Legacy of Death

Arthur barely slept after that. Every time he closed his eyes, the visions lurked just beneath the surface, waiting to drag him under. His mind swam with fragments of something—something ancient, something wrong.

By the time the first rays of dawn crept through his window, he had stopped trying. He lay on his bed, staring at the ceiling, listening.

The house was silent. Too silent.

His father and Eleanor should have been awake by now. The faint murmur of the morning news, the clatter of dishes, the hum of coffee brewing—these were the sounds he had grown accustomed to. But today, there was nothing.

A nagging unease settled in his chest. He sat up, running a hand through his disheveled hair. His body ached, his head throbbed, but something deeper gnawed at him—an instinctual dread that refused to fade.

Still, he told himself he was being paranoid.

Swinging his legs over the side of the bed, he stood and stretched, bones popping from stiffness. His reflection in the mirror caught his eye. He looked like hell—dark circles, pale skin, a haunted look in his eyes that hadn't been there before.

He turned away.

Grabbing a hoodie from the chair, he pulled it on and made his way downstairs. Each step felt heavier than the last, as if something unseen weighed him down.

The air in the house was stale, unnaturally cold.

He entered the kitchen—and stopped.

The table was set. Three plates, untouched. His father's coffee mug sat half-filled, steam long since faded. Eleanor's chair was slightly pulled back, like she had just stood up. But they weren't there.

His fingers curled into fists. "Where the hell are they?"

His gaze flickered to the hallway. The door to his father's study was slightly ajar.

A chill crept down his spine.

Slowly, cautiously, he approached. The wood creaked beneath his feet, each step echoing in the suffocating silence. He reached out, pushing the door open with his fingertips.

Empty.

The desk was neat, papers stacked, nothing out of place. But something felt off.

And then, he noticed it.

The book.

The same ancient book he had found in the basement. The one bound in what looked like leathery flesh.

It sat on the desk, open.

But he hadn't left it open.

His pulse spiked. Swallowing hard, he took another step closer. The pages, filled with unreadable symbols and strange diagrams, seemed to pulse under his gaze.

Then, the whisper came.

"You see now, don't you?"

Arthur's breath hitched. His eyes darted around the room, searching for the source.

"They were never real. Not in the way you thought."

His blood ran cold.

A shadow moved at the edge of his vision. He spun around, heart hammering. Nothing.

His hands trembled as he backed away from the desk. The book lay there, as unmoving as ever. But he could feel it.

It was watching him.

He needed to get out of here.

Turning on his heel, he bolted for the door. But just as he reached the hallway, the whisper returned, closer this time, curling around his ear like a breath of wind.

"Run all you want, Master… but you cannot escape yourself."

Arthur stumbled into the wall, gasping. The room spun, nausea twisting his stomach. His vision blurred for a split second, and in that instant, he saw something—someone—standing in the hallway mirror.

Not him.

Not quite.

The same dark hair, the same sharp features. But the eyes—his eyes were black. Entirely black.

Arthur's breath hitched. He blinked.

The figure was gone.

He didn't hesitate.

Grabbing his keys off the counter, he rushed for the front door, shoving it open so hard it slammed against the wall. Cold morning air hit him like a wave, but he didn't stop.

He needed answers.

And there was only one place left to look.