September 5, 2023

Another dull day at the office not only failed to bring any pleasure but instead brought a heap of negative emotions. On top of that, I had to go to work on my day off, and to make matters worse, I had to hand over my report to a colleague. You might ask, what does it mean to give away your work? Well, it means that I'm just a coward. My colleague is an ambitious careerist who ignores obstacles and charges ahead, while I've been stuck in the same position for three years. Not only am I too afraid to ask for a raise, but I'm also way too accommodating. One of those examples happened today. I had been working hard for a whole month, and today everything was ready, but then he showed up.

"Jack! Buddy, how's it going? The weather's terrible today, and honestly, my day's been a disaster," he said, as always looking flawless, a perfect 10 out of 10.

Honestly, at that moment, I cursed everyone I knew. It was my day off, and on top of that, my girlfriend Sarah hadn't been in touch for two days. Now, he was here. Gathering whatever willpower I had left, if there was any, I forced a smile and looked at him.

"Yeah, it's a terrible day, but thankfully it'll be over soon."

He smiled back, but his gaze was fixed on my report, that glint in his eyes.

"By the way, about the end of the workday... I'm planning to go to the boss, but to be honest, I have nothing to show them. Do you want to help me out?"

Why put it like that? How do I respond to that? Sorry, Mark, I don't want to help you, because Jack is such a terrible person. But it was clear: he wasn't going to back down.

"Maybe I can help in some other way? I've worked hard on this report for a long time."

"Let's just call it a joint effort, my friend. I'll say that to the boss."

He raised his voice on purpose, and now a few people were looking at us. How embarrassing and awkward. I felt sorry for the report, but what would people think of me?

"Jack, don't disappear. So, what about the report? Are you going to hand it over to me?" His hand was already on my report, and his gaze was locked on me.

Fine, whatever. Let him take it. It's not worth the trouble. Besides, I was too shy to show it to the boss anyway.

"Alright, here you go. Just don't forget to mention me," I muttered, looking down, hating myself even more.

"Thanks, buddy." His gaze turned predatory for a second, and then he walked off.

This is always how things go in my life. I was like this even in school—soft, and somehow, I ended up with a girlfriend. I wonder what Sarah saw in me, because I have neither money, nor a great figure, nor charisma. She was so beautiful and loving, always taking care of me. Wait! Why am I talking about her like she's already gone? Yes, she disappeared a few days ago, but she's alive. This has happened before—she'd disappear for a few days and go quiet on me, but at least she'd send me updates on how she was doing and where she was. But now, it's silence.

Jack shifted his gaze to the window, where the weather was raging behind the factory glass. Strong winds were blowing wrappers along the sidewalks, bending the trees slightly. Meanwhile, the heavy rain turned everything into a damp surface. In some places, the sewers couldn't handle it, and torrents of water swirled down the streets, dragging everything into the ground. Even the homeless had hidden, which was a rare sight. On the other hand, they at least seemed to live their lives in their own way, free from all this routine and societal norms.

Out of long habit, formed after buying my first phone, whenever I had a free moment, I couldn't resist checking it. There was a whole world in there! Endless products in online stores and corresponding ads. Then, there were social networks with endless news feeds, short videos, and other content. People like me, Jack, could only watch how others lived. Some made people humiliate themselves for money, offering to protect a yacht from an explosion. Others showed off their success, posing as business tycoons always on vacation.

I could only envy them because I didn't have the strength or courage to start my own business.

But the original goal was different: the last message from Sarah that he received two days ago. "Jack, please don't look for me. Forget about me and move on." That had never happened before, and the message itself was strange. Moreover, it was sent as a regular SMS, not through one of the social networks. What should I do? On the one hand, I should go to the police and file a report, but what do I even tell them?

"Officer, please help! My girlfriend left two days ago and sent me this message!"

