In shadows that whisper of creation, why does mankind persist? An enigma shrouded in the fog of existence, tormenting souls since time's wretched inception. Each man, woman, and child dances with their exclusive truth; to the devout, God's reflection casts a pale light upon our frail forms. Yet, the cold logic of science and the stark void of atheism teach us that humanity, a fleeting specter, claims dominion in the relentless theatre of evolution and survival. For the mundanely ordinary, the essence of being is a ghostly riddle—an existence that simply 'is,' haunting the corridors of their everyday lives.
In the shadow cloaked realm of existence, humans emerge as a curious anomaly. Millennia past, we conjured marvels of art and crafted instruments of pain. As eons flow into the abyss of time, we shall traverse the void of stars, our essence stretching into the cosmic unknown, perhaps even beyond the grasp of sanity. Our brilliance, however, is marred by a multitude of flaws, dark and pervasive.
For countless moons, we have knelt before an absent deity, our hearts tainted by rage and the scars of petty grievances, oscillating between ecstasy's heights and despair's depths. We shivered beneath the weight of unfounded fears, every breath birthed from some primal craving hidden in the recesses of our souls. Yet, amidst this chaos, we persist.
We remain disturbingly human.
Yet, an unsettling question lurks in the shadows; a topic that gnaws at the sanity of mankind: Are we truly alone? What shadows stir beyond this feeble shell we call Earth? If life breathes beyond our realm, what grotesque forms does it take? How do these otherworldly beings exist? More ominously... what are their thoughts on our pitiful existence? Perhaps they harbor a chilling rationale for our presence. Perhaps they yearn to elevate us to a radiant tomorrow, or perhaps they crave our obliteration, perceiving us as perilous pests. Or worse, they could be indifferent, regarding us as mere insects, unworthy of their gaze. But then again, what if someone coveted us? What if, even now, a lurking presence gazes upon us, filled with ravenous longing, akin to a child entranced by a star-studded toy shop? What if our very existence serves merely to satisfy their insatiable desire to possess us? This tale unveils such entities that drift beyond our comprehension—an unnamed void, a formless horror, insatiably thirsting for humanity. As you delve into the inaugural chapter of this eerie saga, you will be ensnared in a realm of dread, mystery, and insanity, chronicling the anguished plight of a young man who unwittingly propels himself into an unexplainable nightmare. He will unearth fragments of a truth that shatters his sanity, casting him into a frantic fight for his very existence. Welcome to the first chapter.
CHAPTER 1:
In the dim recesses of academia lurked Thomas Miller, a young soul tangled in the web of his second year at a forsaken institution. Known as 'Tom' amongst shadows, he appeared as the archetype of the collegiate facade — handsome yet hollow, dark locks brushing against his collar, forever draped in a vest that betrayed a desperate need for warmth. An intellect gleaming with kindness and smeared in shadows, his good grades hid the cacophony of solitude that accompanied his scarce confederates.
Tom re-entered his dorm room — a solitary prison — after surviving the lessons that clawed at his mind. As ever, his shadowed domain lay cloaked in the deafening silence he craved, the stillness a twisted comfort. He had never thrived in chaos; happy in this hushed year of academia, he's sought refuge from the unnerving cacophony of life, yearning for fleeting moments of peace in a world that often screamed.
It was a Friday, darkness unfurling like a serpent at dusk, heralding the onset of the weekend. For Tom, this was an exquisite chance to merge with shadows, lost in laughter with his companions. He discarded his backpack, a lifeless husk, and flung off his shoes, an offering to the lurking spirits. As the silence thickened, his cellphone buzzed—a jarring intrusion. One of his friends had sent a message, an echo from beyond the veil. Tom, fingers trembling, extracted the phone, dread coiling around him as he read the words.
A message slithered in from his companion, Roger. "Yo, man, so we still on 2nite?" Tom's reply flickered like a moth drawn to a flame, "Oh for sure dude. Been itchin' to dive deeper into the chaos of Smash Bros. with you." Moments ticked away, but the unease stirred, as Roger’s next message emerged from the shadows, "Awesome. BTW, have u heard from Kyle yet?"
In the shadows of bygone years, Kyle Scott lingered as Tom's closest confidant, a specter from high school’s haunted halls. United in the grim ritual of graduation, they now tread the same forsaken path through college's labyrinth. Kyle, the embodiment of reckless abandon, danced on the edge of chaos—far more than Tom dared to venture. Yet, within the eerie chaos, Tom perceived a dark allure; a twisted sense of adventure that beckoned, coaxing him to mock Kyle's perilous gambits, unaware of the sinister fate that awaited them both.
