UNSPOKEN TRUTH

Williams pov--

It had been days since I last felt normal—since I could look in the mirror and see myself, not some stranger who had taken over my body. Every morning, I woke up with the feeling that something was wrong, like I was on the edge of slipping into a world I couldn't control. The world was different now, but it always felt like I was just one step behind it, unable to keep up.

I should have told him. I should have told Daniel everything, but I couldn't. Every time I tried to open my mouth, the words wouldn't come. Not because I didn't want to, but because I knew I couldn't protect him from the truth. The truth would ruin everything. And I couldn't bear the thought of her seeing me like this—broken, consumed, and tethered to something I didn't fully understand.

The scratching sound had returned that morning, louder than ever. The walls of our house were starting to close in on me, the pressure mounting as if the house itself was alive, hungry, waiting for something to break. And I felt like I was the one holding it all together, though every nerve in my body screamed that I wouldn't last much longer.

I tried to get out. I tried to leave. But each time I stepped outside, the air felt heavier, as if it was pressing against me. The streets I used to know now seemed foreign, unfamiliar—like I wasn't supposed to be there. I tried walking further, but my feet would lead me back to the house. It was like I was trapped in this twisted loop, stuck between worlds.

And the book—the one I found all those months ago in the basement—wasn't helping. It was only making things worse. I'd read it more times than I cared to admit, each page further unraveling my sanity. The words seemed to move on their own, like they were alive, and I couldn't make sense of them. But one thing was certain: it knew me. It knew everything about me. The book was watching me, pulling me in, urging me to finish what it started.

Sometimes, I could hear it whispering. At first, I thought it was just my mind playing tricks on me, but now I couldn't ignore it. The whispers were faint, like a murmur in the back of my skull, so quiet I thought I might be imagining it. But when I listened closely, when I let my guard down, I could hear it clear as day:

"It's too late to stop it now."

I couldn't escape it. The book. The whispers. The thing in my head.

I hadn't told Daniel that I could feel it in the corners of the house. The eyes that were always watching me, the cold chill that crept through the walls. The presence that had started to take over, that was slowly clawing at my mind, turning everything upside down. At first, I thought I was just being paranoid. But now, I knew better.

I wasn't alone.

And neither was Daniel.

That was the worst part. I had tried to protect him, keep him away from all of it. I didn't want him to get sucked into this nightmare with me. But deep down, I knew it was already too late. He had already seen too much. The book, the whispers, the thing that was inside me—it was starting to get to him, too.

I saw him in the kitchen this morning, his eyes wide and frantic, like he was searching for something. He was always searching. I didn't know what he was looking for, but I knew one thing: he was digging too deep. I couldn't let him. I couldn't let him get dragged down with me.

So I did what I had to. I pushed him away.

It wasn't easy, though. As much as I hated it, I knew that was the only way. I had to make him believe that I was the one who had gone mad. Maybe then, maybe if he stayed away, the thing would leave him alone.

I sat at the kitchen table, tapping my fingers against the wood. The sound was rhythmic, almost comforting. But as I listened, I could hear it. The whisper again. That voice, low and insistent, weaving its way into my thoughts. "It's almost time. Just finish it."

I shook my head, trying to clear the thoughts. I didn't know if I could fight this anymore. I was so tired. The more I fought, the stronger it got, like I was just feeding it. Like it was always waiting for me to crack. And the worst part was that I couldn't tell anyone. No one would understand. They'd think I was crazy. And maybe I was.

But deep down, I knew I wasn't alone in this.

I had tried to tell Daniel once, just once. But when I spoke the words aloud, something stopped me. The air in the room thickened, and the temperature dropped, as though the house itself was holding its breath. And when I looked at him, I saw it—just for a split second—a flicker in his eyes that told me he knew. He could feel it, too. That was why I pulled away. That was why I ran.

I couldn't let him get involved.

Not when I was already too far gone.

Later, when Daniel came downstairs, I couldn't help but notice how different he looked. His eyes were red, his face pale. He was restless, like he hadn't slept. I couldn't blame him. The house had been making me feel the same way. The scratching was louder tonight, and the air was thick with anticipation. I didn't know what was coming, but I could feel it. It was coming for us both.

I watched him from the kitchen, trying to keep my distance, trying to stay in control. But it was hard. The whispers were getting louder. And my hands—they were trembling. I gripped the edge of the table to steady myself.

Then, without warning, he looked at me. Not the way he usually did, with concern or confusion, but with something else. There was a new intensity in his eyes. And it scared me.

I wanted to tell him everything. I wanted to scream, to beg him to run far away. But I knew better. I knew that no matter how hard I tried to protect him, the thing would follow him. It had already started.

"Are you okay?" he asked, his voice breaking the silence.

I swallowed, my mouth dry. "I'm fine," I lied. But I wasn't. None of us were. Not anymore.