Chapter Five: The Call of the Shadows

Lin Ruo stood frozen, the paper trembling in her hands. The child's words—You shouldn't have come back—echoed in her skull, sharp and cold as a blade. She stared at the small figure before her, its face a mirror of her own from years past: wide eyes, pale skin, lips trembling with fear. But the voice was wrong—raspy, layered, like something ancient wearing her childhood skin. The symbol on the paper pulsed, its bloody ink seeping into her fingers, staining them red. You are the key.

Her breath hitched. "What… what are you?" she stammered, stepping back. The child tilted its head, mimicking her movement with an uncanny precision that made her stomach lurch. It didn't answer, only pointed at the paper with a bony finger, its nail cracked and black.

"I don't understand," Lin Ruo said, voice breaking. "A key to what?"The child's mouth stretched into a grin, too wide, splitting its face until the corners bled. "To finish it," it rasped, and the room shuddered. The rotting walls groaned, black liquid oozing faster, pooling around her feet. She stumbled back, the paper slipping from her grasp. It hit the floor, and the symbol flared, casting a sickly red glow that painted the child's face in crimson.

A low hum filled the air, rising into a chorus of whispers—her name, over and over, Lin Ruo, Lin Ruo, Lin Ruo—from every direction. She clapped her hands over her ears, but the sound burrowed deeper, clawing at her mind. The child stepped forward, its small feet dragging through the black sludge, leaving smeared footprints. Its eyes darkened, pupils swelling until they swallowed the whites, staring into her with an emptiness that sucked the air from her lungs.

"Stop it!" she screamed, voice cracking. The child froze, head tilting further, neck bending at an impossible angle. The whispers paused, then surged back louder, sharper, like knives scraping glass. She felt a sting on her wrist; the symbol there glowed brighter, its tendrils snaking up her arm, burning as they spread.

Her vision blurred. The room twisted—walls buckling, floor melting into a viscous black sea. She saw herself as a child again, standing at the edge of a pit, fog swirling around her. A faceless figure loomed, pressing a book into her hands. "Speak it," it said, voice a chorus of the dead. She opened her mouth, but no sound came—only fog, pouring from her throat, swallowing her whole.

She gasped, snapping back to the room. The child was gone. The paper lay at her feet, the symbol now a sprawling web of red veins across its surface. She bent to pick it up, fingers trembling, when a shadow flickered in the corner of her eye. She turned, heart pounding.

They were everywhere.Shapes emerged from the fog beyond the room's broken walls—tall, faceless, heads tilted, arms dragging with the crack of snapping bones. Shadows, dozens of them, their outlines shimmering like heat waves. They stood motionless, staring at her—or so it felt, despite their lack of eyes. The whispers returned, softer now, a rhythmic chant: Speak it, speak it, speak it.

Her legs shook. "Leave me alone!" she shouted, clutching the paper to her chest. The shadows twitched, as if her voice stirred them, then began to move. Slowly at first, their jagged steps echoed in unison, a grotesque march closing in around her. One drew near, its faceless head inches from hers. She swung her arm, but it passed through like smoke, leaving a chill that numbed her skin.

"Lin Ruo…"The voice came from the shadow, low and wet, like something drowning. She staggered back, tripping over the black liquid pooling deeper. Another shadow loomed, its arm stretching impossibly long, brushing her cheek. Its touch was ice, and her mind flashed—Zhang Ran's face, pale and grinning, melting into blood.

"Stop!" she cried. The shadows halted, trembling as if bound by her command. Her wrist burned hotter, the symbol pulsing in time with her racing heart. She stared at them, chest heaving. "What do you want from me?"

One shadow raised a twisted hand, pointing at the paper. Its form flickered, and for a moment, it wore Zhang Ran's face—hollow-eyed, grinning—before dissolving back into emptiness. "Finish it," it rasped, voice echoing with others, a cacophony of the lost.

Her head spun. Finish what? The ceremony from her childhood? The book's ritual? She didn't know, but the shadows pressed closer, their whispers rising into a scream that tore at her ears. She clutched the paper tighter, its edges cutting into her palms, blood mixing with the ink.

The floor cracked beneath her. Black hands erupted—pale, mangled, clawing up from the liquid. They grabbed at her legs, nails digging into her skin. She kicked free, scrambling to her feet as the shadows lunged, their forms splitting and merging like fractured mirrors. One seized her arm; its grip was solid now, ice-cold and crushing. She screamed, wrenching away, but more hands burst forth, dragging her down.

Her knees hit the ground, the paper slipping. It landed in the black sea, and the symbol flared brighter, illuminating the room in a hellish red. The shadows froze, heads tilting as one. The hands retreated, sinking back into the floor with a wet slurp. Silence fell, heavy and suffocating.

She panted, staring at the paper. The red script had changed, sprawling into jagged lines—she recognized it now: the missing thirteenth page from Zhang Ran's log, the one she'd found in the library. It pulsed, alive, and she felt a pull, an urge to read it aloud. Her lips parted, but she clamped them shut, shaking her head.

"No," she whispered. "I won't."The shadows shuddered, a low growl rumbling from their faceless forms. The room quaked; cracks spiderwebbed across the walls, black liquid gushing forth. A shadow stepped forward, its shape shifting—Zhang Ran's face again, then a woman's, then a child's—all hollow-eyed, all grinning. "You will," it said, voices overlapping.

Her mind fractured. She saw the pit again—hands reaching, the faceless figure turning. But this time, it spoke her childhood nickname: "Xiao Ruo." She stumbled back, reality splintering. The shadows advanced, their whispers a deafening roar: Speak it, speak it, speak it.

She grabbed the paper, hands shaking. The script burned her eyes—words she couldn't read, yet understood: a chant, ancient and hungry. Her throat tightened, a force pressing her to speak. She bit her tongue, tasting blood, fighting the compulsion.

The shadows screamed—a shrill, glass-shattering wail. The floor split wider; a massive hand emerged, pale and twisted, its claws like scythes. It swiped at her; she dove aside, slamming into the wall. The paper fluttered, caught by the hand, and the room erupted in red light.

The shadows dissolved into mist, but the hand remained, clutching the page. The script bled faster, dripping onto the floor, forming a circle around her. She felt the air shift—something waking, something vast. Her wrist seared; the symbol expanded, covering her forearm, writhing beneath her skin.

"No!" she shouted, clawing at her arm. The circle pulsed, and the fog thickened, swirling into a vortex above. A shape formed within—tall, faceless, holding a crimson book. It descended, its presence crushing her chest.

"You are the key," it said, voices booming, shaking the walls. The massive hand slammed the paper before her, the chant now clear in her mind, unbidden. Her lips moved against her will, a single word escaping: "Awaken."

The vortex roared, tearing the room apart. Cracks split the air itself, revealing a void beyond—darkness alive with eyes, watching her. The figure raised the book; page thirteen glowed, its script mirroring her wrist. The massive hand lunged, seizing her, dragging her toward the void.

She screamed, thrashing, but her voice drowned in the chaos. The shadows reappeared, circling the vortex, chanting her name. Her childhood self flickered before her, grinning, eyes black. "Finish it," it said, and the void swallowed her whole.