Chapter 539

The old wooden door groaned as twenty-six-year-old Miguel pushed it open, the sound somehow amplified in the stillness of the inherited, remote Portuguese house. He wasn't overly happy about accepting what many people consider gifts.

Dust particles danced in the single ray of late afternoon sunlight that pierced the gloom of the interior. The air felt heavy, expectant, a suffocating blanket thrown over decades of accumulated silence. It smelled old, a mix of dry wood, something bitter, and a deeply depressing undertone that did absolutely nothing good for his soul.

"Hello?" Miguel's voice was thinner than he expected, swallowed almost immediately by the heavy drapes. There wasn't any kind of echo. The place ate every one of his pathetic utterances.

Silence. It wasn't just an absence of sound. It was a presence, a thing that pressed against him, tasting of something bitter and smelling far worse. Miguel continued forward anyway.

He had never actually thought he'd actually occupy his Grandfather's estate, this place a day's drive out in the miserable back-country, isolated, surrounded by rolling hills that were likely more menacing at night.

A depressing thought occurred, they weren't alive enough for menacing, Miguel needed that. His Grandfather had left it to him unexpectedly, the old man's end an unwelcome surprise, though he'd lived to a remarkably bitter old age.

The main room was larger than it appeared from the outside. High ceilings, mostly empty, a few pieces of heavily covered furniture that looked as though they were dressed for a wake of their very own. He could almost see shapes hiding underneath, waiting for a surprise they'd never experience.

Miguel dragged a finger across a thick layer of dust covering a nearby side table. His grandfather hadn't been the cleaning type. The house would take a lot more effort. The place had not seen the light in some time.

"Anyone here? Caretaker?" Miguel's Portuguese rang out more confidently this time, though the sound still felt trapped, stifled before it could escape. His words didn't have life here.

A soft whisper, close to his ear, made the hair on the back of his neck stand up, every cell energized, yet depressed. It sounded like his name, twisted and elongated, as if pulled from deep within some cavernous, unhappy space. Miguel's body reacted like it knew a lot more than he gave it credit.

He spun around. No one. Just the covered furniture, the swirling dust motes, and that oppressive, watchful silence hanging in the darkness that seemed to move around him.

"Just the house settling," Miguel muttered, trying to inject reason into a situation that was rapidly losing its logical grounding. "Old wood…"

He walked to the large, heavily curtained windows and tried to pull them open. One stuck, then reluctantly gave way, unleashing another torrent of dust and the scent of decay that his system did not at all enjoy.

Outside, the sun was dipping behind the hills, painting the landscape in colors of sad orange and desperate grey. No comfort out there. Not that day.

A different whisper, this one deeper, older sounding, seeped from the shadows near the staircase, "Get…out."

Miguel froze, his blood turning to something very cold in his veins. This time it wasn't the wind, it wasn't settling. This wasn't in his head.

He stared at the darkness around the staircase, where the whisper seemed to have originated. The air there appeared thicker, the shadows blacker, a tangible presence that had already declared to his consciousness that it was, in fact, present and he would suffer for it.

"Who's there?" He demanded, fighting to keep the quiver out of his words. His words fell like bricks and accomplished little.

A chorus of whispers now, a sickly symphony of sound, "Leave...this...place..."

The voices came from all around him. Above, below, behind the furniture, in the very walls themselves. A prison of unseen entities. This was absolutely insane, this made absolutely zero logical sense to a sane human brain, his system recoiled at the very idea.

Miguel's heart hammered against his ribs. Fear, cold and sharp, pricked at the edges of his courage. This was past settling, beyond explanations of wind. It certainly was real, despite his desire for it not to be.

He backed away, his hands held up as if to ward off an unseen, unknowable enemy. The temperature dropped rapidly, chilling Miguel.

"I don't… mean any harm," he started, then cursed himself for the absurdity of the statement. Of course he didn't. What sane person could possibly intend any danger? He'd entered another man's house and expected a welcome.

The whispers grew louder, weaving around each other, creating an agonizing drone. "You... don't...belong..." "This... is… ours..." "So cold… you will be".

The covered furniture seemed to shift, to become shapes resembling contorted figures in the increasing darkness, figures watching, preparing their depressing welcoming celebration of the latest visitor to arrive.