Yeah, right. They'll just laugh at me. They'll say something like, "Come back when there's a body," or "We don't handle relationship issues." Then, fines, endless protocols, and possibly even court. The end result would be this: I'd be sent to prison, and then Sarah would come back and find out that now I'm a criminal, and she would leave me. Ugh, I need to find something to distract myself or I'll just die like this. The next two hours were spent watching short videos and pretending to work. But still, in the back of my mind, the thought of finding my girlfriend lingered. The truth was, I had no idea where she could be. It's unlikely that she'd gone to her parents' or a friend's place in another state. Or maybe she found a successful, handsome guy and decided to start building her perfect life with him. Anything was possible, but it felt terrible inside.

It got worse when cheerful Mark came back and announced he'd been promoted. As expected, he forgot to mention my contribution or simply didn't consider it necessary. But the fact was clear: this careerist had taken another step toward his success, while Jack was left behind. At least the workday was finally over, and I could head home. The elevator, full of people, carried us down to the underground parking lot. The noise and chatter of strangers drowned out my thoughts. Some were discussing work matters, while others shared stories of their successes or failures. But all I knew was that I hated all of this and desperately wanted a change. Now, I was surrounded by the coldness of the underground garage with dozens of cars. Surprisingly, there were many expensive cars, along with a couple of luxury ones. Jack approached his old car, which had seen better days. Its side was already dented, and the paint had faded. Inside, there was trash in places and torn upholstery. Too bad I didn't have the money for a new one, so I had to keep using this one. The next two hours were spent stuck in traffic at an intersection. Some idiots hadn't accounted for the weather and crashed into each other, so now we were all just standing still.

"How I hate all of this. Damn work! Damn all these life kings and colleagues! I HATE IT!"

Unable to hold back my emotions, I hit the steering wheel with all my might, then immediately panicked. What if I break the wheel or, worse, hurt my hand? Fortunately, everything was fine, but my hand still throbbed. After some time, the silhouette of my small house, inherited from my parents, appeared. Two stories: the first one was a garage, and the second was the living space. There was a tiny garden in the yard, and that was about it. At least there was space for the car in the garage, or else I'd have to run through the rain to the entrance. But even here, the dampness was noticeable.

Click. A few turns of the key, and the door was open. Unfortunately, the house was empty, and there was no sign of Sarah's return. No familiar smells of food or greetings from Sarah. It was just the usual loneliness, possibly the standard loneliness of a bachelor. To avoid it feeling too dull, I turned on the TV, creating the illusion of communicating with real people. Where should I search for her? Pacing around, I decided to start with our room. Over the next hour, all the pillows were turned inside out, and the shelves checked. Even the hidden stash was empty.

"Where would a young woman hide her secrets?" I asked myself, and then my eyes caught sight of the corner of a notebook.

There, on the ventilation ledge, was something resembling a notebook, so I had to get it. I wasn't tall enough, so I had to find a ladder, and even then, the challenge was not falling off. But the notebook, old and tattered, was in my hands, and its contents shocked me to the core.

August 2020

An investigation has been initiated regarding the group "The Saints." So far, all that is known about them is that they may be a sect. Surprisingly, there is no information about them in the archives.

November 2020*

The situation is more serious than I thought. Their people are in all organizations, in non-leading positions, and we need to be more careful.

February 2021

We walked right into their trap, and my partner is dead. Looks like I'll have to lay low in another state and maybe find some simple guy to cover for me.

His heart seemed to stop. Sarah? Had she written about this? A whirlwind of thoughts spun in his mind—everything that had seemed simple and clear was now shrouded in darkness. She wasn't who he thought she was. All those months, days, their conversations... it was all part of something else.

He flipped to the next page. With each new word, Jackson felt his consciousness collapse even further. Sarah had been investigating secret societies, a potential cult, and he was just a cover for her actions. All this time, he had been nothing but a pawn in someone else's game, not noticing even the slightest hint. And now, with her gone, he was left alone in a world full of unknown dangers, the very ones he feared.

"You won't be able to stop this. But if you stay close, you might understand something." That was what she had written on the last page.