Yet, as the shadow stretched over three weeks, Tom perceived only silence where Kyle once lingered. Not a whisper, not a fleeting glimpse through the classroom haze. Desperation gnawed at Tom's thoughts; his attempts to break the void were met with Kyle's fragmented echoes—each response a mere shudder of words, suffocated in brevity. But then, the silence deepened, swallowing all hope. What could consume a friend for such a dreadfully prolonged absence? Tom's mind thrummed with questions that twisted into a dark abyss.
Tom uttered, "Not yet. I'll try again soon. If silence persists, I’ll interrogate him by dawn's light." He lingered in the stillness, dread curling in the air. Moments later, a spectral flicker: Roger replied, "LOL K." Tom sank into the abyss of his couch, gaze vacantly haunting the window framing the college grounds, thoughts spiraling. What words would breach the unsettling void when he summoned Kyle's ghostly presence? Would the void finally shatter with a response, or would it remain, unyielding and cold?
He contemplated reaching out once more via text, but a shiver crawled down his spine, urging him toward the sinister call instead. He summoned his phone from the shadows, fingers trembling as they hovered over Kyle's name, dialing hesitantly. As the device pressed cold against his ear, the hollow sound of ringing echoed in the eerie silence. No answer emerged from the void.
Then emerged Kyle's whisper, "Greetings. This is Kyle... not present in this realm. Leave your echoes behind." A hollow chord reverberated, beckoning the message to unfold. Tom lingered, dread settling in, then uttered, "Kyle, it's Tom... returning for the 57th haunting. It's been three weeks since the silence swallowed our voices. Where have you vanished? A few of us are gathering to battle in Smash tonight; it’d chill the shadows if you joined. I yearn for your response... see you in the void..."
He severed the call, casting aside the device, eyes drawn to a framed relic of laughter—two ghostly figures at the edge of joy, forever entrapped in a warped snapshot. Kyle, taller than Tom, possessed hair of a lighter hue, a specter adorned in a crimson garment that clung to his form like faded echoes. Their grins, too wide, seemed to morph into forced grimaces as they bro-fisted, a frozen moment marred by the weight of unspoken memories lurking in the shadows.
Tom had clung to the notion of Kyle as kin, a spectral bond that twisted in retrospect, invoking a bittersweet sorrow—not for the past, but for the void left in Kyle's chilling absence. Tonight's shadows beckoned Tom to seek his brother’s phantom if he remained lost to the dark. He gazed upon a faded photograph, then shifted his gaze to the shelf, a mausoleum of flickering games and films, remnants of laughter now haunted by silence.
Tom, consumed by a fervor for video games, found solace in the speed of Sonic the Hedgehog, a shadow among countless others who tread this neon-lit realm. His heart danced to the rhythm of newer titles, yet the echoes of classics beckoned, whispering age-old secrets of pixelated glory. Unfazed by the dark corners of the internet where corrupted treasures lay dormant, he remained steadfast, content in his ignorance. As his gaze fell upon the familiar spine of Smash Bros. Brawl, a haunting chill crept through him. With slow, deliberate movements, he extracted the game from obscurity, placing it ominously before the screen—a relic awaiting the arrival of friends, or perhaps something else entirely.
As the glow of the screen flickered to life, he sank into the embrace of the couch, shadows lurking at the corners of his mind while he futilely studied for the impending dread of the week. The evening crept in like a thief in the night, bringing with it the arrival of Tom’s compatriots, Roger and Mike, summoned by the phantom of Brawl's siren call. "Tom, Kyle’s absence lingers like a disquieting specter, doesn’t it?" Roger asked, unease threading through his tone. A heavy sigh escaped Tom's lips, his heart clawed by concern. "Yeah, it gnaws at me. I plan to visit him tomorrow, maybe unearth the truth behind this silence." "A wise maneuver,” Mike articulated, a hint of grimness coating his words, “If he evades your calls, he owes you at least a spectral explanation face to face.”
"Right..." Tom seized the phone, summoning the greasy tendrils of pizza to creep into their lives. The morrow unfurled, and Tom slipped into the dimly lit hall, a promise binding him to Kyle. A floor below, shrouded in whispers, Kyle’s dorm lay, a familiar nest amidst the maze of despair. With fingers plunged into the depths of his pockets, Tom descended the steps, navigating the corridor of forgotten doors, each a silent sentinel. He halted before Kyle’s sanctum and rapped upon the wood, a soft echo of hope laced with dread. Was his friend lurking within, or something darker?"
