Ghostbane

The air around the hill was thick with an eerie stillness. Richard took slow, careful steps forward, his heart pounding against his ribcage. The sky above was a dull gray, the sun barely breaking through the clouds, casting a cold, lifeless glow over the landscape. A strange silence blanketed the area—no rustling leaves, no chirping birds. It was as if the world itself was holding its breath.

Jackson stood at the base of the hill, clad in nothing but his hospital gown. His skin was pale, almost sickly, and his hands trembled violently at his sides. He was hunched forward slightly, his breath heavy and erratic. The moment he saw Richard, his bloodshot eyes widened with a mix of fear and madness.

"Why are you here?" Jackson's voice was hoarse, his words laced with paranoia.

Richard took a cautious step forward, hands slightly raised. "I came here looking for you."

Jackson flinched as if the words physically hurt him. "Why?" His voice cracked, his breathing grew heavier. He repeated the word again. And again. And again. "Why?... Why?... Why?..."

Richard watched in growing horror as Jackson began clawing at his own fingernails, biting them with such force that the skin split open. Blood dripped from his fingers, staining the white fabric of his hospital gown.

"Jackson, stop!" Richard pleaded, stepping closer. "You're hurting yourself!"

Jackson's breathing turned ragged as he shook his head violently, gripping his own arms. "Leave me... I don't want to go back... I can't go back. I'm staying here… I have to. I see him."

The words sent a cold shiver down Richard's spine. "See who?"

Jackson's lips curled into a weak, trembling smile, his pupils dilating as he slowly turned his head toward the forest. He let out a breathy chuckle. "He's watching… He's always watching…"

Richard followed Jackson's gaze, scanning the towering trees. The forest was thick and suffocating, shadows creeping unnaturally along the ground. He felt it too—that dreadful sensation of being watched. It clung to his skin, coiling around his body like unseen fingers tightening around his throat.

He swallowed hard. "Jackson… I'm not here to take you back."

Jackson's head snapped toward him, his face twitching. "What…?"

Richard met his bloodshot eyes and spoke firmly. "Like I said. I'm not here to take you back. I just want the truth."

For a long moment, Jackson simply stared at him, his breath uneven. Then, without a word, his gaze drifted upward—toward the peak of the hill. His expression darkened.

And then, without warning—he ran.

"JACKSON, WAIT!" Richard shouted, but Jackson didn't stop. He bolted up the hill, weaving through the twisted trees, his bare feet kicking up dirt and leaves.

Richard cursed under his breath, his fists clenching. He knew he couldn't just let Jackson disappear into the depths of this haunted place alone.

Taking a deep breath, Richard reached into his pocket and pulled out a small, folded piece of paper. His hands shook as he kneeled down and placed it under a nearby rock. His own handwriting stared back at him:

"If I go missing, tell Grandpa to come to the hill near Eastbridge. If I am not found, know that I was taken by something here."

With one final glance at the note, Richard turned and sprinted after Jackson—straight into the unknown.

The moment Richard took off after Jackson, the weight in the air grew heavier, pressing against his chest like an invisible force trying to slow him down. The ground was uneven, covered in thick roots and jagged rocks, but Jackson ran like a man possessed—his bare feet barely touching the earth as he sprinted uphill.

Richard's heart pounded in his ears as he pushed forward, dodging low-hanging branches and leaping over fallen logs. The shadows of the trees stretched unnaturally in the dim light, flickering and twisting like living things. The deeper they went, the more the forest seemed to close in around them.

"JACKSON, STOP!" Richard shouted, but his voice was swallowed by the oppressive silence.

Jackson didn't look back. He just kept running, his body twitching and jerking unnaturally, his arms flailing as if being pulled by unseen strings.

Something was wrong.

The air was thick with the smell of damp earth and something metallic—something that made Richard's stomach churn. His legs burned as he forced himself to run faster, but Jackson was moving impossibly quick, weaving through the trees like a blur.

Suddenly, Jackson veered sharply to the right, disappearing behind a cluster of dense foliage. Richard cursed and followed, but the moment he turned the corner, he froze.

Jackson was standing still in the middle of a clearing.

His body was trembling violently, his arms hanging limp at his sides. His breathing was shallow, his shoulders rising and falling unnaturally. His hospital gown was drenched in sweat, clinging to his frail frame.

And then Richard felt it.

The gaze.

It had been following them the entire time, but now… it was unbearable. It wasn't just a feeling anymore—it was something tangible, something real. Richard's skin prickled as he turned his head slowly, his eyes scanning the dense trees.

Something was there. Watching. Waiting.

The trees seemed darker, their bark twisted and gnarled. The air was filled with an unnatural stillness, as if the entire forest was holding its breath. The shadows between the trees stretched long and deep, forming shapes that shouldn't be there—tall, looming figures with hollow, empty faces.

Richard swallowed hard, his hands clenching into fists. "Jackson…" he said cautiously, taking a step closer. "We need to go. Now."

Jackson didn't respond.

Instead, he slowly lifted his hand and pointed toward the top of the hill.

