Adam woke, the first thing he noticed was the light—too bright, pressing against his eyelids even before he opened them. When he finally blinked awake, the world came into view slowly, like surfacing from deep water. The air smelled old, like dust and leather-bound books. His hands pressed against the polished wooden floor, cool to the touch. The room was massive, its walls lined with towering bookshelves filled with thick, heavy tomes. Some titles he couldn’t seem to read, the words curling in strange script, while others felt familiar. books on histories, philosophies, a collection of constellations drawn in ink hung on the wall.

Scattered across a large wooden desk were open books and diagrams, some depicting planetary movements, others filled with meticulous sketches of intricate symbols. Glass orbs, some cracked, lay nestled among the pages. A brass instrument, shaped like an astrolabe, gleamed in the light that filtered in through the frosted windows. The desk chair stood slightly askew, as if someone had just left. And yet, dust covered everything, untouched and undisturbed for what looked like years.

Adam held his breath for a moment, not out of fear, but curiosity. The unfamiliar setting, the strange objects scattered across the desk, the faint scent of ink and parchment—all of it filled him with a sense of cautious intrigue. Something about this place felt frozen in time, like a moment captured just before something important happened.

Then, a movement beside him—His little brother James. Relief flickered through Adam, brief but strong. He wasn’t alone. He turned his head, taking in the sight of the near five-year-old curled into his side, dark curls messy from sleep, his small hands clutching the fabric of his own sleepwear. James’s wide, uncertain eyes met his, searching for reassurance. It was an unspoken rule—he had to protect him. No matter what.

The older boy could feel his little brother pressing against him, seeking comfort as much as offering it. His fingers clenched tight in the fabric of Adams sleeve, his body small and warm against his side. The older boy wrapped an arm around him, gripping his shoulder, grounding them both in something real.

James shifted slightly, his gaze drifting around the room with wide-eyed curiosity. "The windows are weird," he murmured, his voice quiet but steady. "They’re all frosted over. Like snow."

The older boy swallowed, glanced around the room and started focusing on something stranger. "The doorways don’t have doors," Adam stated, his voice just as hushed. the thought rushed to Adam in that moment. "Like the house didn’t want to keep anything out. Or in."

They both fell silent again, listening, watching, trying to understand where they were and what it meant.

Then, as his eyes continued to adjust to his surroundings, he noticed them.

High above, crawling along the ceiling like grotesque veins, were tendrils. They twisted over the beams and coiled around the columns like petrified roots, their dark forms almost blending into the architecture. Most of them were out of reach, weaving their way across the ceiling in a tangled network, as though the house itself was wrapped in them. But the lowest ones—those he could just barely touch if he reached—looked different. More alive.

Something about them felt wrong.

A chill ran down his spine as he stared. The house, which had moments ago felt strange yet passive, suddenly felt unfriendly. Not just eerie, but watchful. The weight of silence pressed in around him. The dust, the books, the old leather—it no longer smelled comforting. It smelled abandoned. Forgotten.

His brother, still holding onto him, tugged lightly on his sleeve. "Why do they look like that?" he whispered, wide eyes locked on the twisting forms above them.

The older boy swallowed, unable to answer. He didn’t know. But the longer he looked, the more certain he became—they hadn’t walked into an empty house.

They had walked into something’s home. A pressure enveloped him. 

The house had been grand once. Even now, in the wavering orange glow that passed through the frosted windows, its beauty clung to the silence like a forgotten whisper. White marble stretched from floor to ceiling, pillars adorned with gold trim, doorways tall and imposing—but empty. No doors. No way to close anything off.

Then, he noticed something strange. The light—deep and orange, like the glow of a distant fire—was shifting. Not flickering, not dimming, but moving. It crawled along the walls, stretching and shrinking, as if something outside was circling the house.

His little brother noticed it too. "The light is changing," he whispered, his voice barely more than breath. "Like it’s going around in a circle."

