The Withered - An M18+ Wattpad Exclusive (DISCONTINUED)

A1 - Taking the Unowned (2)

Monday, May 10th, 1993

The Next Day...

The sun dragged itself over the horizon, casting dull, bruised light through the mist that still clung to the earth. Connor stood at the entrance of the wooden house, shoulders heavy with exhaustion, gazing at the decayed structure that would soon be his home. The air smelled of damp rot, the lingering scent of rain mixing with the wet soil beneath his boots, as if the earth itself was in mourning.

He stepped inside, his breath fogging the stale air. The small interior greeted him with quiet decay—the walls warped with moisture, their wooden planks sagging under years of neglect. Cobwebs stretched across the corners like thin threads of forgotten stories, abandoned by time. Each step sent a groan through the floorboards, a sound too deliberate, like the house resented his presence but lacked the strength to push him out.

Connor took it all in, unbothered. This place—this worn-out husk of wood, nails, and dirt—belonged to him now. He would turn it into a sanctuary, a place to bury the past and build something new, even if the foundation rested on a fractured soul.

He began his work without delay, the morning slipping away in quiet, steady labor. Dust clouds swirled like ghosts disturbed from slumber as he swept the floors clean, tossing aside rotted planks and broken furniture left behind by a previous life. Every scrape of wood against wood felt like more than a chore—each movement was a ritual, as if clearing the house could cleanse something deep within him.

By midday, warmth began to bloom in the space—not from the weather but from the slow transformation taking place under Connor's hands. He nailed loose floorboards back into place, patched the windows, and reinforced the beams that held the house together. The repetitive rhythm of his work—thunk-thunk, thunk-thunk—echoed through the empty rooms, steady and hypnotic, drowning out the darker thoughts that circled just beneath the surface.

The house began to feel different, as if it were waking beneath his touch, groaning and shifting as he rebuilt it piece by piece. It was far from perfect, but it was starting to resemble something livable—a space where he could pretend to start over.

Still, unease clung to the edges of his mind like the mist outside. Every now and then, he paused, listening for something just out of reach—a shuffle on the stairs, the faint scrape of movement in the walls. But the house remained silent, save for the occasional creak of settling wood and the distant rustle of wind threading through the trees outside.

When the sun reached its zenith, Connor decided it was time to bring color to the space. He retrieved a paint bucket and brush, choosing warm hues—soft ochres, deep tans—meant to disguise the shadows he knew he carried within. With each stroke of the brush, he layered the walls with new life, covering over what had come before. It felt strangely cleansing, like painting over smoke stains on a ceiling or bandaging a wound that hadn't yet healed.

As the hours slipped by, the house began to change. What had once been a ruin now glowed faintly with new potential—windows reflecting glimmers of sunlight, freshly painted walls standing firm against the ghosts that lingered in the corners. Even the air felt lighter, carrying a faint scent of pinewood, though it did little to mask the darker undertones beneath.

But no matter how much Connor scrubbed, hammered, and painted, an unsettling presence lingered, like an itch he couldn't scratch. The shadows seemed too deliberate, pooling in odd places where light should have reached. The air shifted when he wasn't looking, subtle as a breath on the back of his neck. It was as if the house was aware of the darkness inside him and was waiting, silently judging, biding its time.

He shook the thought away, dragging himself back to the task at hand. This was his home now. Whatever darkness still clung to him—or to the walls—would stay buried. He would make this house a refuge, no matter what it took.