Jackson placed the notebook on his lap and closed his eyes. Despair grew inside him, and beads of sweat formed on his face. He knew one thing—he could no longer stay on the sidelines because, after all, she was someone dear to him.

He sat still, staring at the open notebook. His eyes had an empty, distant look, as if reality itself had begun to vanish, and he couldn't keep up with it. He replayed the contents of the notebook in his head several times, but the thoughts wouldn't come together. He couldn't figure out what to do next.

Unable to withstand the tension any longer, he grabbed his phone and started searching online for information about the cult "The Saints." His fingers hesitated as they typed the search query, and fragments of sentences from the notebook kept resurfacing in his mind. Perhaps it was a mass movement or even a hidden organization. Sarah couldn't have just stumbled into it—she was too smart for that.

But the more Jackson searched, the more hopeless his search became. The screen was filled with links to religious organizations, articles about saints, but nothing about a cult by that name. There wasn't even a hint that anything like it existed. It seemed absurd, even ridiculous. He switched to other websites, trying to find synonyms and other possible keywords. Useless.

"What the hell?" he muttered, losing patience. He refreshed the page. Then again. But all he got was a white screen and the cold light from his phone.

His fingers clenched into a fist, and he didn't know what to do. Damn internet gave him nothing. If Sarah had been telling the truth, she wouldn't have allowed such a leak. Someone had clearly made sure that this remained hidden. That meant his attempts to find answers were in vain. Something was wrong. Damn it, what was he supposed to do now?

His gaze fell back on the notebook. There was more in those words than just facts—they hid a world he didn't know, a world he might not even want to enter. But if she had been there, if she had truly been investigating this... maybe he had to go there to find her.

He sighed, realizing that he could no longer just sit and wait. The empty pages continued to flash on the screen. Jackson knew that his journey had only just begun. The whole evening passed in contemplation. His hand reached for the phone several times, but each time he set it aside, feeling his doubts and fears tighten in his chest. He pitied himself, cursed his helplessness. Was he really this weak? Why couldn't he just take a step without drowning in these endless doubts?

"Maybe it's all made up? Maybe I'm just a paranoid?" he repeated to himself, trying to find some excuse. He sat in the dark room, the heavy silence pressing down on him. Time stretched slowly. He mentally went through all the possibilities: call the police? Ask her friends? But what would he tell them? How could he explain his suspicions without looking like a complete idiot?

Doubt consumed him, and the more he thought, the more he felt his helplessness. He couldn't escape this state. He was too cowardly to make a decision and too shy to take the first step.

But suddenly, his gaze fell back on the ventilation shaft. That same small rectangular hatch he had found while searching for Sarah's things. He remembered how he had ignored the strange sensation when his fingers touched the metal surface, and now this hatch seemed to beckon him.

"It's just a shaft. I'll check it out, that's all. Nothing bad will happen." he thought, but immediately realized that wasn't true. Nothing would ever be the same again.

He stood up, pushed his chair back, and walked over to the hatch. It was oddly old, worn, but nothing seemed out of place. His hands trembled, but he still grabbed the screwdriver he had left on the table and unscrewed the cover.

The shaft opened, and a musty, moldy smell wafted out, as if it hadn't been used in years. Jackson peered into the dark emptiness inside, his heart pounding like crazy. He kept trying to convince himself that it was fine, that there was nothing to be afraid of. But everything around him told him otherwise. He felt that somewhere inside this darkness, something terrible lurked, something he shouldn't know.

Suddenly, his hand brushed against something soft. He froze, his heart dropping into his stomach. With an animal instinct, he decided not to pull the object out immediately, but instead, cautiously, with trembling hands, to turn it toward the light.

When he pulled it out, his whole world collapsed. It was the same notebook—the same worn, torn one, with bent pages and damaged edges. His hand instinctively clenched it. But before opening it, he realized: he wasn't ready.