The older boy frowned. "It’s not just the light," he murmured. He turned his head, glancing at the corners of the room. Shadows deepened, creeping forward as the glow thinned. It wasn’t getting darker all at once—it was spreading. The longer he watched, the more certain he became: whatever was outside, whatever was casting this light, was moving.

The realization made his stomach twist. He didn’t like it. Neither did his brother, who was clutching his sleeve again. The room, once still and eerie, was suddenly something else.

Unwelcoming.

Like it was waiting for something.

And then there were the tendrils. unmoving yet eerily expectant, as though lying in wait. They looked solid—rough, like aged wood—but something about them made his stomach tighten. The lowest tendrils hung just barely within reach, swaying ever so slightly, as though responding to the air. He hesitated before stretching his fingers toward one.

The moment his skin brushed its surface, it reacted. The texture was unexpected—hard, like dry bark—but there was something beneath, something that shifted. The tendril twitched, then coiled, a slow, deliberate movement that sent a shudder through his spine. It curled against his touch, tightening around his fingers as if testing his presence. It was not just an object. It was aware.

He gasped and yanked his hand away, stumbling back. The tendril relaxed, slithering back into its previous position, but he could feel something lingering—a faint tingle on his fingertips, like the ghost of an unseen pulse.

His brother, eyes wide, gripped his sleeve. "What was that?" he whispered, voice trembling.

He couldn’t answer. His breath came faster now, unease settling deeper in his chest. The house had already felt wrong, but now—it felt evil.

He hadn’t screamed, but he had jerked away, his breath catching as the tendril recoiled slightly before settling once more. He stared at it, waiting, half-expecting it to lunge for him like a snake—but it didn’t. It stayed still, as if pretending to be nothing more than twisted wood. But he knew better now. He could still feel the ghost of its touch, that strange, alien movement that sent shivers crawling up his arms.

He didn’t want to touch them again. Ever.

Neither did his brother, who had taken a step closer, clutching at Adams sleeve but keeping his distance from the writhing shapes overhead. The younger boy’s breath was quick and unsteady, his fingers twisting into fabric as though anchoring himself. Adam swallowed hard, forcing himself to look away. Whatever those things were, they weren’t safe. And now, the house didn’t feel safe either.

Instead, they had wandered further in, though the light was beginning to dim even more. The long shadows stretched further, swallowing the edges of the room in creeping darkness. It felt slower this time, as if the glow was being dragged away rather than simply shifting. The flickering light left uneven patches of illumination, casting strange silhouettes along the walls. The deeper they moved into the house, the harder it became to tell where the darkness ended, and the tendrils began.

The shifting light grew weaker, its once steady orange glow thinning into long, wavering streaks along the walls. Adam watched as the edges of the room darkened first, the shelves and furniture sinking into shadow while the golden trim of the columns and bookshelves gleamed faintly in contrast. The light wasn’t going out all at once—it was being drawn away.

Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.

His little brother was the first to whisper it. "It's getting darker."

The older boy swallowed, nodding. "The light’s moving."

"Like it’s leaving us behind." said James.

The realization sent a cold feeling creeping down his spine. The shadows thickened, stretching and pooling in ways that didn’t seem natural. The room, once strange but still just a room, now felt oppressive. As if it was changing along with the light, adjusting to something unseen.

His brother moved closer, gripping his sleeve. "I don’t like this," he murmured.

Neither did he. The darkness wasn’t just filling the space—it was taking it over.

And that was when the noises began.

The first time they were in complete darkness, they heard it—

Crunch.

Wet. Crunching.

Somewhere behind them.

Neither of them had moved. Neither had spoken. The fear had been instant, coiling tight in his chest, making his stomach clench like a fist. His legs felt like stone, as if moving would shatter something fragile within him. He could hear his brother’s breath—fast, uneven, almost wheezing—but neither of them turned. Neither of them wanted to turn.

The air had changed. It felt heavier, charged with something unseen but electric, like a storm waiting to break. The hairs on his arms prickled. His fingers curled into fists at his sides, nails digging into his palms, grounding him in the moment.

