The Inheritance

Chapter One - The Quiet Before the Storm

Mike Harris stood behind the polished bar, wiping down the last few glasses as the clock on the wall ticked past midnight. The pub had emptied out, save for a few lingering regulars nursing their last drinks. It was a quiet night in the small town, just the way Mike liked it. The routine of managing the place was predictable, giving him a sense of control.

The pub had become a refuge for Mike in ways he hadn't expected. It allowed him to put on a different persona—one that smiled easily, cracked jokes with patrons, and never seemed to worry about the darker thoughts that crept in late at night.

But once he closed up, the mask dropped. He would walk back to his small, quiet apartment, the silence only broken by the occasional hum of traffic outside. That was when the anxiety, the restless thoughts, and the sleep disturbances began to take over.

Lately, his sleep had been more disturbed than usual. Not the kind that left you groggy in the morning but the kind that kept you on edge. For weeks, he had been waking up in the dead of night, pinned to his bed, unable to move. Shadows seemed to stretch from the corners of his room, pressing down on him like a suffocating blanket. His breath would come in shallow gasps as the weight on his chest grew heavier, like someone—or something—was sitting on him.

Mike tried to rationalize it. It's just sleep paralysis, he'd remind himself each time he woke up in a cold sweat. But the visions had become more vivid, more terrifying. They lingered longer each time, making him question whether he was still asleep when he opened his eyes.

Tonight was no different. After locking up the pub and heading home, Mike felt the familiar dread pooling in his chest. As he lay down, his thoughts circled back to his mother. She had been struggling again, her depression worsening. There were days when she didn't leave her bed, her voice hollow over the phone when they spoke. He had inherited her tendency to overthink, her battle with anxiety, but it never consumed him the way it did her.

At least, it hadn't before.

As Mike's eyelids grew heavy, his last thought was of his mother's warning from years ago: "Be careful with your mind, Mike. It's fragile, and once it starts to crack, it's hard to piece it back together."

Then the darkness took him.

The first sensation was familiar—the heavy weight pressing down on his chest. Mike's eyes snapped open, but his body refused to move. He was pinned, paralyzed. His heart raced as his mind fought against the stillness.

Out of the corner of his eye, something shifted in the shadows. A figure, barely distinguishable, seemed to loom over him from the corner of his room. His pulse quickened, his breath coming in short, panicked bursts. He couldn't move his arms, his legs—nothing. The figure moved closer, slowly, like it was savoring his fear.

In the silence, a voice whispered—soft, almost melodic—"You're not awake."

Mike's eyes darted around the room, trying to catch a glimpse of whatever it was, but the pressure on his chest grew stronger, more suffocating. His mind screamed at him to wake up, to fight the paralysis, but the figure moved closer still, now standing at the edge of his bed.

"It's not just in your head, Mike."

Suddenly, the weight lifted, and Mike bolted upright, gasping for air. His heart pounded in his chest, and the sweat clung to his skin. The room was still. The figure, the voice—it was gone.

But the words echoed in his mind long after he was fully awake.