[In the next morning]
Anon groaned as the sharp trill of his alarm clock shattered the quiet of his small apartment. His hand shot out from beneath the blanket, fumbling around the nightstand before slamming down on the snooze button. The sudden silence was blissful, but his body refused to obey his mind's command to get up.
"Five more minutes," he mumbled, rolling over and pulling the blanket over his head.
But the King's faint whispers echoed in the back of his mind, urging him to rise. Anon sighed heavily. Even gods don't believe in sleeping in, he thought bitterly. Reluctantly, he threw off the covers and swung his legs over the edge of the bed. The cold wooden floor made him flinch.
He sat there for a moment, head in his hands, trying to shake off the grogginess. His small apartment wasn't much to look at—a tiny studio with peeling wallpaper, a cramped kitchen, and a single window that let in just enough pale morning light to highlight the clutter scattered around. A duffel bag stuffed with cash sat unceremoniously in the corner, a reminder of last night's "payday."
Rubbing his eyes, Anon dragged himself to his feet and stumbled toward the bathroom. Flicking on the light, he squinted at his reflection in the cracked mirror. Dark circles hung under his eyes, and his hair was a mess of tangled strands sticking out in every direction. He turned on the faucet, splashing cold water on his face.
"Another day, another dollar," he muttered, grabbing a toothbrush from a chipped cup. As he brushed his teeth, his thoughts wandered.
It wasn't always like this. There was a time when mornings were simpler—no eldritch gods, no monsters, no cosmic whispers in his head. Just a regular guy trying to get by. The memories felt distant, like a dream he could barely remember.
Finishing up, he stepped into the tiny kitchen and opened the fridge. It was mostly empty—half a carton of milk, a few eggs, and some takeout containers that were probably past their prime. Anon grabbed the milk and sniffed it cautiously.
"Still good," he said to himself, pouring a splash into a bowl of cereal. Sitting down at the wobbly table, he scrolled through his phone while eating. The news was the usual mix of chaos and mundanity—economic woes, political drama, a viral cat video.
Halfway through his cereal, he remembered the bag of money. His lips curled into a wry grin. "At least I don't have to worry about rent this month," he said aloud, though there was no one to hear him.
After breakfast, he got dressed in his usual attire—dark jeans, a plain black t-shirt, and his well-worn jacket. He laced up his boots and grabbed his pack of cigarettes from the nightstand. On his way out, he stopped to glance at the bag of cash again.
"I should probably deposit some of that," he thought, but the idea of walking into a bank with a suspiciously large sum of money seemed like more trouble than it was worth. Shaking his head, he grabbed his keys and stepped out into the morning air.
The city was already alive with activity. Commuters rushed to work, street vendors set up their carts, and the smell of coffee and fried food wafted through the air. Anon lit a cigarette as he walked, blending seamlessly into the crowd.
For a brief moment, he felt almost normal. Just another face in the bustling city, heading to a job he didn't particularly like but paid the bills.
But the faint hum of the King's song in the back of his mind reminded him that his life would never be entirely ordinary.
Anon's cigarette burned low as he walked through the chaotic city streets, the early morning light dimming under a heavy layer of clouds. The faint whispers of the King echoed in his mind, guiding him toward his next mission. This one felt different. There was no overt call to arms, no eldritch monstrosity tearing through reality. Just a quiet insistence that something was wrong—someone was missing.
He tucked his hands into his jacket pockets and moved toward the outskirts of the city, where the streets grew narrower and the buildings more decrepit. The King's whispers grew louder, threading unease into his thoughts like a needle through fabric. The air seemed heavier here, tinged with the faint scent of decay and something metallic.
Anon's journey led him to a derelict apartment building, its façade marred by years of neglect. Windows were shattered or boarded up, and a faint groan emanated from the wind passing through the cracks. The King's song resonated faintly in his head, urging him forward.
He pushed open the creaking door and stepped inside. The air was stifling, thick with the smell of mildew and rot. The dim light filtering through broken blinds cast long, distorted shadows across the peeling wallpaper. A single bulb flickered at the end of the hallway.
Anon wasn't afraid, but the atmosphere gnawed at him—a subtle wrongness in the air. He made his way down the hall, the floorboards creaking beneath his boots. Each door he passed was either locked or slightly ajar, revealing glimpses of ruined interiors: furniture overturned, personal belongings left to rot, and walls marked with strange, claw-like scratches.
At the end of the hallway, he found what he was looking for: an apartment marked with an unfamiliar sigil drawn in black, tar-like substance. It pulsed faintly, like it was alive.
