Daniel's pov
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It was just a day left to get my project done. I still don't know why Mr. Joe loves giving long-ass projects. It's freaking history—I wasn't even there. Grumbling under my breath, I headed down the creaky basement stairs to check if I could find my dad's old research records. Back when he still traveled the world, he'd always brought back gifts—strange trinkets from faraway places that fascinated me as a kid. Those memories always made me miss him.
I flipped the basement light switch, the bulb flickering weakly before humming to life. The sight that greeted me sent my heart skidding. My elder brother, Williams, was sitting on the dusty couch in the corner, completely still, staring ahead.
"Will, you looking for something?" I asked, forcing a nervous laugh as I walked over and tapped his shoulder.
He didn't reply. Without a glance my way, he reached for a worn book on the table beside him, clutched it tightly, and walked past me up the stairs. I exhaled sharply, realizing I'd been holding my breath. Williams hadn't been himself—not for the past year and a half. He'd claimed to have seen something back in our hometown, but his story was so bizarre that no one took him seriously. Ever since then, he'd been distant, empty. I felt sorry for him, really. I missed the fun we had as kids. Now, it was just depressing to see him withdraw further every day.
Pushing thoughts of Williams aside, I focused on my mission: Cleopatra. "How can a woman be so dominant and even marry her own brothers?" I muttered, skimming through the dusty folders on the shelves. "This project's gonna be a killer." After hurriedly jotting down some points, I shoved the file back into its place and headed upstairs.
Once in my room, I shut the door and sank into my chair, slipping my headphones over my ears. Music was my escape, the only way I could tune out the chaos around me. It healed. As the first notes hit, I leaned back and let the world melt away.
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I must have dozed off because when I opened my eyes, my room was shrouded in darkness. My headphones were still on, but the music had stopped. Groggy, I reached for my phone to check the time—2:47 a.m. That's when I noticed it.
The faintest sound, like something scraping against wood. I froze, my hand hovering over the lamp switch. The sound came again, deliberate and slow, as if someone—or something—was dragging their nails down my bedroom door.
"Will?" I called out, my voice trembling. No reply. I reached for the lamp, flicking it on, but the bulb exploded with a loud pop, plunging the room back into darkness.
Panic began to set in as the scraping turned into soft, rhythmic knocking. Knock. Knock. Knock.
I gathered my courage, swallowing hard, and crept toward the door. My hand shook as I twisted the knob, pulling it open just a crack. The hallway was empty, the faint moonlight from the window casting long shadows on the floor.
"Will, this isn't funny," I said, louder this time. Silence. I peered down the hall, and that's when I saw it.
A figure stood at the end of the corridor, barely illuminated by the moonlight. It was Williams, or at least, it looked like him. His head was tilted at an unnatural angle, and his arms hung limply by his sides.
"Will?" I whispered, stepping out into the hallway. He didn't move.
Something was wrong—very wrong. His mouth began to open, impossibly wide, wider than any human jaw should go. A low, guttural sound emerged, not quite a scream, not quite a growl. My feet refused to move, rooted to the spot as his body jerked forward in spasmodic movements.
I stumbled back into my room, slamming the door shut and locking it. My heart was racing, the sound of blood pounding in my ears almost drowning out the muffled knocking that began again.
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Morning came far too slowly. I must have fallen asleep at some point, because I woke up to sunlight streaming through the curtains. For a moment, I convinced myself it had all been a bad dream. But when I opened my door, the faint scratch marks on the outside confirmed otherwise.
I didn't see Williams at breakfast, and my mom said he'd gone out early. The rest of the day passed in a blur, but I couldn't shake the image of his twisted face. That night, as I sat at my desk working on my project, I heard a faint rustling sound coming from my closet.
I froze, my pen hovering over the notebook. The sound grew louder, more insistent. Slowly, I turned to face the closet door, which was slightly ajar. "Hello?" My voice came out as barely a whisper.
The rustling stopped. For a long moment, there was only silence. Then, the door creaked open wider, revealing nothing but darkness. My stomach churned as I stared into the void, half-expecting something to lunge out at me. But nothing happened.
Summoning what little courage I had, I reached for the flashlight on my desk and shone it into the closet. It was empty, save for my clothes and a few scattered shoes. I let out a shaky breath and stepped closer, pushing the hangers aside to double-check. That's when I noticed it.
A small, leather-bound book lay on the closet floor. It wasn't mine. Picking it up, I flipped through its yellowed pages. They were filled with strange symbols and illegible handwriting. At the back of the book was a drawing—a crude sketch of a figure with elongated limbs and hollow eyes. Scrawled beneath it in shaky letters were the words: "It watches."
A chill ran down my spine as I remembered the book Williams had taken from the basement. Was this the same one? Why had it ended up in my room?
Suddenly, the temperature in the room seemed to drop, and the light from my desk lamp flickered. I felt a presence behind me—a cold, suffocating weight pressing down on my shoulders.
I spun around, but there was nothing there.
For now.
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