An almost normal slice of life 2

He walked rapidly down narrow alleys with a mysterious, worn leather-bound book clutched tightly to his chest. The cover, now faded and ancient, carried upon it a ghastly image of a lion devouring the sun. Though Alaric barely glanced at it as he headed home, he felt some sort of inexplicable weight in his hand, as though the book in itself was made up of secrets too heavy to bear. The sky above him had dimmed, the swirling dark clouds now threatening. A sense of dread oozed in, filling his bones, but he laughed it off as nerves.

As he turned into the final narrow alley that led to his humble abode, the prickle on the back of his neck began. It was the feeling one gets when being watched. He half turned with a glance over his shoulder, almost expecting to see someone in the shadows, but the street was empty. He shook his head and hurried inside, the door shut firmly behind him. Alone, his sister having gone out for the evening, the silence of the house pressed in around him.

After a rapid, solitary dinner, Alaric tried to drive the thoughts from his mind by turning to his books, but his mind kept reverting to the book. When the sun had dipped below the horizon and the room was in shadow, he lit a candle and finally let curiosity take the better of him. A little hesitantly, he laid the book on his desk, opening it and letting his eyes slip over the title: The Secrets of Occult Magic.

In an instant, as he read those words, a sudden, sharp pain lanced through his head as if a needle were driving into his skull. He gasped, clutching his temples, and the room seemed to shift-the shadows deepening, writhing, as if alive. A blur of movement caught the corner of his vision, something dark and sinuous, like a tentacle, slipping out from the book. He jerked back, his eyes blinking hard, but the image faded, leaving only the still room. Shaking, he slammed the book shut and shoved it to the far side of his desk.

That night, he could not rid himself of the feeling that he was being watched. He lay in bed, the silence around him thick with tension, until finally he fell asleep, infected in his dreams by strange visions: a dark, faceless shadow looming over him, whispering words he could not understand. Vague images of reaching tendrils and glowing eyes staring from the darkness broke his sleep into a restless series.

Hours later, he awoke to find his throat parched and his pulse racing. He got up stealthily from bed, pacing the creaky wooden floorboards in his house that stood silent but for the soft groan of the wood under his weight. As he entered the kitchen and poured himself a glass of water, he went rigid. Across the narrow alley outside his window, on the rooftop of the opposite building, a figure was standing, silhouetted against the dimly lit light of the city. It was person-shaped but somehow wrong, its edges seeming to blur and shift in and out of focus. The figure simply stared at him, immobile, and Alaric felt the hairs on the back of his neck rise. The tumbler slipped from his hand, but he caught it in time, clutched the glass tightly, and took a step backward, his eyes not leaving the dark figure. But in that instant, it was gone, leaving Alaric stifled by the silence of the kitchen.

His heart racing wildly in his ears, Alaric dived into his bedroom and locked the door. He slept fitfully that night, with vivid nightmares and the crushing feeling that something unnatural had taken some sort of interest in him.

Morning came grey and cold, and he went to school, tired and shaken. His classmates were surprised to see him arrive so early, and threw curious glances in his direction, but he ignored their questions. Even his best friends, John and Asher, couldn't get him to agree to stay after school and do something with them. The moment the final bell sounded, he didn't utter a word but clutched the book in his bag and headed towards Mr. Clooney's bookstore.

The moment he stepped into the alley leading to the bookstore, a sense of dread settled upon him. It was as if the buildings leaned in closer, the walls squeezed in, and even the air itself was heavy with some odd anticipation. As he rounded the corner, he drew up short, his stomach plummeting. There were two men in the ceremonial robes of the Sun God's priests, standing before the entrance of the bookshop, flanked by two grim-faced Sentinels. Alaric swallowed and approached the two cautiously.

I need to speak with Mr. Clooney," he said, forcing a calm tone.

The Sentinel with a thick beard looked down at him, expression unyielding. "I'm afraid you can't. There's been an incident. The Church is investigating, and no one is allowed entry without permission from Bishop Andrews."

"An incident?" Alaric's voice shook. "I… I just need to return a book I borrowed.

Hand it over," the second Sentinel-a tall, blond man-instructed, his eyes narrowing as he scrutinized Alaric.

Alaric fidgeted, fingers digging into the book in his bag. A sort of uneasy feeling crawled over him; something told him that giving them the book would only get him into trouble. "I'll come back another day," he mumbled, adjusting the monocle on his right eye, and quickly turned to leave.

The Sentinels watched him retreat, their eyes all lingering on his back, but to their posts they returned. With every step away from them, Alaric's mind was churning with questions-what had happened to Mr. Clooney, why the Church was involved.

Having nothing else to do and nowhere to go, he wandered into the city center, trying to get his mind off events by visiting his friends at the local artisan workshop. He chatted with John and Asher, telling them nothing of the weird night he had just experienced. But all the time, his mind kept going back to that weird encounter at the bookstore.

As he came out of the workshop, he saw a little procession of finely dressed men, going toward the church of the Sun God: quietly purposeful, their dark mantles billowing. Alaric paused, eyes narrowing as one of them - a blond, bearded figure - turned to look back at him. Their eyes met, and Alaric felt a freakish chill trace its way up his spine; it was as if this man's gaze could permeate beyond flesh to right into the mind. The stranger's gaze drifted down, settling on the book held in Alaric's hand, before he turned and whispered something to his companion-a tall man with a silver streak in his dark hair. Both men appeared to stride at a slower pace while watching him with unsettling interest.

A spike of panic shot through him. Heart pounding, he turned and hurried away, feeling their eyes bore into his back even after he rounded the corner. He didn't stop running until he reached home safely and slammed the door shut behind him. He rushed to his room, pressed his back to the wall, and clutched the book tightly. Shadows seemed to crowd around him, twisting and dancing in the corners of the room. The quiet of the house pressed down on him, amplifying every creak and whisper of wind.

Hours passed in tense silence until his sister, Emily, returned home. She spoke casually over dinner, oblivious to the turmoil churning within Alaric. "I've decided to stay with friends for a while," she said, breaking the silence.

Alaric looked up, his mind elsewhere. "Really?"

"Yes," she said with a faint smile. "Don't worry about me. I know you have work with Mr. Clooney, and I'll send you some money when I can."

He forced a smile onto his lips, hiding the concern weighing him down. "Don't worry. I'll be fine." And he didn't tell her about the visit the Church had paid to Mr. Clooney's bookstore or about the weird figures in the streets.

That night, while lying in bed, sleep evaded him again. Shadows thronged his room, contorting into grotesque forms. The book lay on his desk, so heavy and ominous. In the quiet, he heard the faintest of whispers, drifting from the pages.

He shut his eyes, trying to shut out the sounds, but they seemed to grow louder in the mind filled with alien syllables and images of faceless beings in dark alleys. He thought he was going mad, he clutched his head with both his hands, breathing heavily; he couldn't sleep the whole night, then morning came, the sun rose, casting a harsh light on his pale face.

Author's note: I would really appreciate it in case someone has any suggestion that they would comment on them, or in case they have some questions or doubts that they would ask them. I'm triying to improve and write better, if you leave a comment and a review it would be really helpful. Thank you!