The dream came again, but this time, something was different. She wasn't bound—she was certain of it. A strange, electric sensation coursed through her, faint at first, like the tickle of a static charge, then growing, prickling beneath her skin, spreading along her arms and legs in restless waves.
Her hand moved tentatively, fingers grazing against something impossibly soft and smooth. Silk. The fabric felt foreign yet familiar, cool beneath her palm, a stark contrast to the warmth radiating from her body. It crinkled faintly as her fingers curled into it, grounding her in a place that wasn't entirely hers.
A low, involuntary groan escaped her lips, raspy and raw, breaking the silence that clung to her like a second skin. The sound echoed in the stillness, louder than it had any right to be. She winced, and as she tried to open her eyes, a sharp, splitting pain erupted behind them, ricocheting across her skull. The agony spread like wildfire, searing her senses, blurring the lines between dream and waking.
She drew a shallow breath, her chest rising and falling in uneven rhythm. The air carried a strange scent—heady and sweet, like flowers crushed beneath a storm, mingling with something metallic, almost bitter. It clung to her skin, to the silk, to the very air she breathed, making her head spin.
She blinked, forcing her heavy lids apart, but the world remained stubbornly dark. Not the comfortable kind of darkness that brought rest, but an oppressive void, thick and tangible, wrapping around her like a suffocating shroud. Her fingertips twitched against the silk again, a desperate search for an anchor.
The tingling in her skin intensified, rolling over her like waves breaking on a shore, unrelenting and strange. It wasn't pain—it was something else entirely, something she couldn't name but felt deep in her bones. It spread from her fingertips to her spine, leaving her breathless, her body taut with a mixture of unease and anticipation.
A whisper brushed past her ear, faint and indistinct, like a voice carried on a wind she couldn't feel. Her heart leaped, pounding erratically as her mind scrambled to catch up.
Lena's eyes fluttered open, the haze of her headache lifting just enough for her to focus on her surroundings. She was in an old room, but not the kind you'd find in a modern city. It was steeped in history, the air heavy with the scent of aged wood and something faintly metallic.
Paintings with eyes that seemed to follow her hung on cracked, uneven walls, their frames intricately carved yet eerily grotesque. Ancient artifacts—stone idols, brass trinkets, and carvings that resembled spider veins—decorated the room. They looked like they belonged in a forgotten museum, not in a bedroom, yet here they were. She sat up slowly, her movements strained and hesitant, her muscles screaming in protest.
Her head pounded as though trying to warn her of something she had forgotten—something important, just out of reach. The warm covers slipped down to her lap, and a chill prickled her skin as she realized she wasn't wearing the clothes she had packed. Gone was the sweater and jeans she had so carefully chosen for her escape. Instead, her body was draped in a silk nightgown that clung to her skin like a second layer, its soft texture doing nothing to calm her spiraling panic.
Her heart raced, the thud echoing in her chest like a drumbeat. She clutched the fabric, trying to pull it tighter around her, as if that could shield her from the strangeness of it all. Who had changed her? The thought alone made her skin crawl.
She braced herself and tried to slid her feet toward the floor. The moment her weight shifted, she toppled forward. A sharp tug yanked her back, sending her sprawling onto the cold, unforgiving floor. Pain shot up her knees and elbows as she hit the ground, her heart hammering as she struggled to understand what had happened.
Then she saw them—the thin leather straps looped tightly around her ankles, anchoring her to the massive bed frame.
Lena's breath hitched as the door creaked open. Her wide, panic-stricken eyes darted toward the figure stepping inside. A woman, tall and composed, her face shadowed by the dim light spilling in from the hallway. She carried a tray, the scent of bread and soup wafting through the room, but Lena's stomach churned with dread.
The woman's voice filled the room, calm yet foreign. "Vous devriez rester au lit," she said, her tone soft, almost coaxing. "Le maître n'aimerait pas ça."
Lena's heart thundered in her chest. She didn't understand every word, but the calm, almost placating tone only fueled her unease.