His brother was shaking against him. He felt the way the younger boy’s fingers gripped his sleeve tighter, like an anchor against the rising tide of panic. The need to protect him, to shield him from whatever was behind them, warred with the raw, primitive instinct to run.

A slow, wet sound cut through the silence again, the squelching like something being torn apart. His breath hitched. His brother let out a tiny whimper, barely a sound at all, but it was enough. Enough to make his heart slam against his ribs. Enough to make him feel the thing behind them—watching, hungering.

The darkness pressed in, thick and suffocating, swallowing the edges of their vision. It wasn’t just absence—it was alive, pressing closer, wrapping around them like unseen fingers reaching through the air.

Silence. for one minute, then another. The kind that settled heavy and unnatural, as if the entire house had been holding its breath alongside them. His own breathing sounded too loud in his ears; his brother's uneven gasps sharp against the suffocating stillness.

Then, from the edges of the darkness, the first flicker of orange light pushed through.

It was faint at first, barely more than a whisper of glow against the walls, but it grew. The shadows shifted, recoiling as the light rolled in like a slow-moving tide. The deep orange glow stretched across the ceiling, licking over the tendrils, which curled slightly in response, twisting as if adjusting to the returning illumination.

The older boy exhaled shakily, eyes locked on the way the light transformed the room. It wasn't just light—it was movement. The orange radiance wasn't steady or still. It swept across the walls, bending and stretching, as if something outside was dragging it along, casting distorted shadows that writhed unnaturally. The realization sent a cold sensation through him.

His brother tugged on his sleeve, voice small. "It came back..." His whisper was laced with something fragile, something close to relief but not quite reaching it. Because the light had returned, but the fear had not left.

The older boy swallowed. He could see the way the tendrils recoiled from the light, yet they didn't retreat. They only shifted, curling slightly inward, responding in some way he couldn't understand. His imagination filled in the gaps—what if they were waiting? What if they could feel?

The glow passed slowly, leaving them with fleeting illumination. But the light wasn't a comfort. Not anymore. It only reminded them of what came with that strange dark.

They had pressed forward to find an exit. Had to. There was no staying still anymore, no more standing in the dark, waiting for whatever had made that sound to reach them.

The hallway stretched impossibly long, its walls lined with gilded trim and deep archways that led into unknown darkness. The space felt too big—vast in a way that made the boys feel small, like insects scurrying through an abandoned castle. Each step they took echoed too much, swallowed by the hush of the house.

The grand entrance loomed ahead, its twin staircases rising like open arms to the second floor. With massive picture frames lining the walls bore unfamiliar, dust-covered portraits, their faces warped by time. The polished furniture—chaises, tables, gilded mirrors—stood undisturbed, yet felt oddly placed, like a stage set waiting for actors to arrive.

Their steps grew slower, their muscles coiled tight, trembling under the weight of their own nerves. The fear was no longer a distant hum in their thoughts—it was in their bones now, pressing into them, making their breaths shallow and hurried.

James clutched his brother’s sleeve, his fingers twisting into the fabric. "It’s too big," he whispered, his voice quivering. "It feels like it’s swallowing us."

Adam simply nodded; his throat dry. He could feel it too. The space wasn’t just vast—it was wrong. It had weight, presence, like the house itself was waiting for them to realize they were trespassers.

Then the window above the staircase blazed with the brightest glow yet, a deep orange hue pouring in, stretching their shadows long against the floor.

Adam ran, dragging James behind him. something like a plane crashing hit Adam, a cracking of thunder in his ears. the light was starting to fade again.

Up the stairs, chasing the light, fear urging his feet forward because he couldn’t be left behind. The light had to stay with them. It had to—

The window above the staircase blazed with the brightest glow, but even as it illuminated the space, they could see it beginning to wane. It wasn’t fading all at once, but slowly, like something pulling it away, stretching it thinner. The shadows, which had been forced back by the orange light, started to creep forward again, reclaiming the space in uneven waves. The tendrils along the ceiling curled, shifting slightly as if sensing the change.

