As night fell, Gordon found himself back in the library, the scene of his previous, cowardly retreat. He stood in the center of the room, the silence pressing in on him, the shadows deepening with each passing moment. He felt a familiar knot of anxiety tightening in his stomach, but he refused to let it control him.
He had spent the day preparing, both mentally and physically. He had reviewed what he would do, sharpened his senses, and tried to visualize the unseen presence. He had also spent a considerable amount of time reminding himself of Bertha's words, "Great hero like you."
As the clock ticked closer to midnight, the tension in the room grew palpable. Gordon felt goosebumps crawling all over his body, a deep fear gripping him. But he stood firm, his gaze fixed on the darkened corners of the library.
When the clock struck midnight, the resonating gongs echoing through the house, Gordon felt a wave of icy dread wash over him. He could feel the presence, a cold, unseen energy that seemed to emanate from the very walls.
He began to chant, his voice a low, steady murmur. "I am a hero," he repeated, his words echoing through the silence. "I am a hero. I am a hero."
He added, under his breath, "Bertha loves me." He knew it sounded ridiculous, and he could already imagine Lukas's endless teasing if he ever heard him say it. But the thought, however absurd, grounded him. It made him inexplicably happy.
The combination of the heroic mantra and the ridiculous, joyful thought of Bertha, made him feel lighter. Like the fear was still there, but it was being pushed back.
He continued to chant, his voice growing stronger, his resolve hardening. He felt a faint tingling sensation in the air, a subtle vibration that seemed to pulse with hate.
He opened his eyes, his gaze sweeping over the room. He saw nothing, but he could feel it, a cold, watchful eyes that seemed to be observing him.
"I'm not afraid," he declared, his voice ringing through the silence. "I'm not going to run. I'm here to beat your ghostly ass. And I'm not leaving until I do."
He paused, his breath catching in his throat. He felt a shift in the atmosphere, a subtle change in the air. He could almost see it, a faint shimmer, a distortion in the air, like heat rising from a flame.
He focused his gaze, his senses heightened. He reached out, his hand trembling slightly, and then… he touched it. But nothing happened, it just gone silent.
But
The chilling silence of the library was suddenly shattered by a sound that sent a jolt of pure terror through Gordon's body: "Hihihihi." A thin, high-pitched laugh, like the rustling of dry leaves, filled the room, echoing off the towering bookshelves. It was a laugh that crawled under his skin, a sound that whispered of madness and despair.
Gordon's body trembled, his muscles tense, his heart pounding against his ribs. He tried to pinpoint the source of the laughter, his gaze darting from shadow to shadow, but he saw nothing. The laugh seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere at once, a disembodied sound that floated on the air.
He tried to bait it, to draw it out. "Show yourself!" he yelled, his voice cracking slightly. "I'm not afraid!"
His words echoed through the room, swallowed by the silence that followed. The laughter didn't return. The only sound was the frantic beating of his own heart.
He waited, his senses strained, his body coiled tight. He felt a coldness creeping up his spine, a sense of dread that was almost unbearable. He was on the verge of turning and running, of fleeing the library and never returning.
Then, something flew past him, so fast he barely registered it. He felt a rush of air, a fleeting sense of movement, and then… nothing. He turned, his eyes wide with fear, searching the shadows.
For a terrifying moment, he thought he saw something on the floor, a dark shape, a… a head. A head with long, black hair, lying on the floor, its eyes staring up at him.
He blinked, his eyes straining in the dim light. Had he really seen it? Or was his fear playing tricks on him?
He took a step closer, his hand trembling as he reached for the lamp on the nearby table. He needed more light. He needed to see.
Just as his fingers brushed the lamp, the laughter returned, louder this time, closer. "Hihihihi!"
He spun around, his heart leaping into his throat. He saw nothing. But he could feel it, a presence, a malevolent entity that was watching him, taunting him.
He looked back at the floor, his gaze fixed on the dark shape. It was still there, but it was shifting, changing, like a shadow in the flickering lamplight.
He took another step closer, his breath catching in his throat. He could see it more clearly now. It wasn't a head. It was… a doll. A doll with long, black hair, its face painted with a grotesque, grinning smile.
He let out a shaky breath, a mixture of relief and lingering terror washing over him. It was just a doll. But the laughter, the feeling of being watched, it was real. And it was coming from somewhere.
"Fuck it," Gordon hissed, his voice trembling slightly. "I'll blast it all."
