The Inheritance

Chapter Five - Back to Reality

But peace is never permanent.

On the fourth night, after a long day at the pub, Mike crawled into bed, feeling the comforting weight of exhaustion. He closed his eyes, fully expecting another night of dreamless sleep.

But something was wrong.

The familiar heaviness returned, but not in his chest—it was in the room itself. The air seemed to thicken, pressing down on him as if the very atmosphere had become a cage. His eyes fluttered open, and he immediately knew.

The shadows in the corner of the room were moving again.

His heart pounded in his ears, a wild, panicked rhythm that he hadn't felt in days. The sense of safety he'd lulled himself into shattered as the darkness took shape once more, the figure standing at the foot of his bed.

"No, no, no..." Mike's mind screamed, but his body remained frozen.

The figure wasn't alone this time. The other shadowy shapes returned, shifting restlessly around the room, surrounding him like predators waiting to pounce. And then the voice returned—deep, menacing, and inescapable.

"You thought you could escape, didn't you, Mike?"

The voice was louder this time, clearer, as if it were speaking directly into his ear. His eyes darted wildly around the room, trying to find some escape, but his body wouldn't obey.

The figures moved closer, surrounding his bed, their forms dark and formless, yet solid. And then, one of them reached out—cold, shadowy fingers brushing against his arm.

Mike gasped, the breath catching in his throat. It felt real.

"You can't hide from what's inside your mind."

The pressure on his chest returned, but this time it was worse—heavier, suffocating. The darkness pressed in from all sides, threatening to swallow him whole. He fought against it with everything he had, but his body remained paralyzed, pinned beneath the weight of the unseen force.

And then, as suddenly as it began, it stopped.

Mike bolted upright in bed, drenched in sweat, his heart racing as though he had run a marathon. The room was still again, but the memory of those cold, shadowy fingers lingered on his skin.

He knew, without a doubt, that the reprieve had been a lie. Whatever was haunting him wasn't just a symptom of stress or exhaustion. It was something more, something real.

And it wasn't going to let him go.