"This must be it," he muttered, pulling out a small knife. He cut through the sigil with practiced precision, breaking the barrier. The door creaked open, revealing a room filled with bizarre artifacts—candles burned low, and the walls were lined with cryptic symbols that seemed to shift when he wasn't looking directly at them.
On the floor, he found a trail of muddy footprints leading to a shattered window. A faint sense of dread settled in his chest, but he pressed on.
Following the footprints and the King's whispers, Anon found himself at an overgrown park on the edge of the city. The once-vibrant playground was now a graveyard of rusted swings and broken slides. The trees were skeletal, their branches twisting unnaturally, as though reaching for something unseen.
The whispers grew louder as he moved deeper into the park. He found a small, worn path leading into the woods beyond. The air here was colder, and the shadows seemed to move of their own accord.
About fifty yards in, he stumbled upon a clearing where the ground was littered with bones—animal, he hoped. A tattered scarf lay draped across a low-hanging branch, stained with something dark and sticky.
"Getting closer," Anon murmured, his voice the only sound in the oppressive silence.
The trees seemed to crowd closer as he moved on, the path narrowing until he was forced to push through the underbrush. He felt no fear, but even he couldn't ignore the sensation of being watched. Eyes—dozens of them—seemed to glint in the darkness beyond the trees, though when he turned to look, they vanished.
After hours of walking, Anon emerged from the woods to find an old chapel, its spire jutting into the darkening sky like a skeletal finger. The structure was ancient, the stonework crumbling, and its stained-glass windows shattered. A faint golden glow emanated from within.
Steeling himself, Anon pushed open the heavy wooden doors. Inside, the chapel was in ruins. Pews were overturned, and the altar was draped in tattered cloth. At the center of the room, a massive mural depicted a twisted version of the cosmos, with a faceless figure at its heart—a crude representation of the King in Yellow.
In the center of the room lay a body, or what was left of one. The missing person, or at least what had become of them. Their limbs were unnaturally elongated, and their face was twisted into an expression of pure terror.
As Anon approached, the air grew thick with an otherworldly pressure. The mural on the wall seemed to shift, the faceless figure turning its nonexistent gaze toward him.
"You're late," a voice echoed from nowhere and everywhere at once.
Anon didn't flinch. "Had to take the long route," he replied, his tone dry.
The figure on the mural began to step out of the wall, its form stretching and contorting into something humanoid but not. Its limbs were too long, its joints bending at impossible angles.
Anon reached for his knife, the blade gleaming faintly with the King's blessing. "Let's get this over with," he said, his voice steady.
The creature lunged, and the air filled with the sound of shattering glass and a low, guttural growl. Anon met it head-on, his blade cutting through the eldritch abomination as though slicing through water. Each strike sent ripples through reality itself, distorting the air around them.
The fight was over in moments. The creature dissolved into a pool of black ichor, leaving behind only the faint smell of sulfur.
Anon sheathed his blade and looked back at the mural. The faceless figure was gone, replaced by a blank, unmarked void. He lit another cigarette, taking a long drag as he surveyed the scene.
"Another sinner down," he muttered, turning to leave the chapel.
The whispers of the King in Yellow grew fainter as he stepped back into the fading daylight, but the unease lingered. Somewhere out there, more sinners waited, and the King would call again.
The afternoon sun dipped low on the horizon as Anon stepped into the small, dimly lit restaurant tucked away in a narrow alley. The kind of place where the air was thick with the aroma of fried food and stale coffee, where the chatter of locals created a comforting hum. Anon sighed, letting his shoulders relax as he settled into a corner booth.
He ordered something simple—a greasy burger, a side of fries, and a soda. As the plate arrived, he took a bite, savoring the first peaceful moment he'd had all day. Yet, that fleeting tranquility was tainted by the creeping sensation of being watched.
The feeling had been there all day, a gnawing presence that refused to leave. He glanced over his shoulder, but the restaurant was just as he'd seen it when he entered. Ordinary. Families enjoying their meals, a cook shouting orders in the back, a tired waitress wiping down tables. Nothing unusual.
But Anon knew better.
He tried to shake it off, focusing instead on finishing his food. Bite by bite, the meal disappeared, but the oppressive weight on his shoulders grew heavier. The shadows in the corners of the restaurant seemed darker, the laughter of the patrons too sharp, almost distorted.
When he finally stood to head to the bathroom, he felt the hairs on his neck stand on end.
The bathroom was poorly lit, a single flickering fluorescent bulb casting an eerie glow. The walls were lined with cracked tiles, and the faint smell of mildew clung to the air. Anon turned on the faucet, splashing cold water onto his face.
