Lena awoke with a start, her heart pounding in her chest. The room was cold, darker than it had been when she first arrived in her father's study. She blinked rapidly, her surroundings coming into focus. She was lying on the floor in the same room where she had last seen the figure—the creature that had taken her father. But now, everything was silent. No creaking floorboards, no whispers. Just the cold, oppressive quiet of the empty bookstore.
The figure was gone. Her father was gone.
Her hands trembled as she sat up, the remnants of the nightmare clinging to her like a shadow. The air felt thick with something—something that pressed down on her chest and made it hard to breathe. The scent of old paper and wood lingered in the room, but there was a faint undertone of decay, like something forgotten had been disturbed. She glanced at the book, still lying on the floor, its pages open. It seemed... different now, the words blurred, like they were moving just beneath the surface, shifting.
No, I need to focus.
Lena pushed herself up, brushing the dust and dirt from her hands. Her head swam, dizziness threatening to overwhelm her, but she couldn't let herself collapse. Not now. Not with so many questions still unanswered.
She glanced around the room again. Her father's desk, the papers, the scattered notes—all seemed unchanged. But there was one detail that stood out: the window was open. The heavy curtains that had once been drawn tightly now hung loosely, fluttering slightly in the breeze. The faintest sliver of moonlight filtered in, casting an eerie glow on the room.
It was then that she realized—the door was wide open.
It wasn't open before.
Lena's breath hitched. She hesitated for only a moment before standing up and rushing toward the door. She had to find her father. He had been here moments ago—he had to be. The creature that had replaced him, whatever it was, it hadn't taken him completely. There had to be a way to fix this, to bring him back.
But as she stepped into the hall, the first thing she noticed was the smell. It was faint at first, like something sour, rotten. A cold shiver ran down her spine. The hairs on the back of her neck prickled.
Something was wrong.
She moved toward the staircase, her footsteps almost silent on the wooden floors. The house felt unnaturally still, as though the walls themselves were holding their breath. She crept down the narrow hallway toward the stairs that led to the rest of the house. Everything was quiet. Too quiet.
The town outside was still cloaked in that oppressive mist, but even through the small windows in the front of the house, Lena could sense that something had changed. The air felt thicker, charged. And there was no sound. No birds, no insects, no distant voices. The world had gone still.
Lena reached the foot of the stairs and stopped. The front door stood wide open, the light from the streetlamps casting faint glimmers of gold on the floor. But there was something else too, something darker. In the distance, just beyond the mist, there was a shape. A figure.
Lena stepped closer, squinting to make out the details.
The figure didn't move, didn't blink. It just stood there, at the edge of the fog.
It was too far for Lena to make out anything clearly, but something about it felt... wrong. It was like looking at a reflection in a broken mirror—distorted, incomplete, and yet, undeniably present.
Before she could take another step toward the door, a voice interrupted her thoughts.
"Lena."
Her father's voice.
Lena's heart skipped a beat. She whipped around, her breath catching in her throat.
Isaac stood at the top of the stairs, staring down at her. But he wasn't... right. His face was pale, too pale, and his eyes were dark—black, hollow pits that swallowed the light around him. The skin around his mouth and eyes had drawn taut, as if the very life within him had been sucked out. He wasn't breathing.
He was a shell.
Lena staggered back, unable to speak. Her body froze as the figure—her father, or what had once been him—took a slow step forward. The air seemed to grow colder with each movement.
"Dad..." Lena whispered, her voice trembling.
Isaac didn't respond.
Instead, he took another step, his eyes never leaving hers. His lips parted, but the sound that came from him was not human. It was a low, rumbling noise, like the groan of the earth beneath the town, deep and guttural.
"Lena," he repeated, but it wasn't his voice anymore. It was something far older. Something inhuman. "You shouldn't have seen it. You shouldn't have opened the door."
Lena took a step back, her pulse racing. She knew she needed to run. But she couldn't tear her eyes away from him—this thing that wore her father's face.
The thing reached out a hand toward her, and in that moment, Lena realized something horrifying: Isaac's fingers were no longer his. They were twisted, elongated, covered in dark veins that seemed to pulse with unnatural life.
"Come closer, Lena," the thing crooned. "You've awakened it."
The air shifted again, growing heavier, as though something was pressing down on her from all sides. Lena staggered, feeling the weight of unseen eyes on her, as though the very walls were closing in.
Suddenly, a loud crash echoed from upstairs, followed by the unmistakable sound of shuffling footsteps. Lena turned, panic rising within her.
Another figure appeared at the top of the stairs. This one was not Isaac, but a man—an unfamiliar man, his face pale, his body hunched as though something inside him was struggling to break free. He was dressed in tattered clothing, and his eyes were wide, vacant. His mouth moved in jerky, unnatural movements.
The man opened his mouth, but instead of words, a strange, inhuman sound escaped, a low hum that vibrated through the air. Lena felt a sharp pain in her head, as though the sound were drilling into her mind. She clasped her hands over her ears, but it didn't help. The hum only grew louder, more insistent.
"Stop!" Lena cried, her voice breaking. "Please, stop!"
But the figures—Isaac and the man—kept moving forward, slow and deliberate. The darkness around them seemed to thicken, swirling with a malevolent force. The ground beneath her feet trembled.
Lena's legs gave out. She sank to her knees, breath shallow, as the room spun around her. She knew, deep in her gut, that whatever this thing was—whatever it had taken from her father—it was not finished. It was only beginning.
Then, as if some unseen force had taken control of her, she turned and ran.
She bolted toward the door, ignoring the figures behind her, the hum in her ears, the icy chill crawling over her skin. She didn't stop to look back, couldn't stop. The street outside was hazy with fog, but Lena didn't care. She couldn't think, couldn't breathe. She just needed to escape.
But as she ran down the narrow path toward the edge of Ashenreach, she glanced back one last time.
The figures were no longer there.
And neither was the town.
The mist had consumed it.