep laughing," Ash seethed inwardly, slamming the book shut. We'll see who gets the last word.
Morning brought new dread. Ash moved through the library's shelves, eyes scanning titles with a purpose he barely understood. Then he saw him Marcus, a fellow historian he'd known for years, sorting through ancient volumes. Relief flickered briefly."Marcus," Ash called softly.The man turned, brows knitting. "Do I… know you?"The words struck like ice.
"Oh, for heaven's sake," Ash thought, smile tight and thin. Not this trope. Next, someone will tell me I'm the one who doesn't exist.
But Marcus's eyes remained blank, uncomprehending. The memory of their last conversation was vivid, yet here Marcus stood, eyes glassy, mind emptied. A flicker of something in the man's gaze pain, confusion before it smoothed away.Someone had erased him. Or something.
Ash's fingers twitched. If this is a joke, it's in remarkably poor taste. But the dread settling in his bones was cold and real.
Back in the manor, Ash rifled through the library's drawers, searching for anything, any clue. His hands stilled when he found a journal bound in green leather, initials pressed into the cover his father's. The entries were cryptic, passages detailing hidden gatherings, symbols, a fear of watching eyes.One entry caught his attention: "They promised us safety. But the price is too high."His breath faltered. The handwriting seemed… wrong. Letters too angular, ink too fresh. He flipped the pages faster, heart pounding. Was this real, or had it been planted?
"Brilliant," Ash sneered internally. Paranoia and identity crises, all in one convenient package.
That night, sleep brought no rest only visions. He stood in a city street cloaked in fog, corpses lining the cobblestones, eyes lifeless and mouths open in silent screams. Blood dripped from his hands, pooling at his feet. In the reflection of a shattered window, he saw himself eyes black, face hollow. The book lay open in his grasp, symbols glowing faintly.A voice, soft and insidious, coiled through the fog. "Power to change everything… if you're willing to become what they fear."
Ash jerked awake, cold sweat slick on his skin, the whispers still curling at the edges of his mind."Because that's all I need," he thought, cryptic ultimatums from disembodied voices. At least hell has a sense of humor.
Morning came shrouded in gray light. Ash stood by the window, the book open on the desk behind him. His gaze was distant, hands trembling faintly.His choices were narrowing, paths twisting towards shadows. And for the first time, he didn't know if he was afraid or exhilarated.
"You're slipping," a voice whispered at the back of his mind, almost fond.Ash's lips curved faintly, eyes dark. Perhaps. But it's a controlled descent.