The woman stepped closer, her soft-soled shoes barely making a sound against the aged wooden floor. "Calmez-vous, madame," she added, her gaze flicking to Lena's trembling hands. "Tout va bien."
"No… stay back!" Lena stammered, her voice a trembling echo in the cavernous room. She pressed herself further into the bed, gripping the sheets like a lifeline.
But the woman didn't stop. Her French words continued, soothing yet firm. "C'est pour votre bien. Vous êtes en sécurité ici." She set the tray down on a nearby table, her movements deliberate and unhurried.
That's when Lena saw it—the glint of metal in the woman's hand. A syringe.
Lena's pulse skyrocketed, her breaths coming in rapid, shallow gasps. "No!" she screamed, scrambling backward, her movements hindered by the straps binding her ankles. The leather dug into her skin, sending a sharp jolt of pain through her legs.
The woman's brow furrowed as she took another step forward. "Madame, s'il vous plaît," she said, her voice softening further. "Ne bougez pas. Tout ira bien."
Her free hand extended, as if to reassure Lena, but the syringe in her other hand made her intent chillingly clear.
Lena thrashed, her movements wild and desperate. The bed creaked under her struggle, the leather straps groaning but holding firm. Her voice broke into raw, desperate cries.
The woman lunged, her hands pressing Lena down against the bed. "Restez tranquille!" she insisted, her tone sharp now. "Vous devez rester calme!"
The syringe hovered inches from Lena's arm, the needle gleaming like a predator's tooth.
"Get off me!" Lena shrieked, her voice cracking as tears blurred her vision. She clawed at the woman's arms, her nails finding flesh but doing little to deter her.
And then, it happened.
A pulse erupted from deep within Lena, a raw, primal energy that surged through her body. It was like a dam breaking, an unstoppable tide that burned and froze her all at once. Her vision blurred, the room darkening as a strange pressure filled the air.
The woman's grip slackened. Her body slumped, lifeless, onto Lena's chest.
Lena froze, her chest heaving as she stared at the woman's unmoving form. The weight pinned her down, suffocating, but what terrified her more was the stillness.
She shoved the woman off with trembling hands, her limp body falling to the floor with a heavy thud.
And then she saw them.
The shadows.
They moved across the room, slithering and curling like living tendrils of darkness. They clung to the walls, the ceiling, the floor, consuming every inch of space until there was no light left. The room was suffused in their inky presence, their movements slow and predatory.
Lena's breath came in shallow gasps. Her legs trembled as she tried to pull her knees to her chest, only to notice the leather straps around her ankles had loosened. They lay slack against her skin, as if they had never been tied.
Her gaze darted downward—and her heart stopped.
Her veins were black. Not the faint blue or pink she was used to seeing, but a deep, pulsating black that spread like cracks through her skin. They crawled up her legs and arms, twisting and writhing as if alive.
The shadows closed in, their tendrils brushing against her skin, sending a chill down her spine. They whispered, low and guttural, a language she couldn't understand but felt in her bones.
The shadows slithered across the room like living things, moving with a predatory grace. They stretched toward every corner, climbing walls, curling around furniture, and snaking into every cranny. Lena's breath hitched when she noticed they had even crept into the fireplace.
The fire, which had once cast a warm, flickering glow across the room, was gone—smothered. The coals, still faintly glowing with heat, were cloaked in darkness as if the shadows had swallowed the flames whole. Not a trace of warmth radiated from the hearth now; the chill in the room had become absolute.
Lena's chest tightened as she stared, transfixed. The tendrils of shadow seemed unaffected by the heat, moving lazily through the embers without burning, as though fire meant nothing to them.
They didn't just exist in the room—they owned it.
Her hands trembled as she gripped the silk sheets, her pulse roaring in her ears. The shadows shifted closer, brushing against her skin, cold and electric. A shiver raced through her, her panic spiraling as she realized these things—her things—didn't obey the natural laws of the world.
They weren't just here; they were alive, sentient, and utterly unbound.