However, he knew one thing—he had no choice now. Jackson looked at the notebook, holding it in his hands as if it were something far more important than he could understand. This one was different. It wasn't just older, it was different in every way. It didn't contain Sarah's usual notes. Instead, the pages were filled with an unfamiliar, strange language he had never seen. Symbols, dashes, and loops, unlike anything he had ever encountered.

He couldn't take his eyes off the text, as if something was drawing him to these strange, ornate signs. Jackson hesitated, but his lips began to speak the words as if his mind were under hypnosis. He knew it was foolish, that it was dangerous, but he couldn't stop. His voice sounded foreign, as if it wasn't him speaking.

"…vin—souls—open—gates—duty—faith…" he said aloud, and the world around him suddenly contracted.

As if an invisible force had ripped him from reality, his perception of the world shifted abruptly. His ears rang, as though thousands of sounds hit him at once, merging into a continuous noise he couldn't comprehend. Black spots began to spread across his vision, and for a moment, everything in front of him became blurry, unclear. The ground beneath his feet swayed slightly, and he felt a terrifying panic rise in him, as though he had found himself on the edge of an abyss, ready to fall into a dark, empty void.

Through the ringing in his ears, fragments of images started to break through. He saw strange, ghostly faces he didn't know, and figures moving unnaturally, with such speed that it was hard to tell if they were human. The light flickered, and he felt the space around him warp. Emotions overwhelmed him—fear, horror, the unreality of it all.

And just as suddenly as it had started, everything stopped. The ringing in his ears faded, the images disappeared, and the world returned to its normal state. Silence. Jackson stood, staring into the empty space, as if he had just experienced something he shouldn't have. He still felt the strange shock lingering deep inside, as though the world had been slightly tilted off its axis, and something unknown was threatening him.

He took a deep breath, his chest feeling empty as if from a heavy blow. It was as though his world had undergone a small change, one that he could barely comprehend. As if he had touched something he wasn't supposed to.

His heart raced, and Jackson closed his eyes, trying to deal with the strange sense of inevitability that overwhelmed him. Something was wrong. Something had happened. And now that he was back in reality, he knew one thing for sure—his life would never be the same. Jackson sat on his couch, still not recovered from what he had just experienced. His heart wouldn't calm down, and fear and self-pity continued to grip him as if he were trapped, with every attempt to escape only deepening his anxiety. Over and over, he replayed the strange visions in his mind, unsure what to do with them. Thoughts that he might lose himself, that everything happening could be his personal punishment, wouldn't let him rest.

But at some point, his gaze fell back on his phone screen. He didn't know what to do, but somehow, subconsciously, he decided to distract himself. Scrolling through YouTube videos, Jackson tried to find something simple and inconspicuous that could calm him. But, as often happens, he stumbled upon something strange.

The video title was bold, almost eye-catching: *"How I Drive This Crazy Machine at Full Speed!"* He didn't know why, but his eyes were glued to the video. The guy in the frame looked perfectly ordinary—a young man with a charismatic smile and a casual charm, as if he enjoyed every second of life. He was enthusiastically talking about how he handled his car, describing the exciting moments of racing, and everything seemed quite normal.

But here's the strange part. Jackson noticed a mark on the guy's forehead, right under his messy hair. It looked like some sort of seal, as though it had been burned into the skin. Barely noticeable, but clear enough to be seen with a careful look. The symbol pulsed in time with the camera's movement as the guy moved, and it seemed to glow slightly, but only in those brief moments when the sunlight hit it.

Jackson froze.

No one in the comments had mentioned it. Everyone was admiring his driving, the speed, the streaming style. But no one noticed the seal. The guy looked completely ordinary—like any popular blogger or racer. But something about that symbol made Jackson feel a chill in his chest. He knew this wasn't just a coincidence. It wasn't a joke or a trendy tattoo.

He kept watching the video, sinking deeper into the growing unease. His fingers trembled as he watched the footage in slow motion. What was that symbol? Why was no one noticing it? What was the guy hiding behind his smile?

