Whispers in the Veil

The world around Arthur had grown quieter. Not in the comforting way of a peaceful night, but in the suffocating way of something lurking just beyond his sight. The air inside his house had changed—it felt heavier, charged with something unseen yet undeniably present.

He had barely slept since that night in the basement. The book, the voice, the memories… they clung to him like a second skin. Even now, as he sat in the dim glow of his desk lamp, flipping absentmindedly through a tattered notebook, his mind refused to settle. His thoughts wandered back to his mother, to the asylum, to the things she had seen in him long before he ever questioned himself.

"You're not my son."

The words echoed, crawling under his skin like a parasite.

A sharp knock at his bedroom door shattered the stillness. Arthur tensed, his fingers instinctively curling into fists.

"Arthur?" Eleanor's voice, calm but edged with hesitation. "You awake?"

He exhaled slowly, running a hand through his disheveled hair before responding. "No, this is my ghost. Arthur died of boredom hours ago."

The door creaked open, and Eleanor leaned against the frame, arms crossed. "Charming. You keep this up, and you might actually scare someone."

He smirked, though it didn't quite reach his eyes. "Isn't that the goal?"

She studied him for a moment before stepping inside, closing the door behind her. "Dad's worried about you," she said, her tone careful. "And for once, I think he's right to be."

Arthur scoffed, leaning back in his chair. "Yeah? And what exactly is he worried about? That I might set the house on fire in my sleep? Maybe summon a demon for company?"

Eleanor didn't laugh. She took a step closer, her gaze unwavering. "You're different," she said quietly. "I see it. The way you look at things now, like you're seeing through them. Like the world doesn't feel real to you anymore."

Arthur's jaw tightened. He wanted to throw out some sarcastic remark, to deflect, to pretend she was imagining things. But deep down, he knew she wasn't wrong.

Something inside him had changed.

Before he could respond, a sudden chill swept through the room, cutting through the warm air like an icy blade. The lamp flickered, the shadows stretching unnaturally across the walls. Eleanor's breath hitched, and Arthur felt it too—that shift, that presence.

Then came the whisper.

Faint. Distant. Yet unmistakable.

"Master..."

Arthur shot to his feet, his pulse hammering. The voice—it was the same one from the basement, the same one that had slithered into his mind that night. But this time, it wasn't coming from within him.

It was coming from the hallway.

Eleanor turned sharply, her eyes scanning the darkness beyond the door. "Did you hear that?" she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

Arthur swallowed hard. "Yeah."

Another whisper. Closer.

The temperature plummeted. Their breath curled in the air, visible in the dim light. Eleanor took a cautious step toward the door, but Arthur grabbed her wrist.

"Don't," he said, his voice low, commanding.

She looked at him, searching his face. "Arthur, what—"

A sudden knock. Not at his bedroom door—but from somewhere deeper in the house.

Three slow, deliberate taps.

Arthur felt his blood run cold.

Not because someone was knocking.

But because the house was empty.

Their father wouldn't be home for another hour. And there was no one else inside.

Eleanor's fingers tightened around his. "Arthur…"

The whispers returned, multiplying, overlapping—an eerie chorus of voices slithering through the walls. The sound sent a shiver down Arthur's spine, his grip on Eleanor tightening.

Then—silence.

A silence so complete it felt unnatural, as if the house itself was holding its breath.

And then—

The door at the end of the hall creaked open on its own.

Eleanor took a sharp step back. "Nope. No. I refuse to be in a horror movie right now," she muttered, her voice shaking despite the bravado.

Arthur exhaled slowly, forcing his fear down. His mind raced, logic clashing against the undeniable reality of what was happening.

He could feel it now—that thing, that presence watching them from the darkness beyond the doorway.

Waiting.

Arthur clenched his jaw. If whatever this was thought it could haunt him, it was dead wrong.

It should be afraid of him.

He took a step forward.

The whispers giggled.