I didn't stop running until I hit the river.
The streets were half-flooded from last night's storm, reflecting the city's broken lights in trembling ribbons of color. The water smelled like rust and rain, and underneath it all — faint but steady — came that pulse again.
Thump. Thump.
I pressed my palms to my ears, but it didn't help. The sound wasn't outside anymore. It was inside me, behind my ribs, syncing with my own heartbeat until I couldn't tell which was mine.
By the time I reached the far end of the bridge, my chest was burning. I leaned over the railing, gasping, eyes locked on the black water below.
Something moved under the surface.
Not a fish. Not the wind. Something vast — a shape, shifting just beneath the ripples, tracing the same circular pattern as the mansion's ritual floor.
I stumbled back.
That was when my phone buzzed.
I looked down. Unknown Number.
My hands shook as I answered. "Hello?"
A pause. Then a low voice — distorted, wet, like it came from underwater.
"You shouldn't have left."
I froze. "Who is this?"
The voice chuckled — a slow, broken sound.
"You opened the door, Arlen. You didn't close it."
Then the line went dead.
I stood there on the bridge for what felt like an hour, the world holding its breath. Then I ran again.
The only place left to go was my apartment — if it was even still mine.
When I got there, the door was already open.
I swallowed hard and stepped inside. The place looked normal at first glance. Same couch. Same table. Same unwashed mug on the counter. But the air felt thick, like breathing through fog.
Every surface was damp. The wallpaper seemed to shimmer faintly, as though a film of water covered it.
And the mirrors—
All three of them were fogged from the inside.
I took a cautious step forward. The floorboards creaked, and something whispered through the vents.
We remember.
I turned sharply. The voice had come from everywhere — the walls, the ceiling, maybe even my own mind.
Then a shadow flickered across the far wall.
I froze.
Someone was standing in my living room.
A tall, thin silhouette — face hidden beneath a dark hood, hands pale and trembling.
"Who the hell—"
The figure raised a hand. "Don't."
That voice—
"Maya?" I breathed.
She stepped into the light.
It was her.
Or at least, it looked like her. Same sharp eyes. Same dark hair streaked with silver. But there was something wrong with her reflection in the window — it moved a second later than she did.
"I told you not to run," she said quietly.
My throat went dry. "You— you died. I saw you fall."
"Did you?" she asked. "Are you sure any of us ever left that place?"
The question hit harder than a punch.
"I burned it," I said. "I watched it collapse."
She stepped closer. The air grew colder. "You burned the wood. The stone. But not the memory. The house was never just a building."
"What do you mean?"
She tilted her head slightly, eyes gleaming red in the low light. "It's a pattern, Arlen. A seed. Once it's planted, it grows. In people. In dreams. In us."
I shook my head. "No. No, you're not real."
"Then why can you still hear it?"
Thump.
My heart answered her.
Thump.
The sound filled the room again — slow, steady, patient.
Maya reached out, pressing her hand to my chest. "It's not trying to kill you. It's trying to become you."
I stumbled back, slamming into the table. "Stay away from me."
She smiled faintly, almost sad. "You can't escape it. You never could. You're its inheritance."
The walls began to pulse again. The wallpaper peeled back like skin, revealing dark, living veins underneath. The lightbulb overhead burst, plunging the room into a deep red glow.
"Maya—!"
She stepped closer, her body flickering like a dying flame. "You'll see soon enough. When it's done growing, it won't need the mansion anymore. It'll have us."
Then her eyes went black. Her body crumbled into ash.
The heartbeat stopped.
Silence fell — heavy, absolute.
I fell to my knees, gasping, the ash swirling around me like smoke.
And when I looked down at my hands, I saw it — faint lines glowing beneath my skin, forming the same circular sigil that had burned on the mansion's floor.
The pattern was spreading.