He braced himself, his hands clenched into fists, his muscles tense. He reluctantly prepared to call upon his power, the force that had saved his life, but also filled him with a deep, unsettling dread.
The truth was, he hated using it. He hated the screams. The thousand, agonizing screams that echoed in his mind every time he unleashed the power. He could ignore them in the heat of battle, when survival was paramount, when the chaos and fear drowned out the horrifying chorus. But at home, in the quiet solitude of his cottage, the screams were unbearable. They terrified him.
That was why he avoided training his power, why he rarely used it unless absolutely necessary. Every time he called upon it, he felt a part of himself slipping away, replaced by the chilling cacophony of the damned.
But now, he knew, was not the time for hesitation. If he continued to be paralyzed by fear, he would die, standing frozen in the library.
He closed his eyes, his breath catching in his throat, and began to call it and soon he felt the familiar surge of energy, the power building within him, the screams beginning to rise, a distant, terrifying chorus.
But before he could fully unleash the power, the doll on the floor began to transform. The painted grin twisted into a grotesque grimace, the long, black hair shifting and contorting. The porcelain face seemed to melt and reshape itself, the features becoming more defined, more… familiar.
Gordon's eyes widened in horror. The doll was no longer a doll. It was… it was his father.
His father's head, lying on the floor, his eyes staring up at him, filled with a chilling emptiness. The long, black hair was now matted and tangled, the porcelain skin replaced by the pale, lifeless flesh of a corpse.
Gordon's breath hitched in his throat, a wave of nausea washing over him. He stumbled back, his hand flying to his mouth, his eyes filled with disbelief and terror.
"Father?" he whispered, his voice trembling. "No… this can't be…"
The head remained still, its eyes fixed on Gordon, its expression blank. But the laughter returned, louder this time, closer, as if it were coming from the head itself.
"Hihihihi," it echoed through the room, a chilling, mocking sound.
Gordon's mind reeled, his fear reaching a fever pitch. He couldn't understand what he was seeing. His father was dead, buried in the village cemetery. How could he be here, in Mr. Suhat's library, transformed into a grotesque doll?
He felt a surge of anger, a desperate need to lash out, to destroy the thing that was mocking him, taunting him with his father's face.
But he couldn't move. He was frozen, his body paralyzed by fear, his mind trapped in a nightmare.
The lifeless eyes of his father's head suddenly flickered, a faint spark of… something… igniting within them. Then, the head began to speak, its voice a hollow, distorted echo of the man Gordon remembered.
"Gordon," it rasped, the sound sending shivers down his spine. "My son."
Gordon's breath hitched in his throat. He couldn't believe what he was hearing. "Father?" he whispered, his voice trembling.
"Do you remember," the head continued, its voice a chilling monotone, "the day we went fishing at Willow Creek? You caught your first fish, a small, silver thing, but you were so proud. I remember your smile, Gordon. You were so happy."
Gordon's mind flooded with memories, vivid and real. He remembered that day, the warmth of the sun, the gentle lapping of the water, the feeling of pride when he had reeled in his first catch. It was a cherished memory, one he had held close to his heart.
"And the stories," the head continued, its eyes fixed on Gordon. "The tales of brave knights and cunning goblins, the legends of the old forest. You loved those stories, didn't you, Gordon? You would listen, wide-eyed, your imagination soaring."
Another wave of memories washed over Gordon, the familiar sound of his father's voice, the captivating tales that had filled his childhood with wonder. These were not fabrications, not illusions. They were real, deeply ingrained in his memory.
His mind began to waver, doubt creeping into his terror. Could it be? Could this grotesque parody of his father truly be him? But how? How could his father's head be here, speaking to him, recalling their shared past?
Then, the tone shifted, the warmth replaced by a chilling coldness. "But you disappointed me, Gordon," the head hissed, its voice laced with a venomous edge. "You were always weak, always timid. You never had the courage to be a man."
Gordon's heart clenched. "No," he whispered, tears welling up in his eyes.
"I hated you, Gordon," the head continued, its words like shards of ice piercing his soul. "I hated your mother too. You were a curse, both of you. A burden I had to bear."
Gordon sobbed, his body shaking. "No, Father, please," he begged, his voice choked with tears. "That's not true."
"It is true," the head snarled, its eyes filled with a malevolent glee. "I cursed the day you were born. I cursed the day I met your mother. You ruined my life."
The words echoed in Gordon's mind, each syllable a searing brand, burning away his memories of love and warmth. He sank to his knees, his body wracked with sobs, his mind shattered by the cruelty of the words.
