The blade felt heavier than Harrison expected.
Its surface rippled like oil, the strange runes writhing as though aware of him.
He held it over the first sigil carved into his chest. The wound pulsed faintly gold, the skin hot to the touch.
Evelyn crouched across from him in the lighthouse lantern room, her sharp gray eyes never leaving his hands.
"You hesitate," she said.
"Because this is insane," Harrison snapped. "I'm not going to start carving my own ribs open on the word of some stranger."
Evelyn didn't flinch. "If you don't, there won't be a you left to argue with."
"You sure about that?"
"I've seen it happen before."
"Then tell me how this ends if I don't."
Evelyn's jaw tightened. "You don't want to know."
Harrison laughed bitterly. "Lady, I think I already do."
The knife trembled in his hand.
⸻
He's waiting, whispered a voice inside his skull. He's patient. Are you?
⸻
Harrison pressed the blade to the edge of the first sigil.
The metal hissed as it touched his skin. A smell like burning hair filled the room.
And then the pain hit.
It wasn't pain like a cut or a burn. It was deeper, older—like something in his bones screaming in protest.
The runes on the knife flared blue.
The sigil flared gold.
And then—
⸻
The world cracked.
⸻
Harrison fell backward, gasping, but he didn't hit the floor.
The lighthouse was gone.
He floated in a void, suspended between stars that didn't look like any sky he'd ever seen. The constellations shifted and writhed, each point of light an eye that blinked open and fixed on him.
Below him stretched a black stone tower, twisting infinitely upward, its surface alive with crawling things.
And at the top of the tower, a figure waited.
Tall.
Cloaked.
A golden mask in the shape of a screaming face.
"Prophet," the figure said in a thousand voices at once. "You came home at last."
Harrison tried to speak, but his mouth wouldn't move.
⸻
The figure raised a hand.
The golden mask melted away.
Beneath was nothing—no eyes, no mouth, no face at all. Just a swirling void filled with mouths and eyes and mouths again.
"You are mine," the voices said.
Harrison felt his body pulled forward, inch by inch.
His arms and legs stretched unnaturally, his skin turning black and slick.
No, he thought. This isn't real.
"It's more real than the world you left behind," the voices whispered.
⸻
Somewhere far away, Evelyn's voice broke through:
"Harrison! Fight it! It's trying to take you!"
⸻
He looked down.
The golden sigils on his chest had spread, curling like vines across his ribs and down his arms.
Mouths bloomed along the glowing lines, gnashing teeth sprouting from his own skin.
No, he thought again. Not me.
"You're a perfect vessel," Nyarlathotep said, stepping closer. "Your eyes were the first gift. Your friend was the second. Shall I show you how he screamed when I took him?"
Harrison clutched at his head. "Stop it—"
"Ethan begged me for mercy. But I gave him eternity instead."
⸻
The void twisted.
Now Harrison was standing in the woods outside Arkham, years ago.
Two boys running. Laughter.
And then Ethan screaming as black hands dragged him into the earth.
Harrison screaming too.
And above them both, the Black Pharaoh watched, faceless and smiling.
⸻
"You never left," Nyarlathotep whispered. "I've been with you ever since."
⸻
Evelyn's voice cut through again—sharp, urgent.
"Harrison! Use the knife! Cut the damn sigils!"
⸻
His hands trembled. The runes on the dagger blazed blue.
He looked down at the golden vines curling over his chest.
And drove the blade into them.
⸻
Pain exploded like wildfire.
⸻
The void shattered.
Harrison slammed back into his body in the lantern room, screaming.
Evelyn pinned his shoulders as he thrashed.
"You're still here," she said through gritted teeth. "But he almost had you."
Harrison gasped for air. His shirt was soaked in blood.
The golden sigils still pulsed faintly—fainter now, but not gone.
⸻
"It's not enough," Harrison rasped. "He's still in me."
"I told you he likes you," Evelyn said. "You're the Prophet. You've always been marked."
"What the hell does that even mean?"
"It means he's not done with you."
Evelyn's gray eyes softened—just slightly. "But neither am I."
⸻
Below them, in the fog-choked streets, voices rose in chorus:
"Prophet… Prophet… Prophet…"
⸻
Harrison gripped the dagger tighter, his knuckles white.
The battle for his soul wasn't over.
It had only just begun.
⸻
End of Chapter 5