Veil of Shadows

Liquid

The Black Liquid

She woke up with a start, her breath shallow, her body drenched in sweat. The dream—if it had been a dream—still lingered like an oppressive weight on her chest. Her heart raced, and her mind was tangled in the threads of that strange, surreal nightmare. She could still feel the darkness pressing against her, the whispering voice, the sensation of falling.

For a moment, she couldn't even remember where she was. The room around her felt alien, even though it was the same one she had been sleeping in for days. She rubbed her eyes, trying to clear the fog, but the heaviness of the dream clung to her thoughts. She glanced around the room, and that was when her gaze landed on it—the mirror.

Her stomach tightened. The black veil. The veil had been covering it, hadn't it? She remembered so clearly pulling it over the glass the night before, trying to block out the pull it had on her. But now, standing in front of the mirror, she saw that the veil was gone.

Her breath caught in her throat, panic rising like bile. The fabric wasn't draped over the mirror anymore—it was simply... gone. She stared at the reflectionless glass, feeling the weight of her own gaze, as though something in the mirror was staring back at her, waiting for her to react.

The air in the room felt thicker, oppressive, like it was thick with the tension of something waiting to unfold. Slowly, cautiously, she walked toward the mirror. Her footsteps felt too loud, echoing in the silence, her heartbeat matching the rhythm of each step.

The liquid.

She blinked, and as she drew closer, she noticed the faintest trace of something—footsteps, wet and slick, leading away from the mirror. She didn't know why, but an impulse tugged at her, urging her to follow. Her mind screamed at her to stop, but her feet moved on their own accord, carrying her toward the trail of dark liquid that now stained the floor.

Step by step, the trail led her toward the bathroom, each footstep leaving behind a mark of the blackness, a streak of something cold and wrong. She felt it in her bones as she followed the trail, the familiar, unsettling feeling of being drawn into something she didn't understand. Her pulse quickened.

When she opened the bathroom door, she recoiled instantly, her breath catching in her throat.

The walls, the floor—everything was covered in it. The black liquid seeped from every crack, pooling in the corners, dripping down the walls like the remnants of a nightmare made real. It was thick and tar-like, but there was something else—something alive about it. It moved, sluggish but relentless, like it had a mind of its own, creeping toward her as if it recognized her.

Her stomach churned. The urge to step back, to leave the room and forget this nightmare was overwhelming. But instead, her hand, almost as if it had a mind of its own, reached down, trembling, toward the dark liquid. She wanted to touch it. She needed to touch it, to understand it, to—

The sharp, guttural voice broke the silence, freezing her in place.

"Do that again," it hissed, sending a shiver of fear down her spine. "And I'll put my hand down your throat so far that I'll pull out whatever demon's making you act like this."

The words cut through the haze of her thoughts. Her hand jerked back, but the voice—the voice was so real, so close. She spun around, desperate to find the source, but the room was empty. No one was there. No one but her, and the liquid, and the mirror—always the mirror.

When she turned back toward the bathroom, the blackness was gone. Just like that. Gone. No trace of it was left behind.

Her breath came in ragged gasps as she stood frozen, staring at the empty bathroom. Had she imagined it? Was it part of the dream?

But no—there was something wrong. Something deep inside her mind told her that this wasn't a dream. That this was real. It was all real.

She backed away slowly, her body trembling, eyes flicking to the mirror. Her reflection stared back at her, but there was something—something different about it. Something just out of reach.

The house was never going to let her go.

The feeling of something watching her was suffocating now, closing in like a vice. The walls of the house felt like they were breathing, and every creak of the floorboards seemed to echo her growing sense of panic. She turned quickly, her feet carrying her toward the stairs, toward the door, anywhere but here. She had to leave. She had to get out.

But as she took the first step, she felt it—the pressure, the pull—like invisible hands dragging her back, pulling her toward the mirror, toward the blackness that was always waiting.

She didn't stop. She couldn't stop. But as the house seemed to close in around her, she knew, deep down, that it wasn't going to let her go. It was too late. The darkness had already claimed her.