Eli’s Nightmare

The manor was quiet, cloaked in a stillness that felt unnatural—as if the walls were holding their breath. Amara followed Eli up the winding staircase, the crimson journal pressed to her chest like a relic. Neither spoke. The weight of the truth they'd unearthed dulled the air between them.

Eli stopped outside his room. "Not here," he murmured, then changed direction and led her down another corridor, one she had never explored.

It ended at a narrow door with a single brass handle. He unlocked it with a key from his chain. The room inside was stark—no windows, no furniture beyond a single leather armchair, a desk, and a fireplace. Shelves lined the walls, filled with books and files. A small safe, partially ajar, glinted in the dim lamplight.

"This is where I come when I can't sleep," Eli said softly. "When the dreams won't stop."

Amara watched him move, his steps unsure, hands fidgeting. He was unraveling—and this was his unraveling place.

She sat in the armchair. He stood across from her, one hand braced on the fireplace mantel. Then he began.

"My father, Cornelius," he said, his voice hoarse, "wasn't just a business magnate. He was the architect of a quiet empire—blackmail, manipulation, extortion disguised as philanthropy. He groomed successors, planted lies like seeds, pulled strings behind every powerful name in Thornridge."

Amara said nothing, letting the truth fill the room like fog.

"I was his heir," Eli continued. "Until I refused."

His jaw clenched, and a flicker of pain crossed his face.

"I met your mother during one of his charity galas. She was fierce. Beautiful. Unafraid to ask questions everyone else tiptoed around. Cornelius saw it too—he saw her as a threat. But I saw her as salvation."

Amara's heart pounded. "You… loved her?"

"No," Eli said, quickly, then hesitated. "Not like that. I admired her. She believed in justice in a way I never had the courage to. She started uncovering things. Patterns. Documents hidden beneath the surface of our family foundations. When she confronted Cornelius… she vanished."

Amara's breath caught.

"You knew."

"I suspected," he admitted. "But I didn't act. I didn't try. I was afraid of what it would cost me. By the time I realized she was gone for good, it was too late. And then the nightmares started."

He walked to the desk, pulled out a file, and opened it. Inside were dozens of therapy notes, dated journal entries, and newspaper clippings. Clippings about missing people. Whistleblowers. Investigative journalists. All of them had vanished over the last two decades.

"They haunt me," Eli whispered. "All of them. In my dreams, they're screaming. Not because they're in pain—but because I stayed silent."

Amara stood and approached him. "Then it's time to stop being silent."

He turned to her, his eyes bloodshot. "I want to atone, Amara. I don't want to be my father."

She hesitated. Then placed her hand on the journal. "Then help me finish what my mother started."

There was a beat of stillness. Then, a knock—sharp and sudden—shattered the silence.

Both froze.

Eli moved to the door. But when he opened it, no one was there.

Just a small box on the floor.

He picked it up and opened it slowly.

Inside was a tape recorder. Already playing.

A voice echoed out, mechanical and warped: "You should've stayed asleep, Eli. Some secrets are meant to rot with the dead."

Then silence.

Eli's hands trembled.

Amara stepped back, her stomach sinking.

The enemy wasn't just a ghost from the past. It was awake. It was watching. And it was coming.