Elias stepped further into the decaying building, his breath shallow and uneven. The air was damp and acrid, filled with the scent of rot and mildew. Shadows clung to the walls like living things, stretching and twisting in impossible shapes as if mocking his presence. The notebook was clenched in his hand, its pages fluttering slightly as if alive, though there was no breeze.
The whispers grew louder. They weren't singular, but a cacophony of voices layered atop one another, speaking in tones that oscillated between urgency and despair. Elias couldn't make out the words, but the emotions behind them clawed at his mind.
"This is madness," he whispered, though the sound of his own voice felt alien and distant.
He glanced at the notebook, hoping for clarity, but the inked words were shifting again. He could swear he saw new phrases emerge as he watched:
"She lied to you."
"It's all your fault."
"You're already dead."
He slammed the book shut, but the whispers didn't stop. They grew louder, their tones sharper.
Across the city, Clara sat alone in her apartment, a cigarette burning to ash in her hand. She hadn't smoked in years, but something about tonight had pushed her to dig out the old habit. She stared at the half-empty bottle of whiskey on her table, her reflection shimmering in the glass like a ghost.
The conversation with Elias had shaken her. The way he clung to that notebook… It wasn't just unhealthy. It was dangerous.
She pulled out her phone, hesitating before dialing a number she hadn't used in years. It rang twice before a voice answered.
"Dr. Laurent."
"Gabriel, it's Clara."
A long pause. "Clara Rousseau. I thought—"
"I need your help." Her voice was flat, but the desperation behind it was unmistakable. "It's Elias."
Gabriel sighed heavily. "I told you not to involve yourself with him again. That man is a black hole. He'll pull you down with him."
"Maybe he already has," Clara muttered, lighting another cigarette. "But I can't just watch him destroy himself. Not again."
"You're still blaming yourself for what happened, aren't you?" Gabriel's voice softened.
Clara didn't answer. Instead, her eyes drifted to a drawer in the corner of the room. She knew what lay inside—a single photograph of herself, Elias, and someone else. Someone she hadn't spoken about in years. Someone she could never forgive herself for losing.
"Just tell me what to do," she said finally, her voice barely audible.
Back in the abandoned building, Elias moved deeper into the darkness, his footsteps echoing against the cracked tiles. The voices had quieted, replaced by a low, rhythmic hum. He felt as though the building were alive, its very walls pulsing in time with his racing heart.
He reached a room at the end of the hallway. The door was ajar, the hinges rusted and squealing as he pushed it open. Inside, the room was empty save for a single chair in the center. On it sat a figure—a man, or what used to be a man.
The figure's skin was waxy and pale, stretched taut over sharp bones. His eyes were sunken, staring at Elias with a mix of recognition and contempt. The man's lips moved, but no sound emerged. Elias took a step closer, his stomach turning as he realized the man's body was covered in the same symbols that littered his notebook.
Suddenly, the man's mouth opened wide, wider than seemed humanly possible. And then he spoke:
"You're late."
Elias froze, the words striking him like a physical blow.
"Who are you?" he demanded, his voice shaking.
The man didn't answer. Instead, he raised a trembling hand and pointed at the notebook in Elias's grasp.
"This," the man rasped, his voice like gravel, "was never meant for you."
Elias stared at the notebook, his grip loosening. He wanted to throw it away, to burn it, but he couldn't. It felt like an extension of himself, a tether to something he didn't understand but couldn't let go of.
"What do you mean?" Elias whispered.
The man's head tilted, his eyes narrowing. "Do you see what I see?"
Elias opened his mouth to respond, but the room began to spin. The walls seemed to collapse inward, the floor dissolving beneath his feet. He fell, tumbling into a void of darkness, the man's hollow laughter echoing in his ears.
When Elias awoke, he was no longer in the building. He was standing in a field, bathed in an eerie, otherworldly light. The grass beneath his feet was black, and the sky above was a swirling mass of gray and crimson.
In the distance, he saw figures—silhouettes of people he recognized but couldn't name. They stood still, their faces obscured, their bodies flickering like dying flames.
He took a step forward, and the figures began to speak in unison:
"You were supposed to save us."
Elias clutched his head, the voices drilling into his skull. Memories he had buried long ago began to surface—fragments of a past he had tried to forget. A fire. Screams. Clara's face, twisted in anguish. And another face, one that made his chest tighten with guilt and sorrow.
"No," he muttered, falling to his knees. "It wasn't my fault. I didn't—"
But the figures didn't relent. They moved closer, their forms growing sharper, more defined.
"Do you see what we see?"
Elias screamed, the sound ripping from his throat as the figures engulfed him.
At the same moment, Clara stood in her apartment, staring at the photograph she had retrieved from the drawer. In it, Elias stood between her and another man—Julien, their third companion from university. The man whose death had fractured them all.
Clara traced Julien's face with her finger, tears welling in her eyes. She had never told Elias the full truth about what happened that night.
And now, it was coming back to haunt them both.