The shadows swirled around the room with an eerie deliberation, coiling and curling like serpents. Lena's breath hitched as she realized they were no longer just moving through the room—they were holding the woman down. Tendrils of darkness looped around the woman's arms and legs, pinning her plump frame against the bed with unnatural strength.
Lena's heart raced as her mind screamed for an explanation. These shadows, these living, breathing entities, had erupted from her.
"God…" she whispered, her voice trembling.
She backed up against the bedframe, her legs shaking beneath her. Every instinct screamed for her to run, to flee this nightmare. But her body refused to move, paralyzed by the sight of the inky tendrils slithering across the room. They crept over the walls, the ceiling, even the roaring fire in the fireplace, smothering the flames as though the heat meant nothing.
They weren't just shadows. They were alive.
Lena's breath quickened, her chest heaving as a memory clawed its way to the surface. The dream… she thought. Her headache flared as fragmented images came rushing back. She had seen them before, the shadows curling around her in her sleep, like protectors—or predators. She couldn't tell which.
A choked sob escaped her lips as she buried her face in her hands. Her mind reeled, unable to make sense of it all. The last few days had been a whirlwind of chaos: the graveyard, the men—or monsters—who had hunted her, and now this. This.
She lowered her hands, staring at the limp body of the woman on the bed. Had she been one of them? Had they sent her? That would explain why Lena was here, why she was bound.
Her thoughts spiraled. They know about me. They've always known. What did they want from me? What's happening to me?
Her gaze flickered to the shadows, now weaving silently through the room. They still terrified her—how could they not? They had risen from within her, a manifestation of something she couldn't control. And yet…
Her heart skipped a beat as she realized they had done nothing to harm her. They had knocked the woman out cold, restrained her effortlessly, and extinguished the fire without hesitation. But they hadn't touched her, hadn't hurt her.
Tentatively, Lena swung a foot over the edge of the bed. She winced, half-expecting the shadows to lash out at her like vipers. But instead, they retreated, moving aside as though understanding her intention to leave.
Her bare foot touched the cold floor, and she felt the ground beneath her for the first time since waking. The coolness was grounding, but it wasn't enough to slow the relentless pounding of her heart.
With careful steps, she edged away from the bed, her eyes darting around the room. The artifacts and paintings loomed like silent witnesses, the carvings on the walls catching faint glimmers of light. The shadows didn't retreat entirely; they hovered, following her, as though tethered to her movements.
She reached the door, her breath hitching as her fingers wrapped around the iron handle. The wood groaned softly as she pushed it open, stepping into a hallway that was even more oppressive than the room she had left behind.
The corridor stretched endlessly in both directions, lit only by faint, flickering candles. Their light barely pierced the darkness, casting long, trembling shadows that seemed to writhe against the walls. The air was thick, heavy with the scent of aged wood and the faintest trace of something metallic.
Lena pressed a hand to her chest, trying to calm her frantic breathing. Her footsteps echoed faintly as she began to move, the sound bouncing off the ancient walls.
She quickened her pace, her bare feet slapping against the cold floor. Every creak of the wood beneath her, every flicker of the candlelight sent a fresh wave of panic coursing through her veins. Her breaths came faster, shorter.
"Where's the exit?" she whispered, her voice trembling.
The shadows slithered around her, no longer confined to the room. They trailed her like silent sentinels, spreading along the walls and ceiling. They seemed to guide her path, shifting away from doors that remained ominously shut and leading her further down the corridor.
She broke into a run, her body trembling with the effort, her pulse thundering in her ears. The corridor seemed endless, each turn identical to the last. The candles flickered wildly as though mocking her desperation.
Her foot caught on something, and she stumbled, catching herself against the wall. She gasped, her eyes darting around, searching for a way out.
The shadows seemed to pulse with her fear, their movements growing more frantic, more predatory. She pressed herself against the wall, tears stinging her eyes.
"Please," she whispered, not sure who or what she was pleading with.
The shadows tugged at her, insistent and unrelenting, pulling her in the opposite direction of where she was heading. Lena froze for a moment, her breath caught in her throat, before reluctantly allowing them to guide her. Her foot throbbed with a dull ache, a reminder of her earlier mishap at the graveyard last week. It seemed like a distant memory, but the pain made it all too real.
