I didn't run.
I just… walked a few steps from the house and sat down on the curb. My legs felt like rubber. My chest was tight. Every breath came out shaky, like my lungs were still deciding whether to keep going.
The flames had caught fast. I could see smoke curling from the windows now, thick and black. It smelled like burning plastic and something worse.
I stared at the ground.
What did I just do?
I rubbed my hands over my face. They were slick with sweat, maybe tears too. I didn't know anymore.
I told myself I had no choice. That it was them or everyone else. That this would stop whatever they were trying to bring here.
But the words felt hollow. Empty.
I stayed there.
Minute after minute.
Just breathing. Waiting. Watching the smoke rise. Hoping—praying—that it was over.
Then I heard it.
A door slamming open.
I froze.
Footsteps. Unsteady. Fast. Coming closer.
No. No no no—
I turned my head and saw him.
Half his robe was scorched. His skin blistered and peeling. He looked like he should've already been dead. But somehow, he wasn't.
And in his hand—
A knife.
His eyes locked on mine.
He didn't scream. He didn't speak.
He just ran.
I scrambled to my feet, but he was already too close.
The knife slashed.
I barely dodged. Felt it graze my side.
Then we collided.
I fell back, the wind knocked out of me.
He straddled me, knife raised again.
I grabbed his wrist with both hands, muscles screaming.
"Stop—!"
He didn't.
So I headbutted him.
Hard.
It stunned him, just enough. I shoved him off.
We rolled.
The knife clattered to the pavement.
I grabbed it first.
He lunged.
I didn't think.
I just—
Stabbed.
Once.
Twice.
Then more.
Until he stopped moving.
Until the weight of what I was doing caught up to me and I dropped the knife, hands trembling.
My breathing came in ragged gasps. My arms were coated in blood. His. Mine. I didn't know.
I pushed myself away from the body, crawling backwards, my heart in my throat.
I hadn't run.
But I wasn't sure that made me brave.
Just tired.
Wait... I killed ...someone.
That thought wouldn't leave my head.
He tried to stab me. He would've killed me.
But still… I did it.
"Huh?..."
I am a lot more calm than I should be.
Am I a psychopath?
I sat near the house, breathing slow, trying to calm down more. The smoke stung my eyes. Everything smelled like burnt plastic and metal.
I kept telling myself I had no choice.
Then I felt it again.
That strange pull. The same energy that dragged me here.
It was weaker now. Like it was fading.
But it was still there.
I wiped my hands on my hoodie, grabbed the knife, and stood up.
I didn't want to go back in.
But if something was still alive down there…
I had to be sure.
I covered my mouth with a piece of cloth and walked toward the door.
The fire was mostly out. The house looked half-melted. Quiet. Dead.
But I knew better.
I stepped inside.
I stepped over the broken door and back inside, covering my mouth with the cloth again. Everything smelled like burnt plastic and something worse. Ash clung to the walls. The air was thick.
I moved slowly, knife in hand, just in case.
The floor creaked under my weight as I passed the ruined hallway. The heat had warped the wooden planks. Pictures on the walls were melted. It didn't feel like a home anymore—just a shell.
Then I reached the basement door.
Still cracked open.
That pull in my chest was stronger now—faint, but steady. Like something was calling me back.
I tightened my grip and pushed the door open the rest of the way. Darkness poured out. The steps creaked under me as I moved down, one by one.
The smell hit me first.
Charred wood. Burned flesh. Blood.
Then I heard it.
A voice. Low. Wet. Whispering.
I reached the bottom and turned the corner.
One of them was still alive.
He was lying on the floor, barely moving—half his body burned black, the other slick with blood. Skin was peeling off in layers. One eye was gone. But his mouth still worked.
He was chanting.
Some twisted language I couldn't understand. The words buzzed in my ears like flies. Each one made the air thrum, like the room itself was holding its breath.
And behind him—
That thing.
The wing.
The arm.
Still lying in the middle of the circle. Not human. Not even close. The feathers were the color of old bone, cracked and stiff. The arm was too long, fingers like joints of broken glass.
I didn't know what they were.
I didn't want to know.
But I knew one thing:
He was trying to finish what they started.
My heart was pounding. My skin felt like it was crawling. Something was wrong with the air—it was vibrating, pushing in on me.
I dropped the knife.
Took a step forward.
And stomped.
His skull caved in with a crack. The chanting stopped. The silence after was worse than the noise.
I stood there, foot still on his ruined head, breathing hard.
It was over.
Everything was broken except the symbols and circles painted on the ground.
I'd done it.
I really thought I'd done it.
I started to turn away.
And then the air in front of me… wavered.
Just a flicker at first—like heat rising off pavement.
Then it split.
