Silas remained that way, trembling, scared to make the slightest of sounds. His rational mind struggled to understand his current circumstances. The change in his room, the changes to his body, the monstrosities torn straight out of some Lovecraftian novel. His courage weighed with his fear. He needed more information. The violence that creature demonstrated, the way it seemed to hunt, reminded him of how little he knew, yet the danger he was in.
He listened. No sounds disturbed the eerily chill night. Slowly but surely, he crawled out from under the bed, wincing as the floor creaked gently. He stopped briefly, heart pounding, making sure nothing was alerted. When silence held, he made his way to the splintered door, carefully closing it, begging that it wouldn’t make a sound. It didn’t. He listened intently once more. No rush of feet or growling.
Looking around, he knew he needed more information. Beside the now splintered bed, its torn and mildewed sheets, an old desk stood, covered in dust. Upon it rested a single book and what appeared to be a large seed. The book was written in another language. As he stepped closer, a searing migraine struck, his vision shattering as pain lanced through his skull. He nearly cried out, hands clutching at his temples, but just as suddenly as it had come, the pain receded.
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Shaken, he hesitated. His mind insisted he didn't know this language, and yet, as his eyes traced the letters, comprehension bloomed in his mind as fluently as if he were reading English. It was impossible. His fingers traced the rough cover, its title now perfectly legible: The Choosing of the Seed.
Shocked, yet desperate for answers, he turned the first page, struggling to make out the aged text. A growl from the adjacent corridor froze him in place. Instinct took over. He ducked under the bed once more, snatching the book and seed off the desk in one swift motion.
Huddled below the bed, he peered through the cracks in the splintered doorframe. A familiar form shuffled past. The creature. And then—a sound.
Drip. Drip.
Moonlight filtered through the shattered roof tiles, illuminating the horror before him. The creature walked by, its elongated jaw clenched around the torn torso of a young woman. Saliva mixed with thick rivulets of blood dripped from its maw. A bite, a sickening crunch, and one of the woman’s limp limbs fell away, landing out of sight behind the broken door.
Silas went numb. The creature. The horror. The shock of seeing death in such an intimate, grotesque way. He had never witnessed anything like it in his sheltered and calm life. His breath hitched as the beast paused.
Like it sensed him.
He squeezed his eyes shut. He knew it did nothing, knew it wouldn't make him invisible, but he couldn’t bear to see its visage any longer. He waited, expecting razor claws to end this strange and horrifying nightmare.
And yet, the silence stretched on.
Slowly, tentatively, he cracked his eyes open.
The creature was gone.