Ghostbane

Richard's vision blurred as he lay on the cold, damp ground. His entire body ached, his limbs refusing to move. The chilling air around him felt heavy, suffocating, as if something was pressing down on his chest, trying to crush the life out of him. His breathing was ragged, each gasp sending sharp pain through his ribs. He was dying—he could feel it.

But he couldn't die yet.

His mind screamed at him to get up, to move, to fight. Jackson needed him. He had made a mistake coming here unprepared, but he wasn't about to let his friend die because of it. With all the strength he could muster, Richard clenched his fists, digging his nails into his palms to keep himself conscious.

"Focus... remember what Grandpa taught you..."

His grandfather had spent years teaching him about ghosts, their nature, and the hierarchy of spirits. Not all ghosts were the same—there were different types, different rules governing their existence. Richard forced himself to recall each one.

Lost Souls – The weakest, spirits of those who died suddenly and didn't move on. They were mostly harmless, wandering the earth in confusion.

Feeders – Ghosts that preyed on emotions, feeding off fear, sorrow, or pain to strengthen themselves.

Restless – Spirits tied to unfinished business, unable to move on until their desires were fulfilled.

Bound Spirits – Souls forcefully trapped in a location or object, unable to leave.

Cursed Ones – People who had suffered horrific deaths, their pain turning them into vengeful ghosts.

The Unseen – The most terrifying of all. Ghosts so powerful they could manipulate reality itself.

Richard's thoughts snapped back to the thing standing in front of him. Its presence was suffocating. It wasn't just a lingering soul or a ghost feeding on emotions—this entity had power, an overwhelming aura of hatred and suffering.

"What the hell are you…?" Richard thought.

The ghost took a step closer, and Richard felt his body involuntarily shudder. Every part of him screamed to run, but he planted his feet into the dirt, gripping his sword tightly. If he backed down now, he was as good as dead.

Richard's breath came in ragged gasps, his lungs burning as he clutched the sword. His hands trembled, the pain in his side throbbing from where the ghost had struck him. His blood dripped onto the dirt below, mixing with the cold, damp earth. Every inch of his body was screaming at him to run, to escape, but he couldn't.

Jackson was suffering.

He had to end this.

The ghost moved without sound, without hesitation. One moment it was standing still, and in the next, it was in front of him, its black, twisting form shifting like a mass of shadows and tortured faces. Richard barely had time to react before a clawed hand lashed out—

A sharp, unbearable pain tore through his shoulder.

Richard screamed, staggering backward as the ghost's claws ripped through his flesh, leaving long, gaping wounds that burned with unnatural cold. His body lurched from the force, his vision swimming as the pain exploded through him like fire.

He barely had time to recover.

The ghost came again, faster, crueler.

Richard tried to raise his sword, but before he could even swing, an invisible force slammed into him like a wrecking ball. His entire body lifted off the ground, crashing into a nearby tree with a sickening thud.

Everything blurred.

The impact sent shockwaves of pain through his back. His skull rattled, the wind knocked out of his lungs. The world tilted violently as he slid down the rough bark, gasping for air, his entire body throbbing from the impact.

He barely had time to process the pain before he felt it—

The cold grip around his ankle.

His stomach dropped.

Before he could react, the ghost yanked him with inhuman force.

Richard screamed, his body dragged through the dirt and rocks, his arms scrambling for something—anything—to hold onto. His hands clawed at the ground, dirt and twigs cutting into his skin, but the ghost's pull was too strong.

He was dragged across the hill, his body hitting the ground over and over, every impact sending fresh agony through his bones. His back scraped against jagged rocks, his ribs ached, and the pain from his shoulder grew worse with every movement.

The ghost lifted him up again and slammed him down.

A sharp, wet crack echoed in the night.

Richard choked on a gasp as blinding pain erupted from his ribs. Something was broken, he could feel it—the sharp, stabbing agony in his side, the way his breathing became shallow and uneven. He coughed, tasting iron—blood.

He tried to move, to fight back, but his body wasn't listening. His arms shook as he tried to push himself up, but his strength was fading fast.

The ghost hovered over him, its hollow, blackened face inches from his own. The air around it was suffocating, like being trapped in a frozen grave. The shifting faces in its body twisted and contorted, mouths open in silent, endless screams.

Then, the voices started.

A horrible, echoing whisper filled his ears.

It wasn't speaking to him—it was speaking through him.

The voices clawed into his mind, hundreds, thousands of them, screaming their torment inside his skull.