His voice came out in a shaky whisper.

"He's waiting for us."

A chill ran down Richard's spine. "Who?"

Jackson's bloodshot eyes met Richard's.

"Him."

And then, from the top of the hill—the roar.

It wasn't human. It wasn't an animal. It was something ancient, something wrong. The sound echoed through the trees, shaking the very ground beneath them. The oppressive gaze intensified, pressing down on Richard's chest like a heavy weight.

Jackson let out a strangled gasp and collapsed to his knees, his body convulsing violently. Blood spewed from his mouth, splattering against the dead leaves. He gripped his stomach, coughing and wheezing, his nose bleeding profusely.

Richard rushed forward. "Jackson! Stay with me!"

But the moment he touched Jackson's shoulder, a cold shock ran through his body. His vision blurred, and for a split second—just a fraction of a moment—he saw it.

A figure. Tall. Hollow. Endless.

Its void-like face stared back at him, the darkness within it swirling like an abyss.

And then, it was gone.

Richard stumbled back, gasping for air. Jackson's convulsions worsened—his fingers twisted unnaturally, his spine arching in ways it shouldn't. His body was breaking, piece by piece.

Richard had no choice.

He knew what he had to do.

His grandfather's voice echoed in his mind.

"The best way to save a possessed person… is to kill the ghost possessing them."

Richard clenched his jaw and reached into his bag, pulling out the knife he had brought. His grip tightened around the handle. His breathing was unsteady.

And then—without looking back—he started running toward the factory at the top of the hill.

Whatever was haunting Jackson, whatever was watching them—it was there.

Waiting.

Richard sprinted up the hill, his breath ragged, his heart pounding like a war drum. The factory loomed in the distance, its rusted metal frame barely visible through the thick fog that clung to the air. The deeper he went, the stronger the presence became, the unseen force pressing against his skin like icy fingers.

Behind him, Jackson's pained groans echoed through the dead forest. Richard didn't dare look back. He had to move forward—had to face whatever was up there. His grip on the knife tightened as he pushed through overgrown weeds and broken concrete, the scent of rust and decay filling his nostrils.

The factory was an abandoned relic of the past. Its structure was weathered, covered in creeping vines and blackened stains. Windows were shattered, the glass edges jagged like open wounds. The main entrance—a massive steel door—was slightly ajar, swaying eerily with the wind.

Richard hesitated at the threshold. His instincts screamed at him to turn back, to run, but he shoved the fear down and stepped inside.

Darkness.

A thick, suffocating darkness swallowed him whole. The moment Richard crossed the doorway, the world outside ceased to exist. The air was stale, filled with the scent of mildew and something worse—something rotten. His footsteps echoed unnaturally, as if the space was much larger than it appeared.

Something dripped from the ceiling.

Richard wiped his face and looked down at his hand—red.

Blood.

He exhaled sharply, his breath visible in the freezing air. "This place isn't right," he muttered under his breath.

As he stepped further inside, his eyes adjusted to the dim light filtering through broken windows. The walls were covered in old machinery, rusted pipes twisting like veins. The floor was littered with debris—discarded tools, shattered glass, and something that looked like... bones.

And then, he saw it.

A shadow standing in the far corner.

Tall. Too tall.

Its head nearly touched the ceiling, its arms long and thin, its body draped in tattered darkness. It had no face—just an empty, swirling void where its features should have been.

Richard's breath hitched. His body screamed at him to move, but he stood frozen.

The figure took a step forward.

The room groaned as if the walls themselves were alive, bending and warping under its presence. The darkness around it twisted unnaturally, tendrils of pure black writhing in the air.

Richard's fingers tightened around the knife. "You're the one doing this, aren't you?" His voice was steady, but his hands were shaking.

The figure tilted its head, as if studying him. And then—a whisper.

Not from its mouth, but from everywhere.

"You should not be here."

Richard's stomach turned. The voice wasn't one—it was many. Countless voices overlapping, speaking in unison, some whispering, some screaming, some sobbing.

He gritted his teeth. "Let Jackson go!"

The figure didn't move. Instead, the shadows around it spread.

The floor beneath Richard cracked. The walls began to peel away like rotting flesh, revealing something beneath—something moving.

And then—

SLAM.

Richard was thrown back by an unseen force. He crashed into a pile of rusted metal, sharp edges slicing into his skin. Pain flared through his ribs, but he forced himself up, gasping.

The figure floated toward him now, its presence suffocating. The shadows around it pulsed like a living thing.

"You cannot stop this."

Richard's pulse thundered in his ears. His grandfather's voice echoed in his head—"To break a possession, kill the spirit holding it."

He had to end this.

Summoning every ounce of courage, Richard gripped his knife and charged.

The figure didn't flinch. As he got closer, it raised a long, bony hand—black tendrils coiling around its fingers.

And then—

Everything went black.

Richard's body froze. He couldn't move, couldn't breathe. His limbs felt as if they were sinking into an abyss, his mind unraveling.

The last thing he heard before the world faded completely—

A laughter.

Cold. Hollow. Endless.