Echoes of the Past

The first day of Arthur's suspension coincided with the day his father and older sister, Eleanor, planned to visit his mother at the asylum. The autumn wind howled outside, rattling the windows of their quiet suburban home. His father, with a lighthearted yet knowing smirk, leaned against the doorframe of Arthur's room and asked, "Our fierce little prince isn't coming with us?"

Arthur, sprawled on his bed, barely glanced up from the cracks in the ceiling he had been staring at. The words clawed at something deep within him, something old and bitter.

"After what she did to me when I was a kid? Not a chance."

His father sighed, rubbing his temples. Eleanor, standing behind him, cast a worried glance at Arthur, but said nothing. The tension in the air was thick, heavy with unspoken thoughts. Then, without another word, they left, the front door clicking shut behind them.

And then, silence.

Arthur hadn't realized how much he relied on the background noise of his family's presence until it was gone. The house, which usually carried the hum of daily life—the faint sound of the television, the clinking of dishes, the rustling of pages from his father's endless reading—felt hollow now. Empty.

He exhaled slowly and sat up, rubbing his face. Sleep had been elusive since that night. The image of Megan's eyes, those haunting, empty embers, refused to leave his mind. Jeff's eerie, unreadable smile gnawed at the edges of his thoughts. No matter how much he tried to rationalize it, there was something about their betrayal that went beyond human cruelty. It was… unnatural.

Then it came.

A sound so sharp and grating, like nails dragging across a chalkboard, tore through his skull. Arthur flinched, clutching his head as the noise twisted into something worse—a whisper, slithering into his mind like a serpent.

"Master… Master…"

His breath hitched, his pulse hammering against his ribs. The whisper wasn't coming from outside. It was inside him, pressing against his thoughts like an unwelcome parasite. The voice was neither male nor female, but something in between, something ancient and cold.

Terror clawed at his chest, urging him to run. But his body refused to obey. Instead, an unnatural pull, deep and insistent, forced his legs to move. He stood on unsteady feet, his steps slow and reluctant as he made his way out of his room, down the dimly lit hallway. Every shadow seemed to stretch unnaturally, crawling toward him like hungry fingers.

Down the stairs he went, each creaking step echoing too loudly in the empty house. The voice grew louder, the screech more unbearable, guiding him toward a place he had not dared to enter in years.

The basement door.

It loomed before him, its wooden surface warped with age, the brass handle cold beneath his trembling fingers. He hesitated—but the voice didn't.

"Break it… Open it…"

The whispers slithered through his thoughts, wrapping around his will, suffocating his hesitation. Against every rational instinct screaming at him to turn back, Arthur twisted the handle and stepped into the abyss below.

The basement was as dark and cold as he remembered. Dust clung to the air, thick and heavy, the scent of forgotten things pressing against his lungs. Shadows sprawled across the damp concrete walls, twisting as the dim light from the stairwell flickered. The hum of silence was deafening.

Then, amidst the dust and relics of his childhood, his eyes landed on something unnatural.

An old, peculiar box sat in the farthest corner of the room, untouched by time, its surface covered in intricate symbols he did not recognize. A deep, unsettling feeling curled in his gut, warning him. But the voice urged him forward.

His hands, now steadier than they should have been, grasped the edges of the box. The moment his fingers made contact, a shiver shot up his spine. With one final, hesitant breath, he pried it open.

Inside lay a book, bound in what looked like aged, leathery flesh. A grotesque, contorted face seemed to be sewn into its cover, its hollow eyes staring back at him with an expression of eternal torment. Arthur recoiled, his breath catching in his throat. His mind screamed at him to close the box, to walk away, to pretend he never saw it.

But he couldn't.

An unseen force compelled him forward. His fingers twitched before reaching out, barely brushing against the book's cover.

The instant he made contact, a violent surge of red lightning shot through his body, burning through his veins like liquid fire. His vision exploded with color, his ears filled with the sound of distant screams.

And then—

Darkness.