Chapter 316

The snow fell steadily in the small Russian town of Vyshnevolotsk, covering the narrow streets in a heavy, suffocating white. The kind of snow that buried everything beneath it, leaving only the faintest traces of the lives once lived there.

The houses stood in their rows, hunched under the weight of the cold, their windows dark, as though they too had long since given up.

Vladimir sat in his wheelchair at the edge of his home, staring out into the blankness of the world beyond. His hands rested lightly on the wheels, but they did not move. He had not moved in days.

He wasn't sure how long it had been since he'd last left the house, but it hardly mattered anymore. The world outside held no promise. No warmth, no hope, nothing.

Vladimir had been a man who once walked. He had been a man who lived, who breathed, and who had dreams. But now he was a shadow of what he used to be. The accident had taken his legs, and with them, it had taken everything else.

But it wasn't just the accident that had stolen his life. It was what had come after. The things he saw at night. The things that followed him, whispered his name, and made his heart race with fear. They'd come for him when he'd least expected it. And they had never left.

It had been years now since the first incident. The first time he saw the man in the wheelchair. A figure that had haunted the edges of his memory, like a dream that refused to fade. Vladimir had been walking home late one evening, the darkness thick around him, when he heard the faint sound of wheels turning.

He didn't think much of it at first, assuming it was just another passerby. But then he saw it—him.

The man was sitting in a wheelchair, his body draped in an old coat that seemed to have lost all color. His face was pale, almost ghostly, his eyes locked onto Vladimir with an intensity that sent a chill up his spine. He was motionless, his hands resting on the wheels of the chair as if waiting for something.

Vladimir had tried to walk past him, tried to ignore the strange, unsettling presence. But as he passed, the man's voice, cold and hoarse, had reached his ears.

"You don't belong here."

It was a sentence that had haunted him ever since. He hadn't understood it then. He hadn't understood why it made his stomach twist in fear. But now, as he sat in the darkness of his own home, it made sense. The man had come for him.

The first time it happened, Vladimir thought it was a mistake. A trick of the mind, something born from the isolation and the slow descent into madness that had followed his accident. But then it happened again. And again.

Each time, the same thing. The man in the wheelchair, waiting for him. Watching him. Following him.

Vladimir had tried to run. He had tried to escape. But it was always the same. The man was faster. He was everywhere. And when he caught you—when he caught you, you were gone.

The cold had long since settled into Vladimir's bones, and as he wheeled himself to the door, he thought of the others. The ones who had vanished, who had disappeared without a trace. No one ever spoke of them. No one ever asked questions. It was as if they had never existed at all.

He had tried to tell people, of course. He had tried to explain what he had seen, what he had felt, but no one believed him. They thought he was mad, that the trauma of the accident had broken something inside him. Maybe they were right. Maybe he had gone mad.

But the man in the wheelchair? He was real. And he was coming for Vladimir.

The door creaked open, and the wind bit at his skin. Vladimir stared out into the whiteness of the town. The street was empty, save for the snow that swirled around in the darkness. But he knew better than to think it was safe. The man was out there. He always was.

Vladimir wheeled himself forward, the wheels turning with a soft, almost imperceptible squeak. He could feel his heart pounding in his chest, the fear clawing at his insides. He had to leave. He had to get away.

But as he moved, he heard it—the sound of wheels on the snow. Soft at first, just a faint scraping sound, like the dragging of something heavy over the ground. It was far off, but it was there. It was always there.

Vladimir's breath caught in his throat, and he turned his head, trying to see through the dark. His fingers gripped the wheels of his chair tighter, his knuckles white. He was sweating despite the cold, the hairs on the back of his neck standing up. He didn't want to look. He didn't want to see it. But he couldn't help it.

And there, at the end of the street, the silhouette appeared. The man in the wheelchair.

His eyes glinted in the dark, like two pale stars in the endless black. His coat was tattered and torn, the fabric hanging in shreds, and his hands, pale and thin, rested on the wheels of the chair. He did not move. He simply sat there, watching. Waiting.

Vladimir froze. The air felt thick with tension, suffocating him. The snow seemed to press in around him, as if trying to silence him, to trap him in this moment.

And then, as always, the voice came. Soft, like the rustle of leaves in a forgotten graveyard.

"You can't escape."

Vladimir's heart skipped a beat. His eyes went wide, and his mouth went dry. His legs—his useless, broken legs—felt like they were on fire, his muscles twitching as though they were screaming to move, to run. But he could not. He couldn't escape. Not this time. Not ever.

He had no choice. He could feel it—the cold, the suffocating grip of inevitability. The man was coming for him. He was always coming.

Vladimir wheeled himself back, but it was too late. The wheels on the snow were too slow. The man's chair moved silently, almost as if gliding across the ground. He was getting closer.

With each turn of the wheel, the distance between them grew smaller, the air heavier. The world around Vladimir seemed to shrink, until there was nothing left but the sound of the man's chair, growing louder and louder, filling his ears.

The cold bit at his skin like a thousand needles, and his breath came in shallow gasps. He couldn't breathe. He couldn't think.

And then, the moment came. The man was upon him, his eyes wide and empty, like two dead fish staring at him with all the sadness and death of the world.

Vladimir tried to scream, but the sound didn't come. He tried to run, but his legs wouldn't obey. There was no escape. There had never been an escape.

The man reached out, his cold fingers brushing Vladimir's face. And then, with a sickening finality, Vladimir felt his body begin to dissolve. His hands, his legs, his very being—all of it began to slip away, like sand through an hourglass. The world around him seemed to shrink, to close in on itself, until there was nothing but darkness.

And in the darkness, Vladimir could hear the man's voice once more.

"You're mine now."

The last thing Vladimir saw before he disappeared was the man's pale eyes, cold and lifeless, staring into his soul. And then, as though he had never been there at all, Vladimir was gone.