014: 3:33 AM

Darkness. It was all Raven could see, all he could feel, as if the world had collapsed into a void. There was no ground beneath him, no air to breathe, yet he was suffocating.

The whispers came first, though faint like it's on the edge of his consciousness and they were in languages he didn’t know, had never heard. They weren’t voices from one direction—they surrounded him, pressed against his ears, whispered right beside him, and roared from some unreachable distance all at once.

“…kalogeros…”

He tried to speak, to scream, but his throat betrayed him.

The whispers grew louder, a cacophony, weaving words he couldn’t grasp. Panic clawed at him, yet he was frozen, unable to escape the weight of their unseen presence.

Then, light. Blinding, searing white light.

It burned through the void, slamming down upon him like a judgment. He was no longer floating. His body lay on a bed—too sterile, too white.

His arms and legs were stretched out, bound by straps that bit into his skin. He couldn’t move, couldn’t even flinch against the overwhelming sense of vulnerability.

“No,” he whispered hoarsely. His head rolled to the side as far as the restraints would allow. “Please... no.”

From the edge of the light, a figure emerged. At first, it was a silhouette, humanlike in shape but lacking in definition.

As it drew closer, the details dissolved instead of forming. Its face was smooth, featureless. It had no eyes, no mouth, no expression. Nothing that could reflect the torment Raven felt.

The faceless man reached for him, cold hands brushing across his bare chest. The touch was deliberate, invasive, and filled with a wrongness Raven couldn’t name.

He thrashed against the bindings, his cries growing louder, more desperate.

“No! Stop! Don’t touch me!” His voice broke into a sob, but the figure remained indifferent. Its hands moved across him, exploring.

Raven screamed again but his voice lost among the whispers that swirled like a storm around him.

And then he fought. Not the faceless man, not the bonds, but himself. He wrenched his mind out of the nightmare’s grip, forcing himself awake with a gasp that felt like tearing through water.

---

His eyes flew open, meeting the dim glow of his bedroom. The familiar surroundings did little to comfort him. He sat up abruptly.

His chest rose and fell in rapid, shallow breaths.

His hands trembled as he touched his arms, his wrists. There were no bindings, no bruises, yet they ached as if the straps had been real. He glanced around, half-expecting to see the faceless man lurking in the shadows.

But there was nothing. Just silence. Just him.

Raven buried his face in his hands with a trembling body thanks to the vividness of it all. It wasn’t just a nightmare. It had been too real—the whispers, the light, the man—they had felt like something more. Like something waiting.

And then, he felt it.

A shift.

The bed beneath him dipped slightly, like someone—or something—was climbing onto it. His body went rigid. Every nerve screamed for him to move, to run, but his limbs betrayed him. It was frozen in place.

“Who’s there?” His voice cracked.

The silence that answered him was heavier than the darkness itself. Yet he wasn’t alone.

He could feel a presence lingering just out of sight, near the foot of the bed. When the mattress shifted again, closer this time, he instinctively lunged toward the bedside lamp.

His hand fumbled at the switch.

Before he could turn it on, a force slammed into him, dragging him backward. He hit the bed hard. His limbs were pinned by an invisible weight.

“No!” he shouted, twisting and thrashing against the unseen grip. But it was no use.

The pressure climbed his body, cold and calculated. It wrapped around his throat, not with enough force to choke him but enough to leave him gasping for air.

His struggles grew frantic, his breaths coming in sharp, shallow bursts. The touch changed—softened—brushing against his skin in a way that sent a jolt through his entire body.

His neck arched as something unseen caressed his skin. The touch was both intrusive and sickeningly gentle, sending shivers coursing through his body. The sensations were maddening — a paradox of revulsion and unwelcome pleasure that made his stomach churn.

He clenched his teeth.

His mind screamed in protest, but his body betrayed him, reacting to the sensation with a treacherous warmth. He squeezed his eyes shut, biting down on his lower lip.

“Stop,” he croaked. “Please, stop.”

The force seemed to shift again, and this time slid down his body like it was claiming every inch of him.

Raven threw his head back, willing himself to break free. His hand shot toward the lamp once more, shaking with the effort.

As his fingers brushed the switch, the force yanked him back, harder this time. His head hit the pillow, and his vision swam.

He could feel it now — the coldness creeping lower, trailing down his chest. A sensation he despised yet couldn’t resist overwhelmed him, bringing hot tears to his eyes.

“No!” he screamed this time, with every ounce of defiance he could muster. His hand shot out, fumbling blindly until it closed around the bottle of holy water.

He didn’t hesitate.

With a guttural yell, he threw the water in the direction of the unseen force.

The reaction was instant. A piercing scream tore through the room, high-pitched and guttural, like nails scraping against his very soul. The pressure vanished, and he collapsed back onto the mattress, trembling violently.

For a moment, there was silence — the kind that rings in your ears after something deafening.

He was alone now. Good. Wait..

Raven scrambled off the bed, his knees weak, and stumbled toward the drawer. He grabbed the crucifix, the Buddhist beads, and every protective relic he could find.

Clutching them tightly, he muttered prayers under his breath, mixing words he barely remembered with raw, desperate pleas.

Salt. Holy oil. He poured and smeared them across the floor, creating a crude circle around his bed. His hands shook as he moved, his breath hitching with every step.

Finally, he collapsed into the center of the circle, clutching the cross to his chest as tears streamed down his face.

He glanced at his phone. 3:33 a.m.

“I can’t do this anymore…” he whispered, his voice cracking. “I can’t…”

The weight of exhaustion and fear bore down on him as he lay there, staring at the ceiling. But he didn’t dare close his eyes. The shadows felt alive, waiting.

And Raven knew this wouldn't the end anytime soon. Or may never end.