Adam swallowed hard, gripping his brother’s hand tighter. "It’s going away again, faster" he murmured.

His little brother glanced at the walls, his breath hitching. "We have to follow it."

There was no argument. The fear of being left behind in the darkness pushed them forward. They scrambled up the stairs, their footsteps urgent and uneven. Each step they climbed, the glow weakened more, the warmth of its presence slipping away. The edges of the grand entrance blurred into shadow, the towering columns and high walls seeming to stretch taller as darkness reclaimed them. the stairs felt infinite; time stopped working correctly. 

The younger boy was shaking, his small fingers twisting into his brother’s sleeve as they ran. Adam felt the tremors, and he knew—they were running from more than the dark. They were running from what came with it. a thing- a creature. 

Darkness swallowed them again.

Then—

Scrape.

The sound came slowly, deliberate, like something immense shifting its weight just beneath them. A deep, dragging noise scraped against the marble at the base of the stairs, wet and grinding, as if bone and sinew were being forced into motion. The noise crawled up the stairwell, wrapping around them, pressing against their backs like an unseen hand. The older boy's breath hitched, his stomach twisting so hard it felt like he might be sick. His brother whimpered, his grip tightening like a vice around his arm. They both knew, instinctively, that whatever had made that sound was not human. It was awake now, aware, and it was coming.

Wet cracks came from behind them, sloshing and spilling. 

He grabbed his brother’s shirt. Yanking him toward the nearest doorframe. They stumbled inside just as the blackness thickened behind them.

A bathroom.

The gold-trimmed marble gleamed under the fading light. Green tiles. A walk-in shower, its glazed glass blurry and warped. The air was still. The darkness was not.

Something was moving outside.

A slow, deliberate swish—like a tail dragging over stone or a spilling of a mop bucket.

Neither of them breathed. Neither of them spoke. His brother was curled into a ball, fists gripping his arm so hard it hurt. Adam didn’t push him away. He held him tighter.

The sound—low, almost a growl—rumbled somewhere beyond the doorway. Not quite close, but not far enough. His heart pounded so loudly it filled his ears, as though his own fear had a heartbeat.

wet pounding came ever closer, there pursuer close. Adam held James and they were both pressing themselves into the cold hard edge of a toilet rim, cowering. 

And then—the light returned.

His breath shuddered out. His body ached with tension. His brother whimpered softly, his grip loosening just slightly. He almost told him it’s okay—

But then James became ridged in his arms.

Wide eyes, horror-stricken, eyes locked on the doorway.

Adams stomach dropped.

Slowly, heart hammering in his throat, he turned his head.

It was right there.

Not fully in sight. Not yet.

Just a hand.

A reptilian, clawed hand, curled around the edge of the doorframe. It was massive—scales thick and dull, cracked like dried earth. It rested there, motionless, just barely visible past the gilded trim.

It wasn’t moving. It wasn’t coming in.

It was waiting.

The light was starting to fade again, faster this time. It flickered and waned as if being pulled away more urgently, leaving behind jagged shadows that stretched and twisted unnaturally along the walls. Time itself felt as though it had sped up, the intervals of darkness lasting longer, the moments of illumination shrinking. The tendrils curled tighter, their spindly forms shifting slightly in response, almost as if sensing the change. The boys’ breath quickened as the oppressive blackness threatened to swallow them whole once more, their fear mounting as they realized—the darkness was winning.

And the hand hadn’t moved.

A thought, wild and unwelcome, crept into his mind—

What if it knows we see it?

His brother shuddered violently, breath coming in silent, choked gasps.

His own hands curled into fists. Nails digging into his palms.

They couldn’t run.

They couldn’t hide.

The darkness crept in once more.

And then—

A single, deliberate tap.

A claw against the doorframe.

they were caught.