"HELP US—"

"IT HURTS—"

"BURN IT—KILL IT—RUN—"

Richard's vision blurred, his head splitting apart from the sheer weight of their voices.

Then—

A hand wrapped around his throat.

His body jerked as the ghost lifted him effortlessly, dangling him in the air like a ragdoll.

Cold. Unbearable, soul-crushing cold.

His lungs seized, his body convulsing as his throat tightened under the ghost's grip. His heartbeat slowed, dark veins crawling up his skin, spreading from where the ghost was touching him. His fingers twitched, his sword falling from his weakened grasp.

His vision darkened.

His body felt lighter.

Like his soul was being pulled out.

Richard tried to struggle, but his limbs were numb, weightless. He could feel himself slipping away, his consciousness fading, his mind unraveling under the crushing emptiness that surrounded him.

"No..."

"I... can't die here."

He could barely think, barely breathe. His mind screamed at him to fight, but his body wouldn't listen.

The last thing he saw was the ghost opening its mouth—a dark, gaping void—before everything went black.

Darkness.

Cold, suffocating darkness.

Richard couldn't move. His body felt weightless, as if he were floating in an endless void, suspended between life and death. He tried to breathe, but there was no air. Tried to scream, but there was no sound.

He was dying.

His mind swam in a haze of pain and exhaustion. His ribs were cracked, his body battered and bruised, his skin icy from the ghost's touch. The voices were still there—endless whispers clawing at his mind, filling his head with screams and sorrow.

"Is this it?"

"Am I just going to disappear?"

No.

No, he couldn't.

Richard's fingers twitched. A flicker of movement. A sign of life.

His body was weak, broken, but he wasn't gone yet. The pain anchoring him to reality was unbearable, but it was real. He clung to it, forcing his sluggish mind to focus on the agony searing through him.

Something pulled at him—his soul dragged toward the abyss. He could feel himself slipping, his consciousness unraveling. But somewhere, deep inside, a part of him refused to let go.

"Move."

Nothing.

"Move, damn it."

His fingers curled slightly.

The ghost still had him by the throat, its grip tightening, black veins creeping up his neck. His heartbeat was slow, uneven—his body barely hanging on.

Richard gritted his teeth, a weak, choked gasp escaping his lips. His mind felt like it was shattering, his body refusing to obey. But then—

A sound.

A distant roar, like a storm rumbling through the hills.

The ghost froze for a moment, its head snapping toward the direction of the abandoned factory at the top of the hill. The noise was deep, unnatural, vibrating through the air like something ancient had stirred.

Richard felt the grip on his throat loosen—just for a second.

He didn't hesitate.

With every last ounce of willpower, Richard's right hand shot forward, grabbing the sword lying in the dirt beside him. His fingers wrapped around the hilt, and with a wild, desperate swing, he slashed at the ghost's arm.

A sharp, inhuman shriek tore through the night.

The ghost reeled back, its black form writhing as a thin, glowing wound appeared where Richard had struck.

Richard collapsed onto the dirt, gasping, gagging for air, his throat burning from the near strangulation. His entire body was trembling, on the verge of collapse, but he couldn't stop now.

The ghost let out a horrific scream, its shape shifting erratically, as if it were angry that Richard had dared to fight back. The temperature around them dropped even further, frost forming on the grass beneath them.

Richard forced himself onto unsteady legs, gripping the sword tight despite the pain shooting through his arms.

He wasn't winning.

He was still too weak, too slow. The ghost was playing with him, breaking him apart piece by piece.

But he couldn't let it end here.

He glanced up at the abandoned factory in the distance, its towering silhouette barely visible against the dark clouds. That roar—it came from there.

And if this ghost reacted to it... then maybe—just maybe—there was something up there that could help him.

Richard staggered backward, his body screaming in protest, but he forced himself to move. He had to get to that factory.

The ghost lunged at him again, its long, shadowy arms stretching unnaturally, its form flickering like static. Richard barely dodged, rolling to the side as the creature's claws gouged the earth, leaving behind deep, frozen marks.

He was running out of time.

His grip on the sword tightened, his breath coming in ragged, painful gasps. The factory wasn't far, but with his injuries and the ghost relentlessly attacking, reaching it alive felt impossible.

But he had no choice.

With every ounce of strength left in him, Richard turned and ran—sprinting toward the abandoned factory, the ghost's unholy shrieks echoing behind him.

It was coming after him.

And it wasn't going to let him escape.