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They were coming. They were coming for him.

He fell to his knees, clutching his head as the whispers grew louder, more insistent. He could almost make out the words now, though they were distorted, twisted, like something speaking through water.

The dreams had shown him glimpses of them—figures with too many eyes, too many mouths, limbs bending in impossible angles, their voices a chorus of suffering and madness. And now they were here, standing just beyond the veil, watching him, whispering to him, waiting for the right moment to break through.

Suddenly, the whispers stopped. The silence was deafening.

Mahlon looked up, his breath coming in ragged gasps. The room was still again, but different—darker, the corners filled with shadows that moved on their own.