"Kyle?" Tom's voice echoed, desperate yet swallowed by the oppressive silence. "You there, dude? It's me, Tom." The emptiness wrapped around him like a shroud. He knocked once more. "Kyle? It's been three weeks, man, c'mon!" A void answered him. The door knob felt cold beneath his grip; it resisted him, imprisoned. Pressing his ear against the unyielding wood, he only heard a heartbeat of silence... or was it the echo of something darker? "Maybe he's not in there..." Tom concluded shakily. "He couldn't have vanished to class. It’s Saturday. For God’s sake..." A groan of frustration escaped his lips as he turned away, retreating to the stale safety of his own dorm. As he ascended the staircase, dread pooled in his gut. At the door, something unnerving lay upon the threshold: a small package, sinister in its stillness, with a note, its intentions cloaked. Eyeing the package warily, he scanned the empty hall, paranoid. He crossed into his room, feeling eyes that weren’t there. With trembling hands, he peeled the note free—his name scrawled in an unnerving precision. The package awaited, secrets whispering from its depths. Opening the letter, he felt the chill of inevitability settle in his bones."
To his chilling dismay, a letter lay before him, purportedly crafted by Kyle. Yet, doubt gnawed at the edges of his mind as he scanned the faint scrawl at the bottom—was it truly Kyle's penmanship? Years of camaraderie blurred his memory, and Tom, in a moment steeped in confusion, found himself wrestling with the shadows of recollection. He thrust himself into the text. A mundane salutation followed by hollow reassurances of their friends drifted on paper. Then came the peculiar apology, weighty with absence yet eerily casual.
The further he read, the more the script tremored—a frantic urgency laced within each stroke. Kyle divulged a curious truth: a magnificent game obtained from a nameless stranger online. Days lost in this digital abyss; a phantom game unrecognizable to others, yet a thrill beckoning Tom to explore. Repeatedly he urged Tom to partake—an unholy temptation cloaked as excitement. With a whisper of dread, the letter ceased.
No farewell, no word to comrades past or a beckoning reply. Just the haunting echo of a name—"Kyle Scott." Tom choked back a bitter laugh. "Three weeks of silence, and THIS, Kyle?" The letter crumpled beneath his grip as he tore open the parcel. Inside lay a CD-Rom with no markings, an enigmatic grimness haunting its case, edges worn like tales left untold. The disc gleamed—a pristine surface unmarred, yet etched upon closer scrutiny were lines as if woven by some hidden malevolence.
In the somber light's embrace, four thick, unnatural lines slithered from the disc's edge to its cursed core. Faint whispers of shadow, they lingered just out of sight—Tom alone bore witness. No mere marker or knife bore these marks; they seemed woven into the very essence of the disc, an enigma of nature's design turned sinister. They converged at the disc's heart, forming a cryptic 'X', like a seal of dread. 'An 'X'...?' Tom pondered, a scoff of dismissal escaping his lips as the disc was relinquished to the table's cold gaze. Kyle's prank felt exasperatingly hollow. This wretched disc—could it even function? Anger welled within. Three weeks of silence; now, Kyle thrust this mockery into his hands. "Fuck you, man," Tom muttered, crumpling the letter, casting it into the abyss, leaving the disc behind as he retreated to the cleansing water. A threshold crossed; Kyle's unreasonable shadows loomed larger. Weeks of isolation, and now a taunt cloaked as a plea? Tom refused to dance to this macabre tune. Not this time.
Thoughts swarmed like flies in Tom’s mind, the scalding water enveloping him like a shroud. Anger smoldered, an ember against betrayal, flickering until it was smothered by a darkened concern. The deeper he delved, reality warped into unsettling contours.
Kyle, a shadow in Tom’s past, had always been a constant; a ghostly companion, never too far from reach, always lurking at the edges of his life. Now, the chilling thought that Kyle could be ensnared in the mundane prison of his dorm felt wrong, an absurdity masquerading as truth. A wave of dread washed over him as he scrubbed—what bound Kyle to this secrecy?
Extra credit? The notion crawled uncomfortably, for ambition was never Kyle's haunting trait. Perhaps it was darker—family rifts? But those ties were thin gossamer, easily cut; Kyle had always avoided the echo of familial despair. Or was he entangled in a clandestine affair? The mere idea of shadowy rendezvous sent a shiver down Tom's spine, leaving him to ponder the eerie unknown.
Tom, an unwitting observer, never delved into the shadows of Kyle's existence. Yet, the thought of Kyle discovering love clawed at the back of Tom's mind—a whisper of darkness unfurling with each passing moment. Did calamity befall Kyle? No, surely not. If he lay decomposing in a forgotten ditch, it would have graced the headlines. Yet, the haunting notion of Kyle’s fate curled around Tom’s thoughts, a shroud of impending dread tightening its grip.
In shadows of recollection, the letter flickered into his mind, a ghostly whisper entwined with the disc. As water dripped, thoughts twisted. It felt disjointed, alien. The ink seemed tainted, as if Kyle's sanity had unraveled on paper, maniacal praise of the 'game' spilled forth, yet his hand trembled with a frenetic energy, carving an unsettling truth into the void....
