Chapter 13: The Haunting Begins

  The night after their trip to the forest shrine, Shiro couldn't sleep.

  He lay motionless in bed, the ceiling fan creaking rhythmically above him like the ticking of some invisible clock. The air in his room felt thick, dense, like breathing through cloth. The moment he closed his eyes, the memory of the shrine clawed its way back into his mind—the way the stone had thrummed under his fingertips, the whisper that slithered into his ear like a serpent.

  Awaken, chosen one.

  The words echoed louder each time he tried to push them away. Not even pulling the covers up to his chin could stop the chill in his spine.

  When sleep finally took him, it was no gentle descent into dreams. It was a plunge—sharp and sudden—into something far too deep. And then the vision came.

  Blood. So much blood.

  The shrine was submerged in black water, its carvings obscured beneath rippling ink. Above it, a tangle of gnarled trees leaned in as if trying to whisper secrets to the structure. And at the shrine's base lay a carcass—a fox, mangled and twitching, its fur half-peeled from its body, its eyes rolled back into its skull. Maggots crawled beneath its skin, which pulsed as if still alive.

  He tried to scream, but his mouth filled with dirt. He fell forward onto his hands and knees. The water lapped at his wrists—sticky, thick, warm.

  Then, from the forest's edge, a scream broke through the silence.

  It was Sora.

  Distorted. Distant. Drowning.

  He staggered to his feet, looking for her. But behind the scream came something else—a laugh. Dry. Ragged. Something was wrong with it, like it was being played backwards. He spun around—

  —and the shrine was closer now. Right behind him. Its doors are ajar.

  There was someone inside.

  He stepped closer.

  Then—

  He woke up.

  Shiro sat upright in his bed with a gasp, his entire body slick with cold sweat. His heart punched at his ribs, demanding to escape. His breath came shallow and fast, hands shaking as he scrambled for the lamp on his nightstand.

  Light flooded the room.

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  Nothing.

  Just the familiar furniture. The posters on his walls. The faint hum of the refrigerator downstairs.

  But...

  He could have sworn—just for a second—that he'd heard it again.

  A breath. Or a whisper. Right beside his ear.

  That was only the first night.

  By morning, Shiro looked like he'd aged a year. His hair was unkempt, and deep circles ringed his bloodshot eyes. He barely acknowledged his mother as she called out from the kitchen. Didn't touch his breakfast. On the walk to school, he flinched at every shadow, every car engine, and every dog bark. Everything felt closer than it should be—like the world was leaning in.

  At school, the atmosphere shifted the moment he walked through the front gate. Students who usually ignored him now glanced twice, whispering under their breath. Even his usual tormentors paused. He looked like he hadn't just missed sleep—he looked like he hadn't left a war zone.

  Yo, corpse-boy, one of them sneered eventually, nudging him hard with a shoulder. You look like you crawled out of a grave.

  Normally, Shiro would've said nothing—just clenched his fists, kept walking, and endured it.

  But today was different.

  Today, he turned to the boy, eyes wide, unblinking, lips dry and cracked. His voice was barely audible, but it carried with it something weightier than anger.

  Do you ever hear screaming at night?

  The bully froze. What?

  Shiro tilted his head slightly, watching the boy like someone studying an animal in a cage. Then he turned and walked away.

  No more words.

  No anger.

  Just vacancy.

  By lunch, he sat alone. Again. But this time, not by choice—his friends were worried. Sora had texted him twice. Haruto once. Kenji sent him a meme and then followed it with, "Seriously, dude. Are you good?"

  Shiro replied once:

  Tired.

  He didn't eat. He didn't talk. Just sat there, his tray untouched, his hands gripping the edge of the table like he needed to hold on or fall through.

  Kenji approached once, cracking a joke. Shiro didn't laugh.

  Didn't even smile.

  Just muttered something under his breath: She's watching.

  That night, the dreams came again.

  No.

  Worse. They weren't dreams anymore.

  He was in his house, but it wasn't his house. The walls pulsed like muscle. The floor sloshed beneath his feet as if he were walking on a giant tongue. Every family photo was burned beyond recognition—faces melted away.

  He tried to open his door. It wasn't a door anymore. It was a gaping hole in the wall, breathing softly. He stepped through it.

  And the sky was bleeding.

  Crimson haze swirled above the twisted trees from the shrine, now taller than skyscrapers, their branches jagged and skeletal. One of them twitched.

  And then, a sound behind him—a creak, a wet slither.

  He turned.

  Someone stood behind him.

  He blinked.

  It was him himself.

  But not really.

  This version of Shiro had no eyes. No mouth. Just a smooth, pale face stretched over a skull. It stood unnaturally still. Then, with a sudden jerk, its skin split from the center—revealing rows of teeth where there should be no mouth.

  It screamed.

  Shiro woke up screaming too.

  He didn't sleep after that. Not that he could have.

  He sat in bed with the lights on, knees to his chest, the glow of his phone illuminating new messages.

  Sora:

  Hey. You were kind of scaring me today. Can we talk?

  Haruto:

  Whatever it is, man, don't go through it alone.

  Kenji:

  Bro... seriously. I'll pull up if I have to.

  He stared at the screen until the letters warped together. His fingers hovered above the screen. He wanted to reply. He wanted to say, Please, help me.

  But something stopped him.

  His reflection moved on its own. Just slightly.

  He taped over the mirror.

  And that night, as the shadows began to stretch again, something inside Shiro cracked open like a door.