A thin line opened in the air itself, stretching slowly like a seam being pulled apart.
"Eh?"
That slipped out before I even realized.
A hum started. Low. Deep. Like the floor was breathing.
The crack widened.
No glow this time. No chanting. Just raw, silent wrongness.
My stomach dropped.
"Oh fu-"
I didn't stop it.
I'm screwed.
Without thinking, I lunged toward what was left of the ritual—scraps of the circle, smudged symbols, broken feathers and blackened bones.
I started tearing everything apart. And I tried my best to erase the paintings with my foot.
Again.
Harder this time.
If something was still trying to come through, I wasn't going to let it.
Even if I had no idea what I was actually doing.
At first, it was just the air.
Cold. Sharp. Damp.
It hit me like the smell of mold and rust, thick with something that made my eyes sting.
It was pouring out of the crack—this creeping stench that made the basement feel smaller. Tighter. Like the room was shrinking around me.
Then came the noise.
Not a roar. Not a scream.
Just… pressure.
A low, heavy hum that made my teeth itch.
The portal widened. Slowly. Quietly.
I could feel something watching me from the other side.
I didn't wait.
I kicked over the last candle, scraped away the rest of the symbols with my shoe, stomped on the bones until they crumbled beneath my heel.
And that's when it changed.
The air stopped pouring out.
And started pulling in.
The pressure flipped—like a vacuum snapping open.
Ash scattered toward the crack.
Loose paper fluttered up off the ground and vanished.
The knife skittered past my foot and got sucked straight into the seam.
I backed up fast, but the pull was growing stronger.
Shelves creaked. Dust swirled.
The body behind me shifted—then lifted off the floor and disappeared into the split.
I stared, frozen, as the portal pulled in everything that wasn't nailed down.
And then it turned toward me.
The pull was too strong.
My hands scraped against the floor, trying to find something to hold onto, but nothing was left. Just dust, cracks, and empty space.
My body lifted off the ground, slow at first, then faster—like gravity had just flipped.
"No, no, no—"
The words barely made it past my teeth.
Am I dying?
The thought clung to me harder than the pull of the portal. My chest felt tight. Too tight. Like I couldn't breathe even if I wanted to.
I didn't know what I was falling into. I didn't know where I was going. I just knew it was cold. Empty. Endless.
Did I make a mistake?
Maybe I shouldn't have done anything. Maybe I shouldn't have gone in that house. Should've walked away. Called someone. Waited. Anything but this.
I thought I was helping. I thought I was doing the right thing.
But now I was being swallowed by something I couldn't even begin to understand. Alone. Afraid.
What if I ruined everything?
What if I was never going home?
I twisted midair, flailing for anything—wall, step, shadow—anything to stop what was happening.
That's when I saw him.
At the top of the basement stairs.
Still.
Unmoving.
Watching.
The same man from before.
The one who gave me the crystal.
His black coat didn't flap in the wind. His hair didn't move.
He wasn't being pulled at all.
What…?
I locked eyes with him.
He saw the fear on my face.
And then—
He spoke.
"Do not worry," he said softly, voice calm and steady. "You did succeed."
My mouth opened, but I didn't have time to reply.
The portal twisted—
And pulled me in.
Just before the portal swallowed me, I saw him toss a small pouch straight at me—like it meant something. Like it mattered.
One second, I was screaming, being pulled in.
The next, I was weightless, stumbling forward into somewhere else.
Red sky.
Cracked earth.
The smell of sulfur and ash.
A world not meant for me.
I hit the ground hard but not painfully. The air was thick, warm, dead quiet.
I staggered to my feet, still breathing. Still alive.
I turned back.
The portal behind me still shimmered like stretched glass, holding itself open. Faint light from the basement flickered beyond it.
Then it snapped shut.
No warning. No sound. Just—gone.
That's when the world shifted.
Suddenly, my knees buckled.
My body—fine a second ago—was yanked down by a crushing force. Like something had slammed an invisible weight onto my back.
I collapsed face-first into red dust.
"Ghh—!"
I couldn't breathe. I couldn't move. My ribs felt like they were folding in on themselves.
The gravity. It wasn't normal.
It was wrong.
I gasped, dragged my arm forward, teeth clenched.
There—on the ground ahead—something tumbled and rolled.
A pouch.
The one that man had thrown.
It spilled open.
Crystals. Small, green, glowing faintly like embers under glass.
I didn't think.
Couldn't.
I just reached.
Fingers trembling. Every inch of motion felt like lifting a mountain.
I could barely reach one of them with the tip of my finger. The moment it touched my skin, it lit up.
A surge of warmth. And I absorbed it again just like the last time,long enough for one breath.
I exhaled—
And then everything went black.