Cursed tomb

George came to with a gasp, jerking upright in a tangle of sweat-soaked sheets. His heart hammered in his chest as fragments of the nightmare flashed through his mind.

"Carmen!" he rasped, the name torn from his throat in an anguished croak.

He flung himself sideways, nearly tumbling out of the bed. But the space beside him was empty, the sheets undisturbed. Realization crashed over him.

"No...no no no..." he moaned.

Staggering to his feet, George swayed dizzily as the room spun. He lurched towards the bathroom, barely making it to the toilet before retching violently.

When the spasms subsided, he lifted his throbbing head from the porcelain rim. Blinking at his reflection in the mirror, he hardly recognized the haggard figure staring back.

"Who...?" George croaked, his voice scarcely above a rasp. The haunted eyes in that sunken face belonged to a stranger.

Over the next two days, George drifted in an out of awareness, his mind stubbornly refusing to accept reality.

"Eat something," he muttered to himself, staring at the plate of untouched food with revulsion. But whenever he lifted a fork to his lips, the scent made his throat constrict. "I can't..."

As George's mind drifted back to that fateful night, the memories flooded his consciousness like a torrential downpour.

He could still feel the panic clawing at his chest as he dialed emergency services, the frantic thud of his heart drowning out the chaos unfolding around him.

When the police and ambulance arrived, their presence did little to assuage the gnawing fear that gripped him. Paramedics rushed past him, their urgency a stark contrast to the surreal stillness that enveloped the room. Meanwhile, officers exchanged hurried whispers.

They looked at him, shaking their heads not out of pity but purely based on something else.It wasn't long before the news got to him.

The reason the officers looked at him like he was crazy soon came out. They spoke of a robbery, detailing the events captured by the security cameras across the street—a version of reality that clashed with his own.

It seemed ludicrous to entertain the notion of a witch's attack amidst the overwhelming evidence of criminal activity. Yet, as the officers pored over the security footage, George felt a sinking sensation in the pit of his stomach.

He grappled with the bitter reality that the police had chosen to embrace the convenient narrative presented by the security cameras. The injustice of it all weighed heavily on his shoulders, denying him of appetite to eat anything.

As the days went by, sleep was even more elusive. Every time he closed his eyes, visions of that night bombarded him. Carmen's lifeless gaze burned into his soul over and over until George jolted awake with a strangled cry.

"Carmen! No!" he shouted into the empty room, chest heaving. "It was just a dream...no, a nightmare. You're gone..."

When sheer exhaustion did allow him to pass out briefly, his slumber was plagued by haunting visions he couldn't call mere nightmares.

Shadowy forms seemed to beckon him outdoors to hunt, a primal voice whispering, "Feed. You must feed..."

Each time George roused himself gasping, he clutched his arms tightly around his shuddering torso.

"What's happening to me?" he rasped in horror.

Three weeks after Carmen's death, the physical changes could no longer be ignored. Stepping out of the foggy shower, George recoiled from his skeletal reflection.

"Oh god..." he choked out, running trembling hands over his protruding ribs and shrunken frame. "I'm withering away..."

And being outdoors in the daylight was just as draining.

"Why does the sun...leave me so weakened?" he panted after a quick trip outside, limbs heavy as anchors weighing him down.

Four weeks in, he lay awake wrestling with his internal torment. Remembering Carmen's radiant smile felt like being gutted anew.

"My light...my love..." he wept into the darkness. "How can I go on without you?"

Yet that other part of him burned with primal hunger.

"No!" George cried out, horrified. "I don't want to hurt anyone! I can't...I won't give in to this!"

After six weeks, George finally sought medical help, desperate for answers. But every doctor visit ended the same way.

"I'm very sorry, Mr. Waverly, but we can't find any physiological cause for your symptoms," the doctor would say with a sympathetic look. "Have you considered grief counseling to process your wife's death?"

"You think this is all in my head?" George protested, his heart plummeting. "But I know there's something...wrong, something unnatural happening to me!"

The doctors' concerned frowns and suggestions of antidepressants only made him feel more alone and misunderstood.

"No, no drugs, please," George insisted wearily. "That's not the solution I need."

His pleas fell on deaf ears. Without proof, the medical experts dismissed his symptoms as psychosomatic. George felt utterly adrift until finally, in desperation, he allowed himself to be guided to a community grief support group.

The dingy church basement smelled of stale smoke and disuse as George shuffled inside behind the counselor.

"Welcome, everyone," the group leader said with a warm smile. "Anyone new with us today?"

George raised a trembling hand. "I'm...George."

"We're so glad you came, George. Why don't you start us off?"

Staring at the ragtag collection of hollow souls surrounding him, George worked his jaw soundlessly for a long moment before finally finding his voice.

"I lost my wife...six weeks ago. Carmen. She was...everything to me." He blinked rapidly against the sting of tears. "And then she was just...gone. Ripped away in a night of horror I can't even begin to describe."

A profound hush fell over the circle, broken only by the soft sobs of those who recognized the depth of his anguish. George looked around at their compassionate faces and whispered, "I can't escape feeling there's something...deeper wrong with me. Something not right, not human..."

His voice trailed off, unable to give voice to the darkness growing inside. As the meeting wore on and others shared their own stories of unimaginable loss, George couldn't escape the feeling he didn't quite belong.

They had all loved, and lost, and been irrevocably shattered in the aftermath. But something else had happened to him in the wake of Carmen's horrific demise. Something...unholy, unnatural. Something he was terrified to name or release fully into the light.

So even as he tentatively began to open up to these fellow grief-haunted souls, a part of George remained locked away, alone with the crawling suspicion that his true curse would only be met with disbelief and revulsion. He stuffed that unutterable darkness back down inside his fracturing mind as the meeting drew to a close.

Filing out behind the others, George paused in the dingy basement hall, his shadowed eyes sweeping over the cracked linoleum and water-stained ceiling tiles. He opened his mouth to call out, to finally confess the whole monstrous truth of what was happening to him.

"I'm becom-" His voice cracked like overstretched rubber and the words shriveled up, unspoken. Shoulders slumping in defeat, George turned and followed the others out into the fading twilight, his unnatural secret still gnawing hungrily at his core.

For now, he would keep his curse entombed. But George knew he couldn't hold the darkness at bay forever. Sooner or later, one way or another, it would finally claw its way free from the shadows.