The comfort of her apartment had never felt so alien. Emily sat curled up on the edge of her couch, knees tucked to her chest, eyes flitting from corner to corner, trying to convince herself that nothing lurked in the shadows, that the strange presence she kept sensing was just a lingering memory from the dream. Her brain felt heavy, teetering on the edge of exhaustion, yet she couldn't shake the images that had chased her out of sleep: the statue, the villagers, and that voice—its words haunting her even now.
Her phone buzzed, snapping her from her thoughts. She snatched it, seeing George's name on the screen. A message: "Heading over. Bringing you-know-what. Hope you're ready for an intervention."
She rolled her eyes, grateful for his sense of humor. If she hadn't just walked through what felt like the gates of hell, she might've managed a laugh.
Half an hour later, George walked in, balancing a stack of comfort foods in his arms—pizza, chips, chocolate, even a bottle of wine with two cups tucked in his pockets.
"Look at you, Mr. Ready-to-Party," Emily said, managing a smile as she glanced at the spread he placed on the coffee table.
"What can I say? I know my way to a terrified woman's heart," he teased, popping the wine bottle with a dramatic flourish.
She snorted. "So, food and alcohol? Impressive tactic. But what about, you know... my deteriorating mental state?"
He slid onto the couch beside her, draping a casual arm over the back. "One panic attack at a time, Em. Tonight's goal: carbs and jokes. And if that doesn't work, maybe we'll call an exorcist."
Emily laughed, and for a brief moment, she felt a genuine flicker of normalcy. It was like waking up from a nightmare only to find yourself in another dream. George seemed to sense her unease because he nudged her shoulder with his own, flashing a small, comforting smile.
"Alright, spill it. What happened last night?" he asked, passing her a wine cup, his tone as gentle as his gaze.
She hesitated, staring into the wine as if it held the answers she so desperately needed. "I don't know, George. It's like... I was somewhere else. In this twisted village. And there was this... man, who'd made a deal with something dark. He cursed everyone there, cursed himself too. I could feel the evil, like it was seeping into me." She shook her head. "It was real. I swear, it felt so real."
He was quiet for a moment, taking in her words. Then, without missing a beat, he leaned back and said, "So, just a normal Tuesday night for you then?"
She couldn't help it; a laugh burst out of her, sudden and loud. It was ridiculous, the kind of humor only someone who truly knew her could muster. "Seriously, George. I'm terrified out of my mind, and that's what you're going with?"
"Well, my therapist did say I was a little too cynical," he grinned, grabbing a slice of pizza. "But look, Em, you've been through a lot. Your brain's probably working overtime, cooking up nightmares."
She wanted to believe that, to chalk it all up to her subconscious playing cruel tricks. But there was something so visceral, so vivid about it. Her hand drifted to her arm, half-expecting to see bruises from where she'd fallen or even faint traces of dirt from that village. But nothing. Just the steady beat of her pulse beneath her skin.
"It's more than that," she murmured, almost to herself.
"More like... a reality?" he ventured, raising an eyebrow, his tone just on the edge of mocking but softened by the concern in his eyes. "Because if so, Em, we might need more than wine to get through this."
"Keep joking," she quipped, "but wait until you're the one waking up in a cursed village. I hope they teach you to run fast in law school."
He feigned offense, clutching his chest. "Excuse you, I am very agile, thank you. And besides, with our luck, I'd probably end up the guy making the cursed deal."
They both laughed, the sound filling the quiet of her apartment, dispelling the lingering dread. But as the laughter faded, Emily's mind drifted back to that voice, the one that had whispered as if it could see into the depths of her thoughts. A chill swept through her.
"George," she said softly, turning serious again, "I can't shake the feeling that... something's watching me. Like, it's here, right now."
He stopped mid-bite, frowning slightly. "Em, that's called paranoia, and I'll bet my last slice of pizza it's your mind being hyper-vigilant after all that stuff. Nothing's watching you."
But even as he said it, Emily saw his eyes flick to the corners of the room. The rational part of her brain wanted to agree with him, to laugh off her fears as an overactive imagination. Yet something deep within her whispered otherwise. It told her that whatever she had seen, whatever she had heard, it wasn't just a bad dream. It was waiting, lurking, watching her every move.
"So what if it's paranoia?" she muttered, pouring another splash of wine. "Feels pretty damn real." She took a long sip, her mind spinning with memories of that cursed village. "Maybe I need an exorcist after all."
George put an arm around her, pulling her close. "Or maybe you just need a good night's sleep," he murmured, his voice steady. "You've been through a lot, Em. It's okay to feel scared. Just don't let it take over."
She sighed, leaning into him, savoring the warmth of his presence. Maybe he was right. Maybe she was just exhausted, her mind spiraling from stress and lack of sleep. And yet, even with George beside her, the shadows in her apartment felt darker, deeper. She could still feel those eyes, watching, waiting.
As if to punctuate her thoughts, a sound echoed from the hallway—a soft creak, so faint she almost missed it. Her body went rigid, and George's arm tightened around her.
"Please tell me you heard that," she whispered, barely daring to breathe.
"Uh-huh," he said, his voice tense but steady. He stood, grabbing a lamp as if it were a weapon, and gestured for her to follow. "Come on, horror heroine. Let's go check it out."
They moved toward the hallway, George holding the lamp high, Emily clutching a pillow as her makeshift shield. They approached the door, her heart pounding in her chest.
When they reached the hallway, they found… nothing. The empty space stretched out, bathed in the pale glow of a nearby streetlight filtering through the window. There was no sign of anything out of place, no strange shadows, no lurking figures.
George let out a relieved breath, lowering the lamp. "See? Just a creaky old apartment."
But Emily wasn't so sure. She stared into the darkness, feeling that familiar presence still lurking, unseen but undeniable. Whatever it was, it wasn't going to let her go easily.
"Come on," George said, nudging her back toward the couch. "Forget it. Let's get back to the wine. And next time, let's skip the horror movie marathons."
She laughed weakly, following him back, but her mind remained elsewhere, caught between worlds. She knew she had to face whatever this was, had to find a way to break free from the grip of this unseen force. Because if she didn't, it wouldn't be long before the nightmares stopped being just dreams.
For tonight, though, she took comfort in George's presence, grounding herself in the normalcy of his humor and warmth. But as she lay on the couch, drifting in and out of sleep, the whispers returned, curling like smoke around her thoughts.