Chapter 5: The First Terrifying Touch

The elevator door finally closed completely, cutting off the view of the peeking black horn tip. Siron slid to the elevator floor, his breath ragged, his body trembling uncontrollably. The lift smoothly continued its journey down to the lobby, as if it had never paused on the dark 3rd floor.

He didn't remember how he got to the lobby, walked past the security guard with a blank stare, or reached the bustling street. His mind contained only one thing: escape. He walked aimlessly, finally stopping at a brightly lit 24-hour café filled with a few people. He ordered the strongest coffee and sat at the furthest table from the window, facing the door.

The cold touch on the back of his neck still felt like an icy residue. He continuously rubbed the area, trying to get rid of the terrifying sensation that lingered. It was not his imagination. Something, or someone, had touched him.

He spent hours in the café, staring at the door whenever someone entered, terrified of seeing a tall figure with a horned silhouette. But no one came. The waitress started giving him strange looks as the clock ticked past midnight. He couldn't stay here forever.

With a heavy heart, Siron decided to go home. Maybe... maybe he just had a panic attack. Maybe it was all a very complicated hallucination. He needed to sleep.

The journey home felt like a walk toward a prison. When he reached his apartment door, his hand shook as he held the key. He inserted the key and pushed the door open.

His apartment was silent. Dark. He quickly flipped on the main light.

Everything looked normal. The sofa, the table, the TV. No suspicious shadows. He sighed in relief, perhaps too soon.

He locked the door and leaned against it, closing his eyes, trying to calm himself.

Then, he smelled something.

A scent. A strange and ancient scent. Like damp earth after the rain, mixed with the aroma of old metal and something wild... like the smell of a forest animal. The smell was faint, filling the air, as if someone had just left it behind.

He opened his eyes, widening them. The smell wasn't coming from outside. It was inside his apartment.

With cautious steps, he crept toward the source of the smell. It led to... his bedroom.

His bedroom door was slightly ajar, though he was sure he had closed it tightly before leaving.

His heart pounded. He pushed the door open slowly.

His bedroom was empty. His bed was still messy from the morning. But the smell of damp earth and metal was stronger here.

And then, he saw it.

On his white bedsheet, right on the pillow he usually slept on, there was a mark.

Not a footprint. But a strange mark, like a large, loose claw print, made of soil and dry grass, as if something that had just walked out of the woods had climbed straight onto his bed.

Siron walked closer, unable to believe what he was seeing. He froze by the bedside, staring at the dirt mark staining his pillow.

Then, something moved behind him.

From behind the closed window curtain beside his bed, a shadow detached itself. The shadow was more solid than before, almost forming a human shape but with the wrong proportions, too tall, too broad in the shoulders, and above its head, two pointed protrusions curved like the antlers of a large deer.

Siron couldn't move. Couldn't scream. He could only stare in horror as the shadowy figure stepped closer. Coldness swept the room, more piercing than before.

The figure stopped only centimeters in front of him. He could feel the freezing air radiating from its body, could smell the strong, ancient scent of earth and age.

Then, something colder than ice touched his skin.

A "hand", or something resembling a hand, made of shadow and frigid air, lifted and touched the nape of his neck, exactly where he had felt it in the elevator.

The touch was solid. Real. Like a claw sheathed in ice. It didn't press down, just lingered there, claiming, touching with a terrible intimacy.

Siron shivered violently, tears of fear streaming down his cheeks. He squeezed his eyes shut, bracing for the worst.

But there was no attack. Only that terrifying, penetrating touch.

Then, a whisper, clearer and deeper than before, echoed inside his head, full of a heartbreaking lament and suppressed rage.

"Finally... The descendant..."

The touch vanished.

Siron opened his eyes, sobbing.

The shadow figure was gone. Only the smell of earth and the claw mark on his pillow remained as proof of its presence.

He fell to his knees on the floor, his body wracked by violent sobs. It was not a hallucination. Morat was here. He had touched him. And he knew who Siron was.

He didn't know how long he sat on the floor, but as his crying subsided, a strange, irrational desire began to creep into his mind. A desire to... feel that touch again. His horror had been mixed with a peculiar sensation, a dark acknowledgment that the touch, though terrifying, was the most alive thing he had ever felt.

He shook his head, trying to banish the insane thought. He had to do something. He couldn't continue like this.

With a trembling hand, he reached for his phone. The only person who might, just might, believe him.

He dialed Kit's number.

The phone rang once, twice.

"Ron? It's 2 AM. Did something happen?" Kit's voice sounded sleepy but alert.

"Kit," Siron's voice was hoarse and shaky. "I... I need help. I'm not crazy, I promise. But... there's something in my apartment. Something that... touched me."

He heard Kit pause briefly on the other end.

"I'll be right there," Kit said in a firm voice, no longer sounding sleepy. "Wait there. Don't open the door for anyone."

Siron nodded, even though Kit couldn't see him. "Thank you," he whispered before hanging up.

He felt a small relief. Kit was coming. He wouldn't be alone.

He stood up, walking to the kitchen for water, trying to compose himself. As he stood there, gulping down the water, his eyes accidentally glanced at the kitchen window facing the street. The window was reflective at night, like a mirror.

And in the window's reflection, he could see his own shadow... and behind him, in the corner of the dark living room, two faint red points of light glowed, staring intently at him.

Siron dropped his glass. The shattered glass scattered across the floor.

He turned quickly, staring at the dark corner of the room.

Nothing was there.

He looked back at the window's reflection.

The two red dots were still there, now looking closer, as if the figure had moved nearer while he looked away.

He could no longer suppress the scream that broke the silence of his apartment.