But the water didn't stop running.
He twisted the handle again. Nothing changed. Instead, the water began to darken, the clear stream turning crimson. Blood.
Anon groaned, his tone laced with irritation. "Not after eating my lunch."
The flickering light grew erratic, casting disjointed shadows across the small room. Before Anon could react, something cold and slimy wrapped around his wrist, yanking him toward the mirror. His face smashed against the glass, the jagged surface cutting into his skin.
His reflection twisted and warped, his own face grinning back at him with eyes that weren't his.
"Bad move to fight me close," Anon muttered, his voice steady despite the chaos.
The bathroom began to transform, the walls melting away into an endless expanse of water. The floor dissolved beneath him, and he sank into the depths. The water was cold, suffocating, and endless.
As he descended, the world around him grew darker, the pressure of the water pressing against his chest. Shapes moved in the murky depths, monstrous silhouettes with too many limbs and faces that shouldn't exist.
At the center of it all was the creature—a mass of writhing tentacles and countless eyes, each one staring at Anon with an intensity that burned into his mind. It was drowning, yet alive, thrashing against the currents of its own domain.
Anon swam toward it, the King's whispers growing louder in his ears. He drew his knife, its blade glowing faintly with the same eldritch energy that had marked his path.
The creature lunged, its massive maw opening to swallow him whole. But Anon was faster. He drove the blade into its center, twisting it as the water around him turned black. The creature let out a deafening wail, its form convulsing as it began to disintegrate.
The water drained away, and Anon found himself back in the bathroom, standing in front of the sink. The faucet was off, the light steady, and the room eerily silent.
Anon slumped against the wall, sliding down to sit on the cold tile floor. He pulled a cigarette from his pocket, lighting it with shaking hands. He took a long drag, the smoke filling his lungs as he closed his eyes.
The door creaked open, and a young man stepped inside. His eyes widened as he took in the scene—the shattered mirror, the blood smeared on the walls, and Anon sitting in the corner, his face cut and bruised.
Anon glanced up at him, exhaling a cloud of smoke. "Sorry," he said dryly, a hint of a smirk playing on his lips. "It got a bit... rough when I used the bathroom."
The man stared, dumbfounded, before backing out of the room without a word.
Anon chuckled to himself, taking another drag of his cigarette. "Some people just don't appreciate a good joke," he muttered, pushing himself to his feet.
As he left the bathroom, the whispers of the King in Yellow echoed faintly in his mind, a reminder that the night was far from over.
Anon stumbled out of the restaurant's bathroom, wiping a thin trickle of blood from his nose with the back of his hand. The mirror from earlier had left a small cut on his forehead as well, but he didn't seem to care. The soft murmur of the restaurant's patrons quieted as they caught sight of him, their faces a mix of confusion and concern.
"What the hell happened to you?" muttered one of the waitresses under her breath.
Anon waved her off with a faint smile, lighting his cigarette as he made his way to the door. "Just a rough patch," he said, his voice nonchalant, as if what had just transpired wasn't worth mentioning.
The cool evening air greeted him as he stepped outside, the city lights casting long shadows across the sidewalk. He walked aimlessly, cigarette smoke curling around him in lazy spirals. His thoughts were scattered, but his mood was calm. Even after all the madness he'd faced, there was a strange comfort in the normalcy of wandering the streets at night.
As he passed by a stretch of parked cars, something caught his attention. A man, probably in his late thirties, was crouched beside an old sedan. The man looked frustrated, rummaging through his trunk and muttering curses under his breath.
Anon slowed his pace, observing. The car's front tire was flat, and it was clear the man was struggling to change it.
"Need some help?" Anon asked, his voice casual.
The man looked up, startled, before sighing. "Yeah, actually. I've got the spare, but I forgot the jack. Can't exactly lift the car without it."
Anon stubbed out his cigarette and approached. "I got it," he said, crouching beside the car.
Before the man could respond, Anon placed one hand under the car's frame and, with seemingly no effort, lifted the front end off the ground. The man's jaw dropped, his eyes wide with disbelief.
"H-holy... How are you doing that?"
Anon smirked, holding the car steady. "Good diet," he said dryly.
The man quickly replaced the damaged tire, fumbling slightly as he worked. When he was done, he stood up and wiped his hands on his jeans. "I don't know how to thank you. That was... unbelievable."
"No problem," Anon replied, brushing dust off his coat. He turned to leave, but the man stopped him.
"Hey, uh... do you know the way to Riflow Town?"
Anon froze. His eyes narrowed, and his tone turned sharp. "Why do you want to go there?"
