The Forgotten Ranger - A Ranger's Apprentice Fanfiction

Shadows At The Door

Aiden stood frozen, breath shallow, eyes locked on the oak door before him. It loomed oppressively, tall and wide, the thick grain of the wood lined with cracks that looked like veins running through dead flesh. The iron bands holding the door together were rusted with time, like dried blood. It felt like the door was alive, watching him, waiting. The torchlight flickered along its surface, casting twisting shadows that made the surface seem to writhe.

He didn't want to go inside.

His every instinct screamed against it. His muscles ached with tension. His fingers clenched into fists at his sides, then released, over and over. The air around him felt colder than it should have been, a damp chill that crawled beneath his skin. The floor beneath his boots was solid, but it may as well have been quicksand for how difficult it was to move.

And yet, his hand rose.

Fingers trembling, he closed them around the iron handle, the metal cold, biting his palm.

Click.

The latch gave with a sharp sound, like something breaking.

He could still stop. Could still step back, squeeze his eyes shut, pretend none of it was real. But his body refused to obey. He was a puppet on invisible strings, forced forward by something cruel and unseen. The same horror had haunted him too many times to count waiting just beyond the door.

Footsteps echoed through the entrance. His footsteps. But they didn't feel like his. They sounded distant, like they belonged to someone else—another boy, another time. The hallway stretched before him, short, dimly lit and narrowing with each step. The air thickened. It carried a coppery scent, sharp and unmistakable. Blood.

His stomach churned, bile rising in his throat.

Disappearing around the corner, a dark smear stained the floor, glistening wet. It led forward like a trail left by something wounded, something that had crawled in pain before going still.

He didn't want to follow it. His body moved anyway.

He tried to scream. He could feel the breath in his lungs, felt his chest heave as he pushed the air out—but no sound came. The silence pressed in around him, heavy and absolute. It swallowed his cries, erased his voice completely. He rounded the corner.

And the world shattered.

There, on the floor, lay a body. His father.

Sprawled unnaturally, arms twisted beneath him, his torso a ruin of torn flesh and blood. The red bloom around him spread like a dark flower across the stone floor. It was always the same. Even if the walls changed, or the light shifted, or the angles didn't make sense—his father was always there. Always broken.

His eyes stared blankly at the ceiling, wide and glassy. His chest unnaturally still. Lifeless.

Aiden's throat tightened. His knees felt weak. He wanted to look away, but couldn't. His grief froze him. The old pain returned in waves, crashing over him, hollowing him out.

He had only been twelve when it happened. Now, four years later, the dream hadn't softened. If anything, it had grown worse. More vivid. More cruel. He still remembered walking into the house that evening to the eery silence, the way his brother had rushed him outside once he saw what was inside. It was already too late.

The shadows in the room flickered, they slid along the walls like smoke, stretching toward him. They took shape—hands, claws, tendrils—reaching for his arms, his legs, his throat. He couldn't move. He couldn't breathe. They wrapped around him, cold and heavy, dragging him down. He struggled, but it was like trying to fight through thick water. Every movement was slow, weak, useless. The darkness closed in. It wrapped around his chest. Pressed against his lungs. He was drowning.