Ghostbane

The night sky stretched above, a vast expanse of nothingness. No moon. No stars. Just an endless shroud of darkness hanging over the world. A cold wind whispered through the quiet streets, sending dry leaves skittering along the pavement. It was a sad night. A night of regrets.

Richard trudged through the front yard of his home, his feet dragging as if they carried the weight of the world. His fingers trembled as he reached for the door handle, pausing for a brief moment before pushing it open. The hinges creaked, and the familiar warmth of home greeted him—but it didn't feel welcoming tonight.

Inside, the living room was dimly lit by a small lamp near the old bookshelf. The air smelled of dried herbs and the faint scent of burning incense. His grandmother sat on the couch, waiting for him. She was a frail woman, wrapped in a thick knitted shawl, her silver hair tied in a loose bun. She always waited for him to come home, no matter how late it was.

Her wrinkled hands rested on her lap, her fingers absentmindedly tracing patterns into the fabric of her dress. When Richard stepped inside, she looked up, her sharp eyes scanning his face. She didn't need to ask—she already knew.

"So, how is he?" she asked, her voice steady but soft.

Richard didn't answer right away. He moved to the other couch and sat down with a heavy sigh, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees. He stared at the floor as if searching for the right words, but all that came out was a quiet, defeated response.

"He's in pretty bad shape..." Richard muttered. "He went mental, and the doctors had to put him to sleep."

The words felt bitter on his tongue. Saying them out loud made everything feel so much worse.

His grandmother let out a deep sigh, shaking her head. "I see... That's bad for the poor boy."

Richard clenched his fists. "It's my fault." His voice was barely above a whisper. "I shouldn't have forced him. If we had just left when he told us to..."

A thick silence filled the room. The weight of guilt pressed down on his chest, suffocating him. But before it could crush him completely, he felt a pair of warm hands gently wrap around his shoulders. His grandmother had moved beside him, pulling him into a soft embrace.

"It's alright, sweetie," she murmured. "You did nothing wrong. It wasn't your fault."

Richard swallowed hard. He wanted to believe her, but the image of Jackson lying unconscious in that hospital bed wouldn't leave his mind. The terrified look on his face. The blood. The way he screamed about Hannah—a name none of them remembered.

"Still..." Richard's voice cracked. "It feels like it is."

His grandmother sighed again, rubbing slow circles on his back. "How long is he going to be there?" she asked, trying to steer the conversation away from his self-blame.

Richard exhaled. "The doctors said he's alright. Physically, at least. But they want him to stay for a few days for observation."

His grandmother nodded thoughtfully. "And what do the doctors think happened to him?"

"They say it's because of the concussion," Richard explained. "They think he's confused, and that's what caused the outburst."

His grandmother was quiet for a moment, then gave a small, thoughtful hum. "I see..."

She didn't sound convinced.

Richard finally looked up at her, his brows furrowing. "You don't believe that?"

His grandmother pursed her lips. "It makes sense, I suppose. But sometimes... things are not as simple as they seem."

Richard sighed and leaned back against the couch, rubbing his eyes. He was too tired to argue. Too exhausted to think.

A moment passed before he asked, "Where's Grandpa?"

His grandmother let out a small chuckle, shaking her head. "Oh, you know him. He said he's hunting a 'big ghost' and will be gone for a couple of days."

Richard let out a short, dry laugh. "What a liar."

His grandfather was a self-proclaimed ghost hunter, but Richard never took his stories seriously. He always thought they were just old man ramblings—entertaining, but nothing more.

"You should get some rest," his grandmother said, giving his hand a light pat. "We'll talk more in the morning. It's late."

Richard nodded slowly, pushing himself up from the couch. "Yeah... goodnight, Grandma."

"Goodnight, sweetheart," she said, watching him as he made his way up the stairs.

As Richard stepped into his room, he shut the door behind him and leaned against it. He let out a deep breath.

The darkness of his room felt heavier tonight. The shadows in the corners seemed deeper, stretching further than they should. He shook off the feeling and walked toward his bed, flopping onto it with a tired groan.

But no matter how hard he tried, he couldn't shake off the guilt.

The image of Jackson screaming, his bloodied face contorted in terror, kept replaying in his mind. The sound of his voice—desperate, broken—echoed in his ears.

"Where is Hannah?"

Richard swallowed hard. He closed his eyes, forcing himself to breathe slowly.

Tomorrow, he would visit Jackson again. Maybe then, he'd find some answers. Maybe then, he'd understand what the hell was happening.

But for now, all he could do was sleep.

He closed his eyes.

Richard drifted into unconsciousness almost instantly, but his sleep was far from peaceful.

The darkness wrapped around him like a suffocating shroud, deep and endless. Then, suddenly, his eyes snapped open.

He was standing on a hill.

