Chapter 347

The bell above the door rang softly as the old man entered the barber shop. The air was sharp with the tang of aftershave and the rustle of newspapers. Few came in these days. The barber's hands shook as he dried his scissors with a clean cloth, wiping away the faint traces of blood.

He had been a barber for thirty years. And he was very, very good at it. His hands, calloused and practiced, never faltered as they trimmed, cut, and shaved. He was known for his precision, for his quiet, careful demeanor.

And yet, those who sat in his chair often felt a strange unease, a tightness that grew as the minutes ticked by. They'd never be able to describe it—too strange, too subtle. But it was there.

His name was George, and like most men, he had his habits. Some were good. Others weren't.

"Afternoon," the old man said, his voice cracked with age. He limped slightly as he took a seat.

George nodded, his eyes flicking to the door behind him. The bell would ring again soon. He always had customers, even if they came less and less.

"What can I do for you today?" George asked. His voice was steady, flat. He could have been talking about the weather.

The old man settled in, resting his hands on the arms of the chair. He had been coming here for years, so George had a rough idea of what he wanted. A shave, maybe a trim. Something simple.

George picked up his straight razor, checking its edge. He slid it across his thumb, testing for sharpness. The blade was as sharp as it had been that morning. No matter how many customers came, no matter how many days passed, the blade never dulled. It was always perfect.

The old man's voice broke his thoughts. "You know, I remember the days when this place was full. You had a line out the door." He chuckled dryly, but there was no warmth in it.

"I do remember," George said. His voice didn't change, but his hands tightened around the razor. "Things change, though."

"They do," the old man agreed. He sighed deeply. "They do."

The barber's hands moved deftly as he worked, the familiar rhythm settling him. The old man's face was still, almost frozen, as George worked the razor over his skin, just below the jawline.

The blade was so sharp it barely made a sound. But George didn't need to hear it. He could feel the sharpness, the precision of every stroke. He could feel the blood beneath the skin, the fragile tissue that kept everything together.

As George leaned closer, he felt a strange pull, a tug at his chest. The man was so still, his body so quiet. It almost seemed like he wasn't breathing. But George didn't stop. He had been doing this too long.

The doorbell rang again, but George didn't look up. There was something about the old man that kept him grounded, something familiar. Maybe it was the slowness of his movements, the way he seemed to fade into the chair, as though he belonged there.

But the sound of the door opening did something to the man. His fingers twitched, and for a moment, the stillness in the shop broke. His eyes, gray and hollow, flicked toward the door.

And then the air shifted. George didn't know how to explain it. It wasn't fear. It wasn't anger. It was just... change.

A figure stood in the doorway. Tall, with a broad coat and a hood pulled low over its face. It was strange, unsettling in a way George couldn't place.

The figure stood there for a moment before stepping inside. The bell above the door rang again, like it always did, but this time, it felt different.

The figure didn't speak. It didn't move.

George's hand tightened on the razor. He tried to focus, tried to finish what he was doing, but there was something in the air now, something thick and oppressive that made it hard to breathe.

The figure took a step toward the chair, its movements slow and deliberate. The old man didn't react.

He couldn't react.

George felt his heartbeat quicken. His eyes flicked from the figure to the old man. And in that brief moment, he saw it. The look on the old man's face. The fear. The horror.

The razor slipped. Blood spilled.

The old man let out a low, strangled sound, but it wasn't enough. It wasn't a scream. It wasn't a shout. It was more like a plea.

George froze. His hands shook. His chest tightened.

It wasn't the first time he'd seen blood. But it was the first time it felt wrong. The blood wasn't the usual red. It was darker, thicker. It spread across the old man's face like ink.

The figure moved closer, stepping around the chair. George's breath caught in his throat.

"I think that'll be enough," the figure said. The voice was deep, cold. Like stone grinding against stone.

George didn't know what to do. His hands trembled as he set the razor down on the counter. The figure was closer now, its shadow cast long over the floor.

The old man's body shifted, spasming violently as the blood pooled around him. The room felt smaller, tighter. George felt the walls pressing in on him.

"You..." the old man whispered.

"You know what's coming," the figure said. "You always have."

George stood there, his legs frozen. The terror was different now. It wasn't the terror of a customer in his chair. It was the terror of his own reflection staring back at him.

The figure stepped behind him, and George felt it—the icy coldness on the back of his neck. He didn't turn around. He couldn't. The words stuck in his throat. He couldn't speak.

"Do you remember them?" the figure asked softly. "Do you remember the ones who came before?"

George's eyes were wide, his hands trembling at his sides. His mind raced. The faces flashed before him—familiar faces, faces he had cut, bled, and watched fade away. The young man with the crooked smile. The boy who had been nervous, who had sat still until the moment his body had gone slack in the chair. The middle-aged woman who had smiled at him before her life drained away. The old man, with his eyes now glazed, staring at the ceiling.

"No," George whispered, though it wasn't a word. It was a gasp, a plea for mercy that would never come.

"You never learned," the figure said.

The last thing George felt was the cold blade at his throat. His hands reached for it, but the fingers wouldn't move. The shop was silent again. The bell above the door remained still.

In his final moments, George wondered how many times he had been here, how many faces he had seen, how many times he had believed that each one was the last. And yet, he knew now, with a certainty that came too late, there would always be more.

Always more.

And then, the darkness that had been waiting for him all along finally swallowed him whole.