"Stop," he pleaded, his voice a broken whisper. "Please, Father, stop."
But the head continued, its voice a relentless torrent of hate, each word more hurtful than the last. Gordon's world crumbled around him, his mind trapped in a vortex of grief and despair. He was lost, broken, and utterly alone.
Gordon crumpled to his knees, his sobs echoing through the library. The relentless barrage of hateful words from his father's head had shattered his defenses, leaving him a broken, weeping mess. He buried his face in his hands, his body shaking with grief, wanting nothing more than for the torment to end.
Then, he felt a strange, skittering sensation on the floor. He looked up, his eyes blurred with tears, and saw the head of his father. But it was no longer just a head. Eight pairs of long, spindly spider legs had sprouted from its base, and it was scuttling towards him, a grotesque, horrifying creature.
Without warning, the head began to climb, its spider legs clinging to his legs, his torso, his back. Gordon flinched, his body recoiling in disgust and terror, but he was too weak, too broken to resist.
The head settled on his back, its spider legs melting into his skin, a sickening, viscous fusion. Gordon screamed, a raw, primal sound of pure horror.
Consumed by self-hatred and despair, he wanted it all to end. He wanted to obliterate himself, to erase the pain, to silence the hateful voice that echoed in his mind. He instinctively began to call upon his power to destroy himself.
But as the thousand screams began to fill his mind, a strange thing happened. The influence of the head, the paralyzing fear and despair, weakened. The cacophony of the damned, usually a source of terror, became a strange kind of grounding force. It reminded him of the real horrors he had faced, the real battles he had fought.
He came to himself, his mind clearing, his senses returning. He felt a sickening weight on his back, a cold, alien presence that clung to his skin. He realized, with a jolt of horror, that the head was still there, fused to his back.
With a surge of adrenaline, he instinctively reached for his power, not to destroy himself, but to destroy the thing that was clinging to him. He focused his energy, channeling his power into a violent blast of wind.
The head shuddered, its spider legs twitching, but it didn't come loose. He blasted it again, and again, each blast fueled by a mixture of terror and rage. The head began to weaken, its grip loosening.
Finally, with a final, desperate surge of power, he tore the head from his back, the sickening fusion ripping apart. He stumbled back, his body trembling, his breath ragged.
The head landed on the floor, its spider legs twitching, its eyes filled with a malevolent rage. Gordon didn't hesitate. He unleashed another blast of wind, this time focusing all his power on the grotesque head but missed its mark. The spider-legged head, with an unnerving agility, skittered away, disappearing behind the towering bookshelves.
"Damn it!" Gordon yelled, his voice echoing through the library. He stood there, his eyes darting from shelf to shelf, trying to locate the elusive creature. He was determined not to destroy the books, precious and expensive, so he had to limit his power, focusing his power into precise, targeted blasts.
The head, however, was incredibly fast. It darted between the shelves, its spider legs clicking against the wooden floor, its movements erratic and unpredictable. Gordon tried to anticipate its movements, to predict its next move, but it was too elusive.
He unleashed several blasts of wind, each one narrowly missing its target. The head seemed to anticipate his attacks, dodging and weaving with unnerving precision. He was losing his patience, his frustration mounting with each missed attack.
He began to run, his footsteps echoing through the library, his voice a raw, animalistic scream. "Come back here!" he yelled, chasing the head as it skittered between the shelves. "I'll get you!"
He was a whirlwind of motion, a frantic hunter chasing its prey. He lunged, he blasted, he screamed, but the head remained just out of reach. He was becoming a lunatic, running between expensive books and screaming.
Then, just as suddenly as it had appeared, the head vanished. Gordon stopped, his chest heaving, his eyes wide with panic. He scanned the room, his gaze darting from shadow to shadow, but he couldn't see it.
"Where are you?" he whispered, his voice trembling.
He stood there, frozen, his senses strained, listening for any sound, any movement. The silence was heavy, oppressive. He felt a coldness creeping up his spine, a sense of dread that was almost unbearable.
Then, he heard a faint skittering sound, a soft, clicking noise coming from… his feet. He looked down, his eyes widening in horror.
The spider-legged head was clinging to his left foot, its legs wrapped around his ankle, its eyes fixed on him with a malevolent glee. He let out a scream, a raw, primal sound of pure terror.
The head, in response, let out its own high-pitched, chilling scream. Both Gordon and the spider head were screaming in utter madness.