The man hesitated, sensing the sudden change in Anon's demeanor. "It's my dad. He lives there, and he's been sick. I need to get to him."
Anon stared at him for a moment, his mind racing. Riflow Town. A name that carried weight, one tied to darkness and danger. He clenched his jaw, debating whether to warn the man or let him go.
Finally, he sighed. "Alright. I'll tell you the way."
He gave the man directions, his voice calm but firm. As the man thanked him and drove off, Anon watched the car disappear into the distance.
"Damn fool," he muttered to himself, lighting another cigarette. He stood there for a moment, exhaling smoke into the night air before starting to walk.
Unknown to the man, Anon had decided to follow. He wasn't about to let someone walk blindly into what he suspected was a trap—or worse.
Anon's expression hardened, his steps steady as he headed toward the town. Something dark awaited him there, he was sure of it. But for now, his focus was on the man who had unwittingly wandered into the unknown.
The streets grew quieter as he approached the outskirts of the city, the hum of life fading into an eerie stillness. Anon's cigarette burned brightly in the dark, a lone ember cutting through the shadows. His human side might have been on display earlier, but now, the hunter in him was fully awake.
The silence was unbearable. No wind. No distant hum of cars. Not even the faintest echo of life. Anon stood in the middle of what should have been a bustling road leading to Riflow, but it was as if the world itself had blinked and forgotten to draw the rest of the scene. He scanned the horizon. The man and his car were gone—vanished as if they had never existed.
He lit another cigarette, but even the simple act brought no comfort. The flame flickered strangely, as if the air itself bent and twisted in ways it shouldn't. He exhaled slowly, the smoke dissipating unnaturally, not spreading outward but instead dissolving straight into the air like static on an old TV screen.
As he moved forward, the world began to change. Not fog or mist, but something subtler, more insidious. The edges of buildings shimmered and blurred, their forms twisting and pulsating like half-remembered dreams. The road beneath his feet felt uneven, shifting slightly with each step, as though reality itself was losing its grip.
Anon muttered to himself, his voice sharp in the void. "What now? Can't even walk in peace anymore."
But no response came. Not from the King in Yellow. Not from the voices he'd grown so accustomed to. Nothing. He was utterly alone, and the realization sent a chill through him that even he couldn't shrug off.
The whispers started softly, just at the edge of hearing.
"Why didn't you save her?"
"You walked away. You always walk away."
"Was it worth it?"
Anon's grip tightened on the cigarette, his jaw clenching. He knew these tricks. He'd faced them before. Regret and guilt were weapons, but they wouldn't cut him. Not now.
The whispers grew louder, weaving together into a dissonant symphony. Images began to flicker in the corners of his vision—half-formed, fleeting memories that he refused to acknowledge. A small hand reaching out to him, covered in blood. A face, wide-eyed and terrified, disappearing into darkness. A choice made in anger. A life taken too soon.
He shook his head, pushing forward. "Not real," he muttered. "None of this is real."
But the world didn't care. It continued to warp and shift around him. The road stretched endlessly, looping back on itself. The buildings leaned inward, their windows like empty eyes staring down at him. Shadows moved where there should have been none, their shapes unnatural, too elongated, too sharp.
It was the child that finally gave him pause. A boy, no older than seven, walking aimlessly along the side of the road. His clothes were tattered, his movements jerky and unnatural, like a puppet on tangled strings.
Anon stopped, watching the child for a moment. The boy didn't seem to notice him, his head bowed as he shuffled forward.
Anon exhaled sharply and turned away. "Not my problem."
He continued walking, but the child's presence lingered in his mind. Then, there were more.
A man appeared next, standing on a street corner. His face was gaunt, his eyes hollow. He turned toward Anon as if to speak, but no sound came from his lips. Further down, a woman knelt in the middle of the road, clutching something invisible to her chest and rocking back and forth.
One by one, they emerged. Men, women, children—each more broken and lost than the last. Their presence was suffocating, their silent stares following him as he passed.
But Anon didn't stop. He didn't care who they were or what they wanted. His focus was singular: find the man he'd met earlier.
The whispers grew more insistent, blending with faint cries and distant laughter. The air felt heavier, pressing against his chest. The road beneath him became slick, the texture no longer asphalt but something wet and pulsating.
As he walked, he realized the world around him wasn't just warping—it was alive. The buildings pulsed with faint heartbeats. The shadows seemed to breathe. And the figures he passed were no longer entirely human. Limbs stretched unnaturally long, eyes glowed faintly in the dark, and mouths opened wide in soundless screams.