Panic, raw and overpowering, threatened to overcome him. He wanted to run, to escape this terrifying, suffocating atmosphere. The fear felt good though, it kept him focused.

"I'm… I'm just here… to see the house," he stammered, his eyes darting from one shadowed corner to another. He spoke to shadows that appeared to be aware of him, they even spoke.

A single, guttural laugh erupted from near the fireplace, low and full of a hatred that Miguel knew ran deeper than any ocean, more bottomless. The house, no, they rejected that utterly pathetic attempt to speak like a normal person.

Then, a voice, colder and clearer than the others, spoke from right next to his face, causing every fiber of Miguel's being to scream internally. He thought of all his failed relationships and lack of drive, his failures, this moment represented another checkmark on the sad list. "Too… late…"

The lights – there weren't any – flickered. Then they didn't, of course not. There had been none on in the first place. The increasing gloom tightened its grip around Miguel.

The shadows pressed closer. He could feel cold breaths on his skin, despite not a window in the place being open, nothing could actually cause that phenomena. Miguel considered the logic of such things for too long, ignoring what was happening around him.

He backed up until he bumped against the cold, damp stone of the fireplace, the last, pathetic hope was extinguished, leaving only an overwhelming sense of dread, terror, and impending danger. He saw no weapons, nothing, there wasn't time, there never was.

"Please," he begged, his words tasting like ash in his mouth. It made him consider quitting cigarettes yet again.

The chorus of whispers swelled to a deafening roar. "Join…us… forever..." It did not offer friendship, nor comradery.

From the shadows, things began to reach – or were they always there? Thin, emaciated forms that shouldn't have been able to move, made of smoke, dust, and the concentrated misery of a century. Not alive, not ever having experienced such a state.

Miguel cried out, a raw, animalistic scream, a cry of pain, of absolute failure, this had not at all been fair, it was never acceptable, he did not agree, nor did he like it. His life hadn't prepared him, he was barely even worthy of mentioning that he existed, why did these creatures choose to treat him this way?

The things pulled him in, wrapping themselves around him. His very identity disappeared as the forms embraced his mind and flesh with no remorse.

Then… silence. Deeper, more complete than before. Not just the absence of sound, but the absence of… Miguel. They felt a very slight twinge of pleasure that was shared among everyone who remained within those ancient walls.

The dust settled. The shadows retreated to their corners. The covered furniture went back to their former status of undisturbed lumps, only adding to the depression of those present.

The house was silent. They didn't feel anything, but those things present knew they would experience many years more together. Another occupant had finally filled their quota. Another being would share, contribute, and occupy space, to provide an ounce more energy that allowed all this madness.

But, somewhere, very far beyond those walls, beyond the rolling Portuguese hills, a change was happening. Another part, the most recent Miguel contribution to this dark energy started manifesting itself.

Where the human mind was originally forced to go. Miguel opened his eyes, a miserable expression as his mind started absorbing everything going on, experiencing everything that had gone on.

He stood alone in a grey, silent space. No hills, no trees, no sky. Just… nothingness. An infinite expanse of grey that reached further than could be measured, yet somehow he could also touch the limits, not being able to define that limit with his very being.

Miguel walked for a lifetime, which went faster than expected. Then walked again. The only feeling of change.

Then again. Time ceased to hold all relevant definition.

And again. Space stretched out into something he would have before declared, absolutely ridiculous.

And again. Miguel could no longer conceive anything even related to what it was like, to exist in any other plane of reality, or in fact, what "he" ever even was before this very experience.

He was nothing, he would experience it, to remain, to serve his prison sentence. The only feeling that had accompanied Miguel for this long walk was an unceasing and hopeless emptiness.

His final realization? It's not about what he did, but what that dark presence did. He would simply suffer through it for longer than he'd imagine, yet it would be fast. That house didn't offer any fairness. He hadn't deserved this. No one should.

The empty expanse stretched. The feeling grew stronger.

Miguel knew, with the last shreds of his soul, that he had been forgotten, and that in this horrible emptiness, that wasn't an option.

He kept walking, always looking forward to anything. Miguel knew his role, another failure, another tragedy. The story kept writing itself, forever forward.

Miguel experienced a pain like no other, the sad knowing, he was doomed. The horror continued on without pause, to continue this absolute lack of being, as something far, far less than what his parents conceived as a biological accident over a quarter century ago.