The air was thick, heavy with moisture. A dense fog clung to the ground, swirling around his legs like ghostly tendrils. The hill was surrounded by massive, gnarled trees, their branches twisting unnaturally, reaching toward the sky like skeletal hands. The ground beneath him was damp, almost soft, as if the earth had been freshly disturbed.

Something felt wrong.

A shiver ran down Richard's spine as an eerie silence blanketed the hill. No wind. No rustling leaves. No sound at all.

And then—he felt it.

The sensation of being watched.

A deep, unshakable dread settled in his gut. He turned his head slowly, his breath hitching in his throat.

There, behind the trees, a figure stood.

It didn't move. It simply stood there, staring.

It was impossibly tall, its head nearly reaching the upper branches. Its form was vaguely human, but its proportions were all wrong—its arms too long, its torso stretched unnaturally. It had no eyes. Just two empty voids where they should have been.

Richard's chest tightened. His pulse pounded in his ears. He wanted to move—to run—but his legs felt frozen in place. The figure remained still, yet its presence was overwhelming, as if it was consuming the very air around it.

Then, it moved.

Its head tilted to the side, a slow, deliberate motion, like a predator assessing its prey.

Richard's breath hitched. And then—it lunged.

Richard's body reacted before his mind could catch up. He turned on his heel and ran.

His feet pounded against the damp earth, the sound echoing unnaturally in the stillness. The trees blurred past him as he sprinted downhill, his lungs burning, his heart slamming against his ribs. The heavy air pressed against him, each breath thick like swallowing fog.

Behind him, the figure chased.

Its movements were unnatural—too fast, too fluid. It didn't sprint like a human; it glided with terrifying speed, closing the distance without a sound.

Richard didn't dare look back.

Run. Just run.

Then—he saw someone.

Through the fog, Jackson came into view.

He was crouched near a girl with long hair and big glasses. She wasn't moving. She wasn't breathing.

And around them—bodies.

Piles of them. Twisted, lifeless. Some had their faces frozen in horror, others looked like they had been left there for ages, their bodies shriveled and decomposed.

Richard's stomach churned at the overwhelming stench of death.

Jackson was crying, his body trembling as he cradled the girl in his arms.

He rocked back and forth, his fingers gripping her limp shoulders, his voice hoarse and broken as he whispered her name.

"Hannah... Hannah..."

Richard's blood ran cold.

Hannah.

The same name Jackson had screamed in the hospital. The name no one recognized.

Jackson looked up, his eyes hollow, tears streaming down his dirt-streaked face.

Then, his expression twisted.

He suddenly clutched his head, shaking violently as if something inside him was breaking. His body convulsed, his breath hitching in unnatural, choking gasps.

His mouth opened—but it wasn't his voice that came out.

A distorted, inhuman shriek tore from his throat, a sound so unnatural that Richard's knees nearly buckled. It was a noise that didn't belong in this world—something ancient, something wrong.

And then, the figure reached him.

A shadow fell over Richard.

The void-like eyes stared straight into him.

Before he could react, it grabbed him.

Cold.

Overwhelming, paralyzing cold.

It seeped into his bones, spreading like poison, choking the air from his lungs.

Richard gasped—

—and woke up.

Richard sat on the edge of his bed, his breath still uneven.

The nightmare lingered, not just in his mind but in his body. His muscles were tense, his skin cold despite the sweat clinging to him. The room felt wrong—like the air itself had changed, like something had followed him back from the dream.

He gritted his teeth and ran a shaky hand through his hair.

It was just a dream.

That's what he told himself. But it didn't feel like one.

His dreams were always the same. The same horrifying memory of his parents' death. That was the only nightmare he ever had.

But tonight was different.

That thing. That creature.

And Hannah…

Richard shuddered, his mind replaying the vision of Jackson, kneeling in that endless field of corpses, whispering her name.

Jackson knew her.

Yet none of them did.

A chill crept down his spine.

"Who the hell is Hannah…?"

His voice was barely above a whisper.

He didn't know why, but something about this felt real. As if it wasn't just his imagination, but something far worse—something that had been buried, erased.

His hands trembled as he reached for the water bottle again. He gulped down another mouthful, but the dryness in his throat remained.

Richard exhaled sharply and stood up, pushing aside the unease crawling under his skin. He needed air.

He walked to the window and pulled the curtains open.

The sun was already rising, its soft golden light stretching over the rooftops. The sky, once filled with oppressive darkness, now held streaks of orange and pink.

It should have been comforting.

It wasn't.

Because the moment he looked outside—

—his blood ran cold.

The hill.

It was there, looming in the distance. The same hill from his dream.

It shouldn't have been terrifying. It was just a hill.

But now, Richard couldn't look at it without feeling like it was watching him.

His fingers curled against the windowsill.

Jackson was found there.

Unconscious. Alone. Terrified.

And now Richard had seen it too.

The fog. The figure. The corpses.

A memory clawed at the edge of his mind, familiar yet distant.

Richard clenched his fists.

He needed answers.

Because whatever was happening—

It wasn't over