Anon clenched his fists, his cigarette long forgotten. He forced himself to keep moving, his boots splashing against the wet, fleshy ground.
Finally, he saw it—a flicker of headlights in the distance. The man's car. It was upside down, its tires spinning idly in the air. The man himself was nowhere to be seen.
Anon approached cautiously, the whispers now a deafening roar. His reflection in the shattered windshield stared back at him, but it wasn't his own face. It was younger, bloodied, and filled with a look of raw, unfiltered rage.
The reflection grinned. "You're too late. You're always too late."
Anon smashed the glass with his fist, shattering the illusion. He turned, his breath heavy, his patience gone.
"Alright," he muttered, his voice cutting through the chaos. "Let's finish this."
He stepped forward, deeper into the warped reality, determined to find the man—and the answers—waiting for him in the heart of this nightmare, But then Anon decided to play smart. He stopped for a second, thinking deeply. If I were that man—scared and lost—the best way to survive would be to hide, he thought.
Anon started looking around and noticed a shop. As he decided to come closer, something struck him from behind, launching him through the shop's window, shattering it in the process.
The air inside the shop was suffocating, heavy with the metallic tang of blood and the faint stench of decay. Anon picked himself up from the shattered glass, brushing shards off his jacket. His nose was bleeding again from the force of being thrown, but he ignored it, his attention fixed on the trail of blood leading toward the back door.
"Well," he muttered, cracking his neck, "at least I'm right about something. Someone was hiding. Now, who just hit me?"
But his satisfaction was short-lived. A low, guttural growl echoed through the shop, vibrating through the walls and into his bones. The sound was unnatural, layered, as though it came from more than one throat. Anon turned slowly, and there it was.
The creature stood hunched in the shadows, its elongated body covered in an oily black sheen that glistened faintly in the dim light. Its face was pallid and featureless, save for two cavernous black holes where its eyes should have been. They weren't empty, though—they seemed to ripple like pools of shadow, pulling everything into their abyssal depths.
Anon sighed, rolling his shoulders. "So that's how you want to play, huh?" His lips curled into a dangerous smirk. "Fine. I'll do the same."
The creature lunged first, its movements unnaturally fast, its claws slashing through the air with a piercing hiss. But Anon was faster. He dropped to his knees and dove into the floor as if it were water, his body rippling out of sight.
The creature paused, confused, its eyeless face scanning the room. That's when Anon struck.
A hand shot out of the floor, grabbing the creature's ankle with an iron grip. With a feral roar, Anon pulled it down, dragging it halfway into the warped, water-like surface. Then, with a sudden surge of strength, he yanked it upward, slamming it into the nearest wall with a sickening crunch.
The creature let out an unearthly wail as Anon swung it again, smashing it through shelves, counters, and display cases. Glass and debris exploded in all directions, but Anon didn't stop. He launched the creature into the air, leaped after it, and drove his knee straight into its face.
The impact sent it crashing back to the ground, the floor buckling beneath the force.
Anon landed smoothly, dusting himself off as the creature writhed, its elongated limbs flailing in pain. "Not so tough now, are you?" he muttered.
But it wasn't over yet.
The creature screeched, slamming its claws into the floor. The ground beneath Anon cracked and warped, sending ripples through the air as if reality itself was coming undone. Anon barely had time to react before the creature launched itself at him, its mouth opening impossibly wide to reveal rows of needle-like teeth.
He dove back into the floor just as the creature's claws raked through the spot where he'd stood. The creature slammed its fists against the ground, causing fractures to spiderweb outward, disrupting Anon's watery escape.
But Anon wasn't running. He was preparing.
The cracks widened, revealing sharp, glinting shapes rising from the depths. A dozen spears, formed from the strange, liquid reality, shot upward, piercing the creature's body from all angles. It let out a final, earsplitting wail before collapsing in a heap, black ichor pooling beneath it.
Anon emerged from the floor a moment later, brushing himself off and grimacing at the mess.
"Play dirty," he said, stepping over the creature's twitching corpse, "and I'll make you dirtier."
The shop was a ruin. Shelves lay overturned, blood and ichor smeared across every surface. Anon glanced at the broken window he'd been thrown through, then at the trail of blood leading to the back door.
"Still gotta find that guy," he muttered.
His hand went to his pocket, but his cigarette case was gone—probably lost in the fight. He cursed under his breath, annoyed but not surprised. Taking one last look at the lifeless creature on the floor, he made his way toward the back door, his senses on high alert.
The air felt colder now, the weight of the encounter still pressing down on him. He didn't know what was waiting for him beyond the door, but one thing was certain: this town wasn't going to let him leave easily.