The sharp clatter of metal hitting the floor shattered the silence, as piercing as a gunshot in the stillness. Instinct seized me—I ducked behind a desk, my fingers brushing the cool steel of my gun. I strained to hear over the adrenaline roaring in my ears. The shadows in the room thickened, stretching into the kind of darkness that made your gut twist with primal dread. The silence felt alive, vibrating with a low, insidious hum, as if the whole building was holding its breath.

I stole a glance over the edge. In the dim, rust-flecked light, a figure moved, rummaging through a pile of boxes—no more than a silhouette, all fluid and wrong. They moved too smoothly, almost gliding, like they were less solid and more an idea that hadn’t quite made up its mind. I felt the hairs on the back of my neck rise, the creeping sensation of being somewhere I shouldn’t. It wasn’t just them being here that was wrong—it was them. Like they’d been peeled out of a nightmare and set loose, something that should never have existed in the daylight, let alone here, in this derelict place. The air grew colder, the kind of chill that seeps into your bones, leaving you brittle and ready to shatter.

The figure stilled, head cocked to one side, listening. I held my breath, tried to focus. Then they turned, and for one chilling second, we locked eyes—or I think we did. I couldn’t see their face, but I could feel their gaze, cold and sharp like a knife pressing against my ribs. There was no mistaking it—they knew I was here. A smile might have curled at the edge of their shadowed face, or maybe that was just my mind conjuring demons.

The figure bolted, and something snapped inside me—I was over the desk before I could think, feet hitting the ground hard, and gave chase. They were fast, too fast. The kind of fast that should come with a warning label. They flowed through the shadows, a whisper of movement in the darkened hallways, while I thundered after them, the air crackling with something wrong. Like static electricity before a storm. My legs pumped, muscles straining as I pushed myself harder, chasing the ghost that shouldn’t exist.

Every door we passed seemed to watch, every darkened corner a mouth ready to swallow me whole. My breaths were ragged, the burn of my muscles spreading like wildfire. I rounded a corner and caught sight of them, just a flicker, before they slipped into the next room. The house felt alive, shifting, the shadows pulsing, conspiring against me. Each step was a risk—one misstep, and I’d end up god-knows-where, maybe tangled in the thing’s wake. The walls seemed to shift, narrowing, leaning closer, as if the building itself wanted to close in on me, crush me under its weight.

They hit the main room, and I wasn’t far behind, adrenaline narrowing my vision. They made a sudden, desperate dive for the window. There was a split-second where time slowed—the glint of the moonlight, the jagged shards of glass—then everything shattered. The window exploded, the figure going through like it was nothing, disappearing into the night. Glass shards rained down, and I heard myself curse, rushing forward to the broken window.

This story is posted elsewhere by the author. Help them out by reading the authentic version.

I caught a fleeting glimpse of them—a blurred shadow sprinting away, swallowed by the dark. They left behind a jagged hole in the world, an emptiness that crawls under your skin like a slow, burning itch you can't quite reach. My hands trembled as I gripped the window frame, shards of glass biting into my palms, pain barely registering over the pounding of my pulse. I couldn’t let them get away—not now, not after everything.

Blood. Smeared across the glass—dark, shimmering under the moonlight like a perverse constellation. Evidence. Or maybe more. I knelt, pulling a piece of the glass free. Slick with their blood. There were spells for this. Dangerous ones. But then again, “dangerous” was just another day at the office lately. I could almost hear the mocking voice of my old mentor: “Play with fire, get burned. Play with blood, and, well... you know how that story ends.”

The silence in the house shifted as I straightened up, the rush of the chase ebbing out of me, leaving only exhaustion. The wrongness, the creeping sense of being hunted, didn’t disappear, but it took a step back—like a predator deciding, for now, to let its prey run. The shadows seemed to watch, judging, weighing whether I was worth the effort.

I backed out the way I came, careful, my steps deliberate. Whoever—whatever—I was chasing wasn’t going to make it easy. But neither was I. There was someone who could track this blood—if I was lucky, he wouldn’t turn me into a toad for showing up unannounced. He wasn’t exactly the sort of guy you called for casual favors. More like the kind of guy you reached out to when your life was dangling by a thread and you’d run out of better options. The kind of guy who made deals with devils and walked away with a smile.

The chill of the building seemed to cling to me as I made my way back to the window I’d entered through, the shattered glass crunching beneath my boots. I took one last look at the room, the shadows shifting like something alive, something waiting. I needed a drink. And, if I was lucky, a night where I didn’t end up dodging fists or spells or worse. A guy could dream, right?

I climbed out the window, dropping down into the alley below. The night was cold, biting, and I pulled my coat tighter around me, the bloodied shard of glass safe in my pocket. The city stretched out before me, a labyrinth of darkened streets and flickering neon, the kind of place where nightmares felt right at home. Somewhere out there, the figure was running, hiding, and I intended to find them. I was growing tired of chasing shadows.

But first stop—a drink. Then maybe a visit to an old “friend.”