The seal seemed ancient, as if it were something from a distant past, ripped from dark times and placed here, in the modern world, where it didn't belong. But it was there, alive and real.

Jackson felt that he had stumbled upon another piece of the puzzle, one he hadn't even known existed. And if all of this was connected to what had happened with Sarah, with that ominous notebook and the visions, then he had just opened a door to an even darker and scarier world than he could have imagined. Jackson stood still, phone in hand. Just moments ago, he had tried to convince himself that it was all a trick of his imagination, a silly coincidence, but now the feeling of impending danger pierced him to the bone. His fingers shook as he began searching for the name of the blogger whose face with the terrifying seal was still in front of his eyes.

The search results appeared quickly. The first headlines screamed about a tragedy:

"Popular Blogger Dies in Car Crash—Speed and Risk Claim Another Life!"

"Fatal Accident: Racer's Favorite Dies in Crash Behind the Wheel."

Jackson scrolled through the articles, reading each line. The confirmed date of death—yesterday. And the last video he had just watched? It was uploaded just a day ago. One more click, one more page—older videos. Jackson feverishly opened them, his heart pounding like crazy.

There was no seal on the blogger's face in any of them. It only appeared in this last video. The only one filmed the day before his death.

His thoughts spiraled into a chaotic whirlwind. The seal. The strange symbol that no one but him had noticed. The dead blogger. And the realization—heavy and terrifying, like a cold stone falling into his heart. He could see it. He could recognize those who would die within the next 24 hours.

Jackson's stomach twisted painfully. The thought that this was now part of his life made him nauseous. That he would have to see it again and again. Every face with a seal—every person walking toward their death.

"My God..." he whispered, feeling a chill crawl up his spine.

He was truly scared now. More terrified than when he read the words from the notebook or when he saw the visions. Now he knew it wasn't just horrifying thoughts. It was reality. And this reality had only just begun. Jackson sat, staring at his phone screen, as the night around him slowly turned into gray morning. He didn't notice when the streetlights went out, when the first rays of sunlight broke through the window blinds. Time stretched like a thin, sticky web, and he found himself trapped in it. But the alarm clock's ringing suddenly jolted him back to reality, reminding him it was time to go to work—in that same dreary office he hated.

He stood up, slowly lifting himself to his feet, feeling drained, like a squeezed lemon. His head buzzed from lack of sleep, his body ached from the tension. Everything in him screamed to stay home, lock himself in, and never go outside again. But the cowardly fear of being fired and losing any semblance of stability pushed him to pull himself together.

When he stepped outside, the hurricane that had raged yesterday had subsided. The air was fresh, the asphalt wet from the rain. The remaining puddles reflected the gray sky and the rare glimpses of the sun breaking through the clouds. Jackson walked down the street toward the bus stop, pulling his hood up to feel a little less vulnerable.

But with every step on the sidewalk, he grew more nervous. The people passing by seemed ordinary, as always, but something had changed. Now he noticed the seals.

They weren't on everyone. Just on some. A man in a sharp suit hurrying to his car—on his forehead was a faint symbolic mark, similar to the one he had seen on the blogger yesterday. A woman with a shopping bag, chatting on the phone—her seal pulsed, as if alive. A young guy with headphones crossing the street—his forehead was marked too.

With every new face, fear tightened Jackson's chest. He didn't know how much time they had left. A day? Less?

He felt the urge to deny it all again, to explain it logically. But his eyes couldn't lie. These seals were real. They came alive the moment he looked at them.

The bus he got on was overcrowded with people, and this only heightened his horror. There were too many faces, too many chances to see something he didn't want to see. He sat by the window, curling into his seat as if he could hide from his own ability. And that's when he noticed it. Out of the corner of his eye, just behind him, someone was watching him.