In the dim corridors of thought, Tom lingered on the idea of wandering the haunted expanses of campus, probing the shadows for whispers of Kyle's oddities from weeks past. Yet, a chill gripped his resolve; the futility of finding no echoes twisted in his mind. Kyle, a specter of social oblivion, had never drawn the attention of the living, fading unnoticed even in the cruel halls of high school.
The dawn crept in, shadows lengthening as Tom lingered in the haunted confines of his dorm, consumed by the abyss of unanswered questions regarding Kyle. Yet, the specter of the letter faded into oblivion the moment a tap echoed through the stillness. Hopeful, he approached the threshold, yet as the door creaked open, his heart fell—this harbinger was no comrade, but a man cloaked in chilling mystery.
Visual echoes of the known, lurking at the edge of perception.
A figure of unimposing stature, lanky and draped in the chill of his late 20s. His hair—a disheveled brown comb over—betrayed a neglectful soul, his five o'clock shadow casting shadows of doubt. Clad in an open suit jacket over a stark white shirt, a green necktie dangled like a forgotten noose. Hands buried deep in pockets, his demeanor swayed between disgruntlement and intent. Eyes latched onto Tom, the weight of the moment pressed upon him. "Thomas Miller?" Silence dripped as Tom faltered, finally uttering, "Most call me Tom, but yes?" The man then revealed a glimmer—a detective's badge, an emblem of worlds best left unexplored.
In the shadowed recesses of the city precinct, Detective Derek Green loomed, words dripping with foreboding. "Are you entangled in the web of one Kyle Scott?" A tremor cleaved through Tom, memories clawing at the fringes of his mind. "...Kyle? Uhh, y-yeah. Yes, I know him." The detective’s sigh hung heavy in the air, an agonizing hesitation. "Listen, it’s wiser if you tread with me into the obscurity that awaits." Obscured in confusion, Tom trailed behind Green, heart pounding like a distant drum. "How long have you danced with shadows, Tom?" the detective inquired, his gaze piercing and unyielding.
"Uhh, since the darkened halls of high school," Tom murmured, eyes now vacant, shadows twitching in his gaze. Green, not deigning to meet him, cast the question like a net, "And when was the last whisper exchanged with him?" Tom's heart raced, panic wrapping around him like a vice. "A-almost three weeks, sir..." A tremor betrayed his voice, "W-what's happening...?" Green, unphased, produced a tattered tome, ink dancing on the pages as darkness loomed. "Today, a call echoed through the corridors about a foul stench festering in Dorm Room #231, where Kyle Scott's essence lingers still."
The door held its secrets, firmly locked from within, a barrier against the unseen horror that lay beyond, the odor festering like a wound. As they descended into the murky shadows below, Tom's voice trembled, a hesitant whisper, "Why me?" Green's reply flowed like a funeral dirge, heavy and laced with dread. "You... you were closest to him. It's... best you witness it firsthand." By the time they traversed the dim corridor to Kyle's door, the air was thick with tension, a gathering of police, wary students, and lurking reporters, drawn to the grotesque truth hidden in the dark.
"He lingers with me," Green whispered to the looming shadows of the cops as they approached the threshold of Kyle's shattered sanctuary. The door gaped open, a grim invitation. Inside, Tom's heart raced at the grotesque sight. Kyle's dorm room was a chaotic realm, untouched by time's mercy. Shadows danced as remnants of furniture lay sprawled, defiled. A sinister green mold crept like whispers in the dark corners, the fridge exhaling the rancid stench of death. Torn remnants of food twisted in decay, creating a carousel of horror. Amidst the disarray, Kyle's computer loomed on the desk, lifeless, its cracked screen a shattered reflection of despair."
In the dim haze of a shattered world, a photographer, lens fixated upon despair, captured the grim tableau before him. Two figures wrestled with a gurney, a lifeless form shrouded beneath a ghostly sheet. A chill slithered down Tom’s spine as dread coiled around his heart, for the presence beneath the fabric pulsed with secrets best left buried. Green, a specter of sorrow, guided him closer, halting the mournful procession, his own unease palpable in the air thick with unspoken truths. The revealed visage was a haunting memory, eyes vacant yet piercing, skin ethereally pale, and blond locks a chaotic reminder of life’s fleeting grasp. The gaping maw, stained with remnants of violence, whispered of horrors untold. It was Kyle—eternally lost, forever watching.
𝗖𝐡Ƌ⍴ʈ𝘦𝝘 2 Ƌ⍴⍴𝝘ʘƋᶜ𝐡𝘦ᣵ❟ ᣵ𝐡𝝘ʘ𝙪𝙙𝘦𝙙 𝓲𝞰 ᣵ𝐡Ƌ𝙙ʘ𝟂ᣵⴰ
