The city pulsed outside, a neon heartbeat against the inky blackness Ethan ran through. His lungs burned, his legs ached, but the frantic rhythm of his escape drowned them out. Every gasping breath painted a grotesque picture of Sarah's lifeless eyes staring back at him. The argument, the struggle, the sickening thud – it all replayed in his mind, a relentless horror film.
He couldn't go back. They'd find him, the sirens of justice howling in the distance. Each alleyway they passed seemed too narrow, each dumpster overflowing a mocking witness. Finally, a sliver of light in the distance offered a desperate hope. A small, ramshackle house, its porch light a beacon in the storm.
The rusty lock didn't stand a chance against his trembling fingers. Inside, the air hung thick with the scent of dust and boiled cabbage. Relief warred with a gnawing unease. He jammed the door shut, the sound echoing like a gunshot in the silence. A lone figure sat hunched in a worn armchair by the window.
"Who's there?" The voice, raspy with age, came out in a creak.
Ethan's heart hammered against his ribs. He had to act fast. Before he could think, his hand shot out, grabbing a rusted poker from the fireplace. The old man's face, a roadmap of wrinkles, contorted in surprise. The poker swung down in a brutal arc, the sickening thud of flesh meeting bone echoing in the confined space.
He collapsed beside the chair, panting. The body lay still, unnaturally twisted. But as Ethan's eyes adjusted, a horrifying realization dawned. The old man, or a replica of him, was slumped in the chair again, eyes open, a look of accusation etched on his face.
A primal scream ripped through Ethan's throat. With a strength born of terror, he grabbed the chair, splintering its wooden back against the wall. He rained blows on both the corpses, the sound of destruction drowning out the rising tide of madness in his head.
Sweat dripped into his eyes as he stumbled towards the bathroom. Relief turned to icy dread again as he saw the old man, this one younger, with a full head of gray hair, using the toilet. The cycle repeated, a symphony of violence echoing through the house. He peed on the fallen man, a pathetic attempt to exert some kind of control.
Hunger gnawed at his insides. The kitchen, a haven of normality moments ago, now held another version of the old man washing a cup at the sink. Ethan knew the fight was futile, but his body demanded sustenance. He choked down a piece of bread, the flavor lost in the metallic tang of fear.
Sleep beckoned, a siren song in the storm. He dragged himself to the bedroom. In a pristine white bed lay another incarnation of the old man, eyes closed, face serene. Ethan's sanity hung by a thread. He launched himself on the man, raining down blows even though the body offered no resistance.
He collapsed on the bed, exhausted yet unable to close his eyes. The old man would come back. He knew it. Panic clawed at him. He had to destroy everything, make sure the old man couldn't find him again.
Grabbing a lighter he found in the living room, he set fire to a curtain. The flames spread with unholy speed, the house becoming a pyre. He fled, emerging into the night just as the first sirens wailed in the distance.
The officers found him a block away, a wild look in his eyes, his clothes
reeking of smoke and something more primal. As they led him away, he saw a figure from the burning house walking towards them, the old man, seemingly unharmed.
"There he is," the old man croaked, pointing at Ethan, "That's the one who started the fire!"
Ethan stared his mind fracturing into a million pieces. There were two of them now. His hysterical laughter echoed through the night, a horrifying counterpoint to the approaching sirens. The officers exchanged worried glances. They had seen a lot in their years of service, but nothing quite like the fractured terror in this man's eyes.
As they bundled him into the patrol car, Ethan looked back at the burning house. In the flickering flames, he could still see the figures of the old man, multiplying, mocking his descent into madness. He was finally trapped, not by the police, but by his own demons.
