I had not always been as I am, seated in this forsaken chamber with but a single flickering candle for company. There was a time, though it seems a distant dream now, when life coursed through me with a vigor not unlike the fiery blood of youth. But those days were long before the curse—the shadow that now clings to me like a second skin, unshakable and relentless.

The house of my family, once proud and standing on high ground overlooking the rolling hills, has withered, crumbling in sync with my own soul. The stones of the mansion sag beneath the weight of time, the gardens are consumed by wild, twisted vines, and the very air within these halls reeks of decay. Yet, I remain—bound by an unseen force to this place.

It began, as all tragedies do, with a single misstep. A foolish indulgence in curiosity that led me to the crypt beneath the manor. It was a cold night, the wind howling like a chorus of lost souls, when I discovered the old book, hidden deep within the family tomb. Its pages were brittle with age, and though the language was one I did not recognize, I felt an undeniable pull to read the incantations inscribed therein.

A darkness descended upon me as the words left my lips, creeping into my bones like the chill of winter's breath. The flame in my lantern flickered, casting long shadows across the stone walls, and it was in those shadows that I first saw it—the figure. At first, it seemed a mere trick of the light, a fleeting movement in the corner of my eye. But no, this was something more, something malevolent, watching me from the darkness. It followed me back to my room that night, and it has never left since.

The shadow—my shadow—is no longer my own. It moves, yes, but not as shadows should. It lingers too long when I rise, shifts unnaturally when I sit, and sometimes, when I glance at it, I catch its shape contorting into something grotesque, something inhuman. The terror it fills me with is unlike anything I have known, for I know—I know—that it is no mere specter. It has become a part of me, though I do not understand how or why.

At first, I sought to escape it. I fled the house, traveling far beyond the hills, to the cities and towns where I thought the light would chase it away. But it followed, always lurking, always watching. In moments of quiet, I would hear it—whispers like the sighing of the wind, though there was no breeze. Words I could not decipher, words that felt as though they crawled inside my mind and took root there.

My nights became sleepless, haunted by visions of dark corridors, of endless spirals leading ever downward. And always, always, that cursed shadow, writhing in the periphery of my dreams. I grew gaunt and hollow, a mere shell of the man I once was, consumed by an insidious dread. No doctor, no priest, no exorcist could rid me of the thing that clung to me.

And so, I returned—to this place, this manor where it all began, hoping that perhaps here I could find some answer, some end to the madness. But the answers have not come. Only silence. Only the shifting of the shadow in the darkened corners of my room, ever patient, ever present.

I have lost count of the days, the nights. Time has unraveled, like a frayed thread slipping from a tattered garment. I have not seen the sun in weeks, perhaps months. The shutters are closed, the doors locked. I dare not let the world see what I have become.

Yet tonight, as I sit by the dwindling light of this dying candle, I feel the end drawing near. The whispers have grown louder, more insistent, and the shadow... it grows bolder. It no longer hides in the corners but moves freely across the floor, stretching toward me as though seeking to claim what little is left of my soul.

I write this not as a plea for salvation, for I know none will come. I write this as a warning, though I fear it may be too late. There are things—dark, ancient things—that dwell beyond the veil of our understanding. Things that wait, patiently, for foolish mortals like me to open the door.

And once that door is opened, it cannot be closed.

The candle flickers, sputters.

The shadow is here.

It is upon me now.

And I am lost.


---

In the darkness, the ink dries on the page, and the house falls silent once more.

The candle finally guttered out, casting the room into complete and unyielding blackness. For a moment, there was only silence—a suffocating quiet that pressed in from every side. And then, from the shadows, a low whisper began, like the rustling of dead leaves in a forgotten crypt. It seeped into the cracks of the old stone walls, curling around the air, oppressive and thick.

I could feel it—no, I was feeling it. The presence. The shadow was not simply upon me; it was within me, intertwining itself with my very essence. It moved like cold tendrils across my skin, squeezing, tightening, constricting. My limbs became heavy, leaden, as if the blood in my veins had slowed to a crawl, turned viscous and black like the ink that stained my fingers.

I tried to scream. I opened my mouth, but nothing came. The darkness stole the sound before it could even form. My body, betraying me, remained frozen, paralyzed by the weight of the thing now bound to me. My thoughts began to slip, unraveling like the loose threads of a frayed mind. Faces flashed before my eyes—people I had known, loved, and forgotten. Their images twisted, warped, pulled apart like grotesque reflections in a shattered mirror.

The whispering grew louder now, rising in pitch, in tempo, until it was no longer a murmur but a cacophony of voices. Hundreds, maybe thousands, all speaking at once—an endless torrent of words I could not understand. The sound was maddening, like the droning hum of a thousand flies trapped in a jar.

And then, as if some ancient seal had been broken, the voices formed one word, a name—my name. They spoke it with a venomous familiarity, as though they had always known me, had always been with me, waiting, biding their time. The realization struck me with a cold, merciless clarity.

The shadow—this thing that had plagued me—was not some foreign entity, some external horror. It was me. It had always been me. The incantation I had uttered in the crypt had not summoned it—it had revealed it, stripped away the fragile barriers of sanity and self that had kept it hidden.

I was the monster.

As this truth settled into the marrow of my bones, I felt the final veil fall away. The shadow, no longer content to lurk, consumed me entirely. My vision blurred, not from tears but from the dark pressing in on all sides, seeping into my mind, my heart, my soul. It filled every crack, every corner of my being until there was nothing left of the man I once was.

In my final moments of clarity, I understood that this was my punishment—no, my fate. To be consumed by the darkness that had always been there, lying dormant, waiting for the moment when I would be foolish enough to let it free.

My body, or what was left of it, began to move, but it was not me that commanded it. I was merely a passenger now, a ghost trapped in a vessel I no longer controlled. My hands, pale and trembling, rose before me. The ink on my fingers had spread, crawling up my arms like veins of shadow, and as I looked down, I saw the blackness consuming me from the inside out.

I wanted to fight, to struggle, but there was no strength left. The shadow had taken everything. And then, with one final, whispered breath, I ceased to exist.

The figure that now stood in the darkness of the room was no longer a man, but something else—something ancient, malevolent, and eternal. It turned toward the writing desk, where the last remnants of my human life lay in ink-stained pages, and with a movement that was both deliberate and impossibly swift, it snuffed out the candle’s smoldering wick.

The room was silent.

The shadow had found its home.

And the house—my family’s house—would never again see the light of day.
© Brian C. Jobe