Chapter 23: A Restless Night
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The House Feels Different
The key turns in the lock.
Click.
A small, familiar sound. A comfort I desperately need right now.
I shut the door behind me.
The sound echoes.
Too loud. Too long.
Like the house is holding its breath.
I don't pause.
I don't follow my usual routine.
I just move.
A primal instinct.
A desperate need to escape.
Not from the world outside—
But from what I saw.
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A Hollow Refuge
I reach my room, the only place that should feel safe.
But it doesn't.
Not tonight.
The walls, the bookshelves, the cluttered desk—
Everything is where it should be.
And yet, it feels… off.
Like I'm not alone.
Like something is still watching.
I close my door.
Lock it.
Turn on the lamp, filling the room with a dim glow.
It doesn't help.
The shadows in the corners feel deeper.
I collapse onto my bed, my clothes still on, my mind still racing.
I wait for the exhaustion to take me.
For sleep to pull me under.
But it doesn't come.
Because how could it?
Not after today.
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Avoidance
I hear them downstairs.
My family.
Talking. Laughing. Living.
Like everything is normal.
I should go down. Should eat.
Should pretend.
But I don't.
I don't talk to them.
I don't want to.
Not because I don't want their comfort—
But because I know they can't give it to me.
Not for this.
How could I explain it?
How could I even begin to put it into words?
"Hey, I think I saw something impossible today. A figure made of pure darkness that shouldn't exist."
Yeah.
No.
So I stay silent.
A wall between me and them.
A barrier made of fear.
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The Echo of the Figure
I close my eyes.
And the moment I do—
I see it again.
That impossible darkness.
That stillness, more terrifying than movement.
That sudden, unnatural vanishing.
It shouldn't exist.
But it does.
And that realization—
It sinks into me.
Deeper than any wound.
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A Sleepless Night
The fear isn't sharp.
It isn't loud.
It's worse than that.
It's a persistent hum, a low static at the edge of my awareness.
A presence that won't fade.
I lie there, staring at the ceiling.
The soft glow of the lamp flickers.
My heart pounds.
My breaths are shallow.
My body is exhausted, but my mind—
It won't stop.
The memory of the figure is a dark stain on the quiet of my room.
And as the night stretches on, an endless expanse of uneasy stillness—
I know.
This is only the beginning.