Raindrops struck the window like relentless knocks, as Chen Li stared at the already yellowing curtains, his heart filled with unease. It had been a week since he moved into this old apartment, but this sense of uneasiness lingered with him. Every night, he would hear faint whispers coming from all directions, but he could never find the source. The sound was distant at times, and close at others, like the wind or some sort of murmuring. He had tried opening the window, but the night air felt as though it was blocked by something, eerily silent.
Everything had started on his second day in the apartment. Initially, he thought it was an illusion, but as his dreams grew stranger each night, the whispers became clearer, even starting to form words—vague, like they were calling his name.
Today, once again, Chen Li sat on the sofa, the coffee in his hand long gone cold, and his chaotic thoughts prevented him from calming down. His eyes unintentionally fell on the unfinished painting not far away—a dark forest, towering trees, their branches twisted like human limbs.
That painting had become a manifestation of his nightmares.