Jackson jerked around. At the last moment, he caught the movement—a person he couldn't quite make out quickly turned away, as if studying something on their phone. But it was enough. Jackson's heart dropped to his feet. He looked back out the window, feeling his palms sweat. His fingers gripped his knees nervously, and his head pulsed with tension. He was being followed. He was being watched. And it was starting to feel like a nightmare that he couldn't wake up from. The bus gently slowed at a stop, and Jackson stood up with relief. There it was, the dreary office building with its faded sign, gray facade, and dusty windows. The daily routine that once felt like a depressing ordinariness now seemed like a welcome refuge from the darkness that had settled in his mind. He stepped toward the doors, hoping that, at least here, the world would remain normal, familiar.

But as soon as he entered the lobby, something changed. The office seemed to greet him differently. The air was a little thicker than usual, the overhead lights dimmer. Even the sound of footsteps on the tile echoed muffled, as if the building were trying to hide its breath.

At first, one thought comforted him: there was no one with the seals here. All the colleagues he briefly passed on the way to the elevator seemed normal. No one had that frightening mark he'd seen on the street or online. Until that moment when Mark appeared in his line of sight.

Mark—the one who had celebrated his promotion yesterday. Mark—the one who shamelessly took Jackson's report and presented it as his own when management decided to hand out bonuses. He was wearing a new jacket, freshly pressed, with his usual smug smile on his face.

"Oh! Jack!" he greeted him joyfully, approaching and slapping Jackson on the shoulder.

"Did you hear? The boss wants to see you! Right now. You did something, huh?"

But Jackson barely heard him. All he saw was the seal.

It burned on Mark's forehead like a brand, too obvious and too alive. A symbol, etched into the flesh itself. Jackson blinked, trying to convince himself it was just his imagination, but the seal remained. He swallowed hard, barely suppressing the tremor in his voice.

"The boss?" he echoed, feeling cold sweat crawl down his spine.

"Yeah," Mark nodded, grinning as if already anticipating the show. "I'd get ready if I were you. But hey, you'll handle it! Believe in yourself."

Mark was too lively, too unshaken. And that made everything worse. Jackson looked at him as if seeing a corpse. Just yesterday, Jackson would have found a thousand excuses not to go to the boss. He would have hidden in the restroom, invented urgent tasks, or stayed at his desk hoping they'd forget about him. But now it was different. With every step down the hallway, he became less and less concerned. Panic no longer overwhelmed him—it was replaced by a strange, almost detached apathy. If he were on the verge of madness, he felt strangely calm in that state.

The boss's office door was slightly open. Jackson knocked and heard the familiar:

"Come in."

He stepped inside and immediately felt the air in the room become denser, as if invisible walls were closing in on him. For a moment, everything seemed ordinary. His boss, Mr. Van Holt, was sitting at his desk in his perfect gray suit, wearing the same imperturbable mask of professional calm. But when their eyes met, Jackson almost recoiled.

Van Holt's eyes were… inhuman. They glowed with a red gleam, like an animal cornered in a dark space, or maybe like a demon toying with its prey. It was a fleeting impression, but it was enough to make cold sweat start dripping down his back.

He swallowed and, suppressing a shiver, pretended he hadn't noticed.

"Jackson, glad you came in," Van Holt began in a soft voice. "You did a good job on the report. Next time, don't be modest, and don't shift the responsibility onto others. If you take something on, bring results yourself."

"Yes, sir," Jackson answered quietly, trying not to look directly into his eyes.

Van Holt smiled. The smile was too wide, too predatory.

"Have you noticed anything unusual lately? In the office?" His question sounded casual, like random curiosity, but Jackson felt the icy fingers of fear clutch his heart.

He knows.

The thought hit him like lightning, and he almost gave himself away.

"N-no, sir," he replied with a strained smile. "Everything's as usual."

The silence stretched, but Van Holt didn't say another word. He just held Jackson with his inhuman gaze a little longer than necessary before leaning back in his chair and nodding.

"Alright. Get back to work."