The tendrils moved ahead of her, like guides with minds of their own, weaving through the narrow, dimly lit corridors. She followed, her heartbeat pounding louder with every step. The candles on the walls flickered faintly, their light stretching and twisting the shadows, as though they too were alive and watching.
Lena turned a corner, her pace faltering as the space opened up into a vast, cavernous room. The ceiling arched high above her, adorned with intricate carvings and ornate chandeliers that glinted faintly in the scant light. The walls were lined with towering bookshelves and aged furniture, their dark wood polished to a sinister gleam.
But her attention snapped to the massive double doors at the far end of the room. They loomed like sentinels, their intricate ironwork cold and unyielding. Lena's breath hitched as she stepped toward them, her focus narrowing to the ornate handles.
Her foot moved forward, the soft light spilling through the room casting her form into sharp relief. She was so intent on the doors that she didn't notice the figure standing in front of them until it was too late.
Her step faltered as her eyes finally registered him—a tall silhouette cloaked in shadows, standing utterly still like a guard at his post. Lena's heart stuttered painfully, a cold wave of dread washing over her.
The figure shifted, and as he did, his lips curved into a grin. Sharp teeth glinted in the faint light, and something primal and predatory radiated from him. Lena froze, her instincts screaming at her to run, but her legs felt rooted to the spot.
The figure stepped forward, into the weak glow of the candlelight, and Lena's breath left her in a sharp gasp.
It was him.
The familiar curve of his lips, the sharpness of his smile—it sent a chill racing up her spine. The man who had chased her through the graveyard, his rotting flesh and decaying form haunting her nightmares ever since, was now standing before her.
Only, he was different.
The rot and decay that had once consumed him were gone, replaced by a disquieting vitality that radiated from every inch of his being. His flesh, previously mottled and putrid, was now eerily pristine, pale like the surface of the moon and far too smooth to be human. The hollowness that had made his face a nightmarish specter was now a picture of unsettling refinement—each feature sharp and symmetrical, as though an artist had sculpted him with cruel precision. His high cheekbones cast shadows that seemed too deep, and his jawline was severe, almost cutting. His piercing eyes glinted unnaturally, their brightness a cold, predatory light that saw too much and spared nothing.
He was massive, his frame stretching taller than she remembered, commanding the space like it had been built to contain only him. Yet, it was the sheer unassuming elegance of his appearance that made her stomach twist in dread. The more composed and ethereal he looked, the more she could feel the sinister intent lurking beneath that polished surface.
"Miss Whitlock," he drawled, his voice smooth as velvet and twice as dangerous. The amusement in his tone was a mockery, a predator's playfulness. "We meet again."
Her heart slammed against her ribcage, each beat a deafening drum in her ears as her mind scrambled to make sense of what she was seeing. How was he here? Why was he here?
The air in the room felt thinner, suffocating, as though his presence alone was enough to consume the space. Lena stumbled back, her spine hitting the cold wall behind her as she tried to put distance between them.
His smile widened, slow and deliberate, revealing teeth that were too sharp, too perfect. It was a smile that didn't reach his eyes, one that dripped with malice disguised as charm.
He had come back from the dead, as if her nightmares had carved him out of the darkest corners of her mind. Her worst fears had manifested in flesh, twisted and brought to life by some malevolent force. He stood before her now, not as the decaying shadow she had once fled from, but as something far worse—something that defied every rational thought she could muster.
Lena's heart pounded violently in her chest, her breath shallow and erratic as a wave of dread washed over her.
The darkness that once lingered in his form had been replaced with an unsettling vitality, an energy that seemed to pulse with an intention she could not understand—nor did she want to.
Her mind raced, every thought jumbled with fear and disbelief. This can't be real. It can't be him. But it was. The same malice, the same coldness in his eyes—it all made her insides tighten with horror. He had risen, brought back from death itself. And worse still, he was standing there, calm and composed, as if he had all the time in the world to make her suffer.