Chapter 455

The old man sat in his worn-out chair by the window, the sunlight streaming through the cracked glass, casting long, thin shadows across the dimly lit room. The years had taken their toll, and his once strong hands now trembled, fingers barely able to grip the armrest.

His bones ached, and his joints creaked, but his mind… his mind still clung to memories as if they were the only thing that had any meaning left.

His mind lingered on her. Margaret. Her name tasted strange on his lips now, like a fading song. It had been many years since she passed, but sometimes, just sometimes, he could hear her.

Not in the way one might hear the wind or a bird's song, but a soft whisper in the corners of his mind. Her voice. A ghost of what had once been. It lingered, just out of reach.

"Margaret," he muttered under his breath, the word more of a sigh than anything else.

The house around him seemed to shift, like it was aware of his thoughts. It groaned, the floorboards creaking with a life of their own. The smell of old wood and the faint trace of dust filled the air.

The world outside the window was too bright, too full of life, while inside, the space felt frozen in time. Stagnant. As if it hadn't moved in years.

He closed his eyes, resting his head back against the chair, letting the dull warmth of the fading sunlight wash over him. For a brief moment, he imagined she was there. In the room.

Her soft laugh, her voice that had soothed him through all the darkest moments of their lives together. But when he opened his eyes again, there was nothing but the same old room. The same emptiness.

"Margaret…" he whispered again, this time with more force. His voice trembled, cracked, but the name still held power.

The chill in the air, though, was undeniable. It wasn't the cold of winter creeping through the cracks in the walls; it was something else. Something that sent a shiver through his spine, though he couldn't place why.

The hair on the back of his neck stood on end, and for the first time in many years, the old man felt fear. He wasn't sure why. It wasn't a sensation he was used to, not after all this time. But there it was—rising in his chest, pushing against his ribs, filling the air around him.

The clock on the wall ticked loudly, its rhythmic sound unnerving in the heavy silence. The minutes dragged by, stretching on, making him feel like the room itself was closing in on him.

He glanced at the clock. It was almost 4:00, the time she used to arrive home from her walk. He could almost hear her footsteps on the front porch, the soft creak of the door as it opened.

She was never late. Not back then.

He stood, his legs stiff, a small grunt of effort escaping his lips as he pushed himself from the chair. His mind was a fog, but his body was still functional enough to make his way through the familiar hallway. The pictures on the wall blurred in his vision as he passed. Faces, smiles frozen in time, all of them long gone. His hands brushed against the edges of the frame of one photograph in particular—an old picture of her. She was young, laughing, her eyes bright with life. He touched the glass lightly.

"Where did you go, Margaret?" he whispered, his voice full of longing.

He continued walking, his movements slow but determined. The floorboards groaned beneath his weight, but they had always done so. They had always been here. He reached the door to their bedroom. The one she had spent so many nights in, the one where they had laughed, cried, and shared everything. A room full of memories that clung to the walls like cobwebs.

His hand hovered over the knob, but he hesitated. There was something in the air, something he couldn't quite explain. It was a pull, a quiet urging from somewhere deep within him. He had no logical reason to feel anything other than the exhaustion of old age, but his heart raced.

The sense of presence, of something unseen, made him pause. He'd felt it before, in moments when his mind wandered too far. When it reached out beyond the veil of memory and touched something he couldn't comprehend.

His breath caught in his throat.

"Margaret?" he called, though his voice was barely more than a whisper.

The door creaked open, a low sound that reverberated through the stillness of the house. The bedroom was dark, the curtains drawn tight against the sunlight. The bed was neatly made, the covers tucked in as they always had been. But the air was heavy. Too heavy.

Then, in the corner of the room, just beyond his line of sight, something moved.

His heart leapt in his chest. His pulse quickened as his body instinctively tensed. He didn't know why, but he felt the overwhelming urge to step into the room. To go toward whatever it was.

"Margaret…" he murmured again, his voice trembling, but louder this time.

The figure didn't move at first. It stood still, an outline in the darkened corner, barely perceptible against the shadows. But it was there. He could feel it. The hairs on his arms rose, his body stiffening. It wasn't a feeling he was used to. This… wasn't right. But still, his feet shuffled forward.

The figure shifted, its movements too slow, too deliberate. He took another step, drawn to it like a moth to a flame.

"Margaret…" His voice broke.

The figure turned toward him. At first, it was just a shape, a vague outline of a person, but as it stepped closer, he saw it. The face was hers. It was Margaret's face. But there was something off about it. Her skin, pale as bone, stretched tight over her skull, and her eyes were wide, unblinking, unnaturally so. Her lips parted, but no sound came out.

The old man felt a cold rush of air, like ice being poured down his spine. His legs shook beneath him, and he tried to back away, but the figure stepped forward again, blocking the exit.

"Margaret?" he asked, his voice barely audible, his chest tightening with fear.

The figure tilted its head, and the air seemed to freeze. The silence was deafening. It was her, but it wasn't. The eyes that once had been full of love now stared at him with an emptiness he couldn't fathom. It was as if whatever had once been his wife was now hollowed out, replaced by something else. Something wrong.

"Come to me, John," the figure rasped, its voice no longer the gentle sound he remembered. It was deep, guttural, harsh. Not her voice. But still, it called him.

The room seemed to warp around him. The walls shifted, bending in unnatural angles, as if reality itself was twisting. His head swam. His knees buckled beneath him, but he couldn't look away. He couldn't break free.

"Margaret…" he whispered, though it felt like a prayer. His eyes were wide, desperate, searching for the woman he had loved in this thing, this imitation.

The figure reached out toward him, her fingers elongated, too long, stretching unnaturally far. The cold touch of its hand wrapped around his wrist, sending a shock through his body. The moment her fingers made contact, a wave of darkness crashed over him, and his vision blurred.

His heart raced in his chest, and for a moment, he thought he might pass out. But the sensation was not one of unconsciousness. It was something worse. It was as if he was being drawn into the depths of something he couldn't escape. His body refused to move, trapped in the grip of whatever force held him now.

And then, as quickly as it had begun, the room seemed to still. The figure stood before him, face now contorted into something grotesque, a hollow mockery of the woman he had once loved. He couldn't bring himself to look away, even as the room seemed to grow colder. He felt the very air pressing against his skin, tightening around him.

"Margaret, please…" he begged, but his voice faltered, breaking apart.

The figure didn't speak again. It simply stared, unblinking, as the old man's heart pounded in his chest. It was too much. It was all too much.

And then, with a sudden lurch of his body, he was falling. Falling through the darkness, as if the world beneath him had given way. His breath caught in his throat as the shadows closed in around him, swallowing him whole.

When he opened his eyes again, he was back in the chair. The window was still there, the light still fading into the evening, casting long, stretching shadows across the floor. The air was cold now, colder than it had been before. He was alone again.

But he wasn't. He could feel it. She was there. Still, somehow. Only… not.

The house was silent. The darkness pressed in from all sides, suffocating him. The weight of it was unbearable. His hands were shaking as he reached out, his fingers gripping the armrest once more.

But there was no escape. No escape from her. Not anymore.