Jackson turned, feeling his legs turn into heavy, uncooperative weights. He felt like if he turned around, he'd see something far worse than those demonic eyes. But he held himself back. He didn't look. The door clicked shut behind him. When Jackson left the boss's office, Mark was already waiting for him, hunched over his desk with a feigned look of curiosity on his face. Seeing him, Mark immediately stood up and approached, flashing an artificial smile.

"So, what did he say?" Mark leaned in, as if trying to pry secrets from Jackson under torture. "He seemed a little strange today, didn't he?"

Jackson barely glanced at him. His head was buzzing, his body ached from tension, and every word from Mark irritated him like a mosquito bite.

"Nothing special," he muttered, brushing him off as if from a persistent bug.

Mark kept talking, but Jackson didn't listen anymore. He reached his desk, collapsed into the chair, and stared at the monitor, pretending to be absorbed in his work. Minutes dragged on endlessly, like tar. Every tick of the clock on the wall grated on his nerves. Every step, every rustle—everything felt suspicious.

As soon as the clock struck the end of the workday, Jackson quickly gathered his things. He moved automatically, on the verge of exhaustion.

"Hey, maybe I can give you a ride?" Mark suddenly offered, grabbing him by the elbow. "I'm heading that way anyway."

He had already started to refuse, but the words came out too late. The mechanical "fine" slipped from his lips, and he nodded.

As they headed to the underground parking lot, Mark suddenly spoke differently. His voice became softer, almost sincere.

"You know, about that report... You're probably mad at me. And honestly, I get it—I know I didn't handle it the best way," he said, looking at Jackson with almost boyish regret. "It was low. You deserved better."

Jackson walked silently, trying to suppress the simmering irritation inside him.

"I'm sorry," Mark continued. "Really. We work together. We should have each other's backs, right?"

Jackson finally looked at him and weakly nodded, pretending to accept the apology. His voice was flat and indifferent:

"Forget it. It's fine."

But his gaze slid back to Mark's forehead, and the seal, pulsating red, burned through his insides like a knife he couldn't remove.

"Hey! What are you doing here?" Mark suddenly shouted, his voice tearing through the silence of the parking lot, echoing off the concrete walls.

Jackson flinched and turned at the sound. By Mark's car stood a man. Tall, in a long dark coat, he looked human, but… something was off. Jackson felt a chill of terror in his gut even before his eyes focused on the stranger's face.

Mark was ranting, growing more aggressive with every step. He moved quickly, as if someone had triggered the hidden spring of his temper.

"Hey, you! Listen here, buddy! What do you want? Why are you digging around in my car?" he yelled, advancing closer.

Jackson followed him, but with every step, his legs grew heavier. Suddenly, he saw what he hadn't been able to comprehend at first. The man had no eyes. None at all. Instead of eye sockets, there were deep hollows, and the skin around them was gray, like parchment stretched over bones.

Jackson's breath caught in his throat.

"Mark…" he mumbled, but his voice was drowned out by the pounding of footsteps and his colleague's furious words.

Mark was too close. He finally noticed the horrific emptiness where the man's eyes should have been, but it was too late. The man spoke in a language Jackson couldn't understand. The words sounded as if they were pulled from the depths of some other, dead world. The voice was dry, brittle, like old wood.

The creature's thin fingers rose, and a spear began to form from the air before its palm. It looked like a shard of darkness ripped from the abyss itself, wrapped in smoke and cold light.

Mark froze. His eyes widened, but he didn't even have time to scream before the spear shot forward and impaled him in the chest. With incredible force, it lifted him off the ground and pierced him straight to the ceiling.

The concrete shook from the impact, and Mark hung lifeless, like a broken doll. Jackson froze. A wave of terrifying panic overwhelmed his mind, his legs turned to jelly, but there was only one thought ringing in his head: run! He turned and fled, his heart pounding so hard it felt like it would burst out with the last scream of despair.

To be continued

The continuation is posted most quickly on my P.a.t.r.e.o.n (Redgal).