a quill dipped in shadows

The ink flowed steadily from Nathaniel's pen, staining the once-blank page with words he could barely acknowledge. Each sentence felt like a confessional, a slow unraveling of the thoughts he fought to suppress. His study was dimly lit, illuminated only by a flickering lamp on the desk, casting shadows that seemed to move of their own accord. The air was heavy, thick with the scent of old paper and candle wax, and the walls—lined with towering shelves of books—felt like they were closing in.

Nathaniel paused, his hand trembling. He stared down at the page, the words staring back at him like an accusation:

"I can't escape the past. No matter how many stories I write, the ghosts always follow me."

He exhaled shakily and set the pen down, rubbing his temples. It was the same routine, night after night—scribble down fragments of his thoughts, only to rip them out of the journal and burn them before dawn. Writing had once been his refuge, a place where he could lose himself in the worlds he created. Now, it felt like a curse, as though each word pulled him closer to something he didn't want to face.

The house groaned around him, the wood shifting as if it, too, carried the weight of his memories. Nathaniel's home was an old manor inherited from his late parents, its walls steeped in decades of secrets. He'd returned here after his brother Samuel's disappearance, convinced the solitude would help him grieve and find answers. Instead, the silence had only amplified his thoughts.

He glanced at the clock on the wall—it was nearly midnight. Time seemed irrelevant these days, the hours blending together in a haze of insomnia and obsession. A single thought consumed him, gnawed at him like a ravenous beast: What happened to Samuel?

Nathaniel had always looked up to his older brother. Samuel had been the brave one, the adventurous one, the one who seemed untouched by fear. When they were children, Samuel would tell him stories of dark forests and hidden worlds, always promising to take him on adventures when they were older. But Samuel had vanished without a trace six months ago, and all those promises had crumbled into ash.

The police had long since given up, their reports filled with empty reassurances and dead ends. Nathaniel hadn't. He couldn't.

His gaze drifted to the small box on the corner of the desk. Inside were Samuel's belongings, the few things he'd left behind: a worn leather journal, a pocket knife, and a tarnished silver pendant engraved with strange symbols Nathaniel couldn't decipher. He reached for the pendant now, turning it over in his hand. It felt cold, unnaturally so, as if it held some residual energy.

Nathaniel frowned. The pendant always gave him an uneasy feeling, but he couldn't bring himself to part with it. It was the last tangible connection he had to his brother.

A sudden knock at the window startled him, breaking the oppressive silence. His heart leapt, and he turned sharply toward the sound. The study was on the second floor—there was no way anyone could reach the window.

The knock came again, louder this time, followed by the faintest sound of scratching. Nathaniel froze, his breath catching in his throat. The lamp flickered, casting erratic shadows across the room.

Gathering his courage, he stood and approached the window, each step feeling heavier than the last. He pulled back the curtain and peered into the darkness. At first, he saw nothing but the distorted reflection of his own face in the glass. But then, just beyond the reach of the lamplight, he saw movement.

It was fleeting—a shadow that seemed to dart across the yard before vanishing into the night. Nathaniel's pulse quickened. He pressed his forehead against the cool glass, straining to see more, but the yard was still.

"Get a grip," he muttered to himself, letting the curtain fall back into place.

As he turned away from the window, a low creak echoed from the hallway outside his study. His chest tightened. He had locked the door earlier—he was certain of it.

"Nathaniel, you're imagining things," he said aloud, trying to steady his nerves.

But the creak came again, closer this time, followed by the faint sound of footsteps.

He reached for the pocket knife on his desk, clutching it tightly as he approached the study door. His hand hovered over the doorknob, his breath shallow. Slowly, he turned the knob and pulled the door open.

The hallway was empty, the dim light from a single wall sconce barely illuminating the space. Nathaniel stepped out cautiously, the wooden floorboards cold under his feet.

"Hello?" he called, his voice echoing unnaturally.

There was no response, only the faint hum of the house settling. He moved down the hallway, his footsteps careful. The pendant around his neck felt heavier than before, its chill seeping into his skin.

As he reached the top of the staircase, he stopped. Something was wrong. The air felt different, charged with an almost tangible tension. He could hear a faint sound—whispering.

It was coming from the direction of the library.

Nathaniel hesitated. The library was the oldest part of the house, a sprawling room filled with ancient tomes that his father had collected over the years. It had always unsettled him, even as a child, with its dark corners and the way the shadows seemed to move.

But now, the whispering drew him in. It was faint but insistent, like a voice calling to him from the depths of a dream.

Gripping the knife tightly, he made his way toward the library. The door was ajar, and the whispers grew louder as he approached. He pushed the door open slowly, the hinges groaning in protest.

The room was empty, or so it seemed. The light from the hallway barely reached inside, leaving most of the space cloaked in darkness. Nathaniel stepped in, his eyes scanning the shelves.

And then he saw it.

A single book lay open on the central table, its pages illuminated by a faint, eerie glow. The symbols on the pages were unfamiliar, twisting and writhing as if alive.

Nathaniel's breath hitched. He felt an almost magnetic pull toward the book, his feet moving of their own accord. As he neared it, the whispering intensified, resolving into distinct words:

"He's waiting. Come and see."

The pendant around his neck grew colder, almost burning against his skin. He reached out hesitantly, his fingers brushing the edge of the book. The glow intensified, and a sudden gust of wind extinguished the hallway light, plunging the room into darkness.

Nathaniel's heart pounded as the whispering rose to a deafening roar. He tried to pull his hand back, but it was too late. The symbols on the page flared, and a surge of energy shot through him, knocking him to the ground.

The last thing he saw before the world went black was the faint outline of a figure standing in the doorway, watching him.