Understand
She leaned in, closing the gap between them, her lips brushing softly against his. The kiss was tentative at first, a delicate exploration, but he responded by closing his eyes and leaning into her warmth. Slowly, he pushed her back onto the bed, his movements gentle and deliberate, as though she might vanish if he wasn't careful.
When he broke the kiss, she gazed up at him, a small smile playing on her lips. "How did you die?" she asked, her voice soft, filled with genuine curiosity.
His smile faltered, the corners of his mouth turning down slightly as his eyes clouded with sadness. For a moment, he looked like he was carrying the weight of centuries, his expression pleading silently for understanding—or forgiveness.
She reached out, brushing her fingers against his arm, offering a smile of her own, warm and full of acceptance. "It's okay if you don't want to talk about it," she said gently. "I understand."
"No," he murmured, shaking his head. "No, it's fine." He paused, his hesitation palpable as he gathered his thoughts. "I was 25 when I died..." he began, his voice low, distant, as though he were reliving a memory. "But my soul died when I was 19."
The weight of his words hung heavy in the room, her breath catching as she waited for him to continue, her heart aching at the pain in his voice.
"The year was 1946," he began, his tone distant, as if each word pulled him further into a memory he both clung to and wished to escape. "I was 22 and on the run. I'd made mistakes... ones I couldn't undo. I stumbled upon this house, sitting alone on the edge of nowhere. It was abandoned, far from my 'problems,' and it felt like salvation." He paused, his jaw tightening as his gaze drifted somewhere beyond the room, beyond her.
"I moved in, thinking it would be a place to start over. For a while, it was." His voice lowered, a hint of something darker slipping in. "But the longer I stayed, the more I realized... the house wasn't just a shelter. It knew things. Things about me that no one else could. It whispered to me in the silence, called to me in the dead of night."
He hesitated, glancing at her, searching her face for disbelief or fear. But she stayed silent, her eyes locked on his, urging him to go on.
"The house itself is something dark... something ancient, but... helpful, in its own way," he continued. "It could sense my desperation, my guilt. It offered me comfort at first, then began to guide me—nudging me toward choices I thought were my own. And over time, I realized it wasn't just a house. It was alive, in its way. A keeper of secrets. A judge. A punisher."
He exhaled sharply, the air heavy with his confession. "The house fed on my brokenness, used it against me. I thought I was using it to hide, but all the while, it was binding me to it. By the time I realized, it was too late. I wasn't just a man anymore. I was... something else. A piece of it. A part of its darkness."
He looked down at her, his expression softening. "That's why I was drawn to you. You're different. You're the first light this house has seen in decades."
She swallowed hard, her mind racing to process what he'd just shared, the reality of what this house—and he—truly were.
"I was left in an orphanage when I was young," he began, his voice heavy with old grief. "I never met my parents, and the sisters who took me in—they were the only people who ever showed me any kindness. Growing up there was hard, but it was the closest thing to a home I had."
He paused, the weight of his memories pulling him back. "When I turned 18, I had to leave the orphanage. I thought I was ready, but I wasn't. It was impossible to find a job, a place to live... even food. For a while, I was homeless, wandering the streets, desperate for anything to hold on to."
His gaze grew distant as he continued, "One day, I found a wallet on the ground. For a moment, I thought about keeping it, but something—maybe guilt, maybe hope—made me track down the owner. I wish I hadn't. The man it belonged to was part of the mafia. He took pity on me and offered me a 'home' and a 'family.'"
A bitter smile flickered across his face. "At first, it was amazing—having people who cared, a place to belong. But that illusion didn't last long. A month after I joined, they gave me my first mission. They trained me to kill, to assassinate, to erase anyone and anything that stood in their way."
His voice cracked as he said, "They sent me to collect money from the orphanage... my orphanage. I went, scared and ashamed. They welcomed me back like a prodigal son, but it wasn't the sisters who had cruel intentions—it was the mafia. They sent someone with me to 'supervise,' to make sure I got the job done."
His hands trembled slightly, and he clenched them into fists. "The orphanage didn't have the money. The man with me told me to shoot the head sister as an example. She begged and cried, but I... I did it. I killed her." He swallowed hard, his voice barely a whisper now. "Tears streamed down my face, but I didn't stop. I told them if they didn't have the money by next week, more would die. And they did."
His head hung low, the shame radiating off him. "One kill turned into sixty by the end of the year. I turned 19 that November, but by then, my soul was already gone. My final mission destroyed what little humanity I had left. They assigned me to kill the man who had brought me into the mafia—the only person who had ever shown me true kindness in that world."
Her breath caught as he continued, his words weighted with sorrow. "He'd betrayed the organization, and they wanted to make an example of him. Not just to the others, but to me. I killed him—shot him in the heart. I'll never forget the sound of him choking on his own blood, crying for forgiveness I didn't deserve to give."
He closed his eyes, his jaw tight. "I ran after that. I couldn't stay. That's when I found the house. It was empty, abandoned... and I thought it was salvation. But it wasn't. The house knew what I'd done, and it wouldn't let me forget. Slowly, it began to break me, reminding me of every sin, every life I'd taken. I held on as long as I could, but it wasn't enough."
His voice softened, laced with regret. "The house warned me the end was near. It gave me signs, hints that it was coming, but I ignored them. On the final night, I climbed to the roof and jumped onto the rocks in the front yard. That was the end of me—or at least, it should have been."
He looked at her, his expression one of melancholy acceptance. "But I think the house took a liking to me by the end. Instead of letting me go, it pulled me in, made me part of it. Now, the house and I are one. That's why I can do the things I do—change my form, move things, haunt its halls. I'm not alive, but I'm not entirely gone, either."
He fell silent, the room heavy with the weight of his story.
YOU ARE READING
Veil of Shadows
Paranormal--The world fell into darkness as she called to it, her voice swallowed by shadows before her words even reached her lips. She fell, hands dragging her downward, as if they would finally end the desire, she felt for the creature that had tormented h...
