Percival Montague

A thick fog, like a shroud, hung over East London. Gas lamps flickered weakly, casting eerie shadows that danced and distorted on the cobbled streets. The air was heavy with the scent of damp earth and burning coal, a stark contrast to the usual cacophony of the city. It was a night for solitude, for introspection—a night for nightmares.

Inside a modest room, Percival lay in bed, his head throbbing. A dull ache pulsed behind his eyes, a persistent reminder of the strange dream that had awakened him. He could almost recall the details—twisted faces, shadowy figures—but they slipped away like smoke as he sat up, disoriented. A sharp knock echoed through the silence, reverberating in his skull. With a resigned sigh, he swung his legs over the side of the bed and padded to the door, peering through the spyhole. A figure stood there, obscured by the dim light and the thick fog that crept through the night.

He hesitated, his heart quickening. The air felt charged with an unnameable tension. Reluctantly, he opened the door, revealing a woman in her sixties, her skeletal frame cloaked in shadows. Her smile was unsettling, a twisted remnant of warmth that made him shiver. "Good evening, young man. Might I intrude upon your solitude? The night is quite dark, and an old woman such as myself could use the warmth of conversation," she rasped, her voice like dry leaves crackling underfoot.

Percival forced a strained smile, but it felt more like a grimace. "No, thank you, Mrs. Eldritch. You should be inside your house at this hour." The words tumbled out, punctuated by the urgency of his discomfort. He studied her face, seeking the warmth of human connection yet finding only the chill of her presence. "It's not safe to roam about alone."

She leaned closer, her gaze penetrating, as if peering into the depths of his soul. "Ah, but nights are dark, and solitude can chill one's bones. Do not shun this old lady so, Percival. The shadows can be treacherous for a lonely heart."

A chill ran down his spine at the mention of his name. "I—" he started, but the words caught in his throat. Memories of her peculiar behavior flooded back—muttering to herself under the pale glow of the moon, strange noises emanating from her apartment—her laugh lingering in his ears like a distant echo.

She continued, her smile broadening as if feeding off his unease. "I watch the moonrise from my window, just as you do. We are kindred spirits, you and I, trapped in this waking nightmare." Her voice dripped with an unsettling familiarity.

With a hasty motion, Percival shut the door, retreating into the dimness of his room. What a strange woman, he thought, shaking his head as if to clear the fog of her presence from his mind. The headache surged again, relentless and unwelcome, a reminder of his growing discontent with life in this part of the city. Perhaps it was time to move on, to find a place where the night did not hold such secrets.

He lay back down, pressing his palms against his temples, willing the pain to subside. As he drifted into an uneasy sleep, he couldn't shake the feeling of being watched, as if the darkness outside were alive, breathing, waiting. The memory of Mrs. Eldritch lingered in his mind, an unsettling specter that whispered of things left unsaid.

As the echo of Mrs. Eldritch's unsettling voice faded behind the closed door, Percival sank back onto his bed, the weight of the encounter settling heavily on his chest. Her penetrating gaze lingered in his mind, making him feel as if she had peeled back layers of his guarded exterior, exposing something vulnerable beneath. Rubbing his temples, he felt the throbbing headache pulse against the remnants of their conversation, a relentless reminder of the sleepless night.

The flickering gas lamp cast uneven shadows across his room, dancing grotesquely along the walls. He struggled to shake off the unease, but the pounding in his head made it nearly impossible. Why had Mrs. Eldritch chosen to disturb him tonight? Did she truly seek companionship, or was she merely a specter haunting the corners of his solitude?

With a sigh, he decided to seek relief from the headache with a glass of water. He rose from the bed, the chill of the night air seeping through the window, wrapping around him like a shroud.

As he made his way to the small kitchen area, his thoughts drifted to the upcoming university exams that loomed like storm clouds over his mind. He desperately needed to focus, to sift through the endless pages of readings and lectures. But the memory of Mrs. Eldritch's peculiar behavior tugged at his attention.

In the kitchen, he poured a glass of water, the cool liquid a welcome respite. As he turned to head back to his room, his gaze fell upon a thick volume propped open on his desk. The title, What is Happiness? by Eldrick Mortimer, lay in waiting, its pages marked with notes from late-night study sessions.

Percival picked up the book, its weight both burdensome and oddly reassuring. He flipped through the text, the bold claims of unlocking the secrets to joy glaring at him. It felt ironic—here he was, grappling with his own questions about happiness while studying a book that seemed to offer little more than superficial solutions.

He set the book down, its title echoing in his mind as he moved back to his bed. The question of happiness, so persistently pressed upon him by society and now by his studies, felt oddly out of place in his current state of confusion.

With a weary sigh, he slipped under the covers, the weight of the book and the night pressing down upon him. The world outside faded into darkness, ready to confront the shadows of his mind as he braced himself for the challenges ahead.