The Whispering Abyss

Arthur's breath came in ragged gasps as he stumbled backward, his pulse hammering in his ears. The basement was suffocatingly dark, the air thick with dust and something else—something ancient. A shudder ran through his body as he clenched and unclenched his fists, trying to shake the lingering numbness in his fingertips. The book still sat open before him, its pages a sickly yellow, the ink shimmering as though alive under the dim light.

Then, the voice slithered through his mind again, its tone a mix of mockery and something unsettlingly familiar.

"Do you remember now, Master? Do you see the truth hidden beneath your fragile little world?"

A sharp, piercing pain shot through his skull, forcing Arthur to clutch his head. It was like nails being driven into his brain—relentless, merciless. He squeezed his eyes shut, his breathing uneven. The voice's laughter echoed around him, but it wasn't just in his head anymore. It was in the walls. In the floor beneath him. In the very air he breathed.

Then, the room flickered.

The wooden shelves, the old furniture, the forgotten relics of his childhood—all dissolved into shadows.

And Arthur was somewhere else.

A vast abyss stretched before him, blacker than the deepest night. The ground beneath his feet was slick, like wet stone, yet it pulsed as if alive, throbbing in sync with his own racing heartbeat. Towering monoliths of obsidian jutted out from the void, their surfaces carved with symbols that burned crimson in the darkness. The air was thick, charged with an energy that crackled against his skin, raising the hairs on his arms.

Arthur turned, searching for anything any sign of familiarity but the void stretched endlessly in every direction.

A presence loomed over him massive, unseen, but suffocating in its intensity. The weight of it pressed down on his chest, making it hard to breathe. It was as if something ancient had been waiting for him, watching, lurking just beyond the veil of reality.

Then, the whisper returned closer this time, brushing against the back of his mind like cold fingers trailing down his spine.

"Not ready yet, are you?" the voice mused. "No matter. Soon, you will understand."

The abyss trembled. A force—cold, relentless—wrapped around him, pulling him downward. Arthur thrashed, panic seizing his chest, but the shadows swallowed him whole.

And then

He woke up.

His body jolted so violently that he tumbled off his bed, hitting the floor with a sharp thud. His lungs burned as if he had been drowning, his chest rising and falling in shallow, frantic breaths. The wooden floor was cold against his skin, but his body was drenched in sweat. His fingers clawed at the fabric of his shirt, his pulse pounding against his ribs.

The room was dark. Too dark.

The air was thick, heavy with something more than just the remnants of his nightmare. His eyes darted toward the window.

It was open.

A slow, chilling breeze curled through the curtains, sending a shiver down his spine. The night outside was silent too silent. Even the usual distant hum of passing cars or the rustling of tree branches was absent.

And then, just beyond the glass, in the dim glow of the streetlights

A figure.

Standing motionless. Watching.

Arthur's breath caught in his throat. His muscles tensed, every fiber of his being screaming at him to move, to hide, to do something. But he couldn't. He was frozen, trapped in the grip of some unseen force.

The figure didn't move. It didn't shift. Didn't blink.

Just stared.

And then...

It smiled