The room smelled of wet iron. Not just blood — older, deeper, as if it had soaked into the very walls and refused to leave. I could hear the slow drip of water somewhere in the dark, but every time I tried to focus on it, it was swallowed by another sound.
Breathing.
Not mine.
"Don't turn around," the knife whispered from inside my pocket. It didn't sound like it usually did — playful, taunting. No. This was flat. Cold. Almost… warning me.
I froze anyway, my hands curling into fists, because I already knew who was behind me.
The silence stretched until it hurt. Then his voice came, smooth as oil, thick as poison.
"You've been hiding things from me."
Uncle Tom's tone didn't carry anger — that would've been easier to handle. Instead, it was curious, like I was an insect he'd pinned down just to see how long it twitched.
"I didn't—"
"You did," he cut me off, moving closer. The faint glow from the hall light brushed across his face, and I almost wished it hadn't. His smile was too wide, too still. Like a mask that had been nailed in place.
The knife shifted in my pocket, the metal warming against my thigh. Tell him the truth, it murmured, or I will.
"What truth?" I shot back — but my voice cracked, and Tom's smile widened.
He reached into his coat pocket and pulled something out. Not a gun. Not a weapon in the traditional sense.
It was a photograph.
Of me.
Asleep.
"You've been dreaming, haven't you?" His voice dipped lower, almost hypnotic. "The knife's been talking to you."
I stepped back, but his hand shot out, gripping my jaw so hard I felt the skin burn under his fingers.
"You think you're special because it chose you?" His breath smelled faintly of whiskey and something rotten. "No. You're just… convenient."
The knife's voice pressed harder in my mind now. Kill him.
But I couldn't move. My muscles locked as his other hand slid behind my neck.
"You remind me of her," Tom said, eyes going distant. "She fought too. Until I made sure she couldn't anymore."
Her.
The word landed like a hammer. My mother's face flickered in my mind — blurred, fragmented, but hers.
"What did you do to her?" My voice was barely a whisper.
Tom leaned in until his lips brushed my ear. "I buried her in a place no one will ever find. And if you keep pushing me…" His grip tightened until I swore my bones would crack. "…you'll be right beside her."
The knife was practically screaming now. End him. End him now.
But before I could react, Tom shoved me against the wall so hard my vision fractured. I heard him laugh — a low, broken sound — and then something cold pressed against my throat. Not the knife. His ring.
"You're mine," he said. "And so is that voice in your head."
And then…
He let go.
Just like that, he stepped back, straightened his coat, and walked toward the door. But before leaving, he turned to me one last time.
"Oh, and…" His eyes glinted in the dim light. "Dr. Lysa sends her regards."
The door clicked shut, leaving me alone with the knife, whose voice had gone eerily quiet.
For the first time, I wasn't sure if it had been warning me…
Or setting me up.
The click of the door echoed far too long, as if the sound didn't just vanish — it stayed in the air, clinging to my skin like humidity before a storm.
I didn't move. Couldn't.
The knife wasn't speaking now. Not even a whisper. That was almost worse than the screaming. Because when it went quiet… it meant something was deciding.
I swallowed hard, the taste of metal still burning the back of my throat. My fingers curled around the hilt in my pocket, feeling the grooves worn into the handle — grooves that felt almost like fingerprints. Someone else's.
Then… footsteps.
Coming back.
Every muscle in my body seized. I didn't even breathe.
But the sound was wrong — not the measured, deliberate tread of Tom's boots. This was lighter, faster.
A soft tap… tap… tap… and then a scrape.
The knife's voice bloomed back into my skull, slow and deliberate this time.
That's not him. That's something else.
The door didn't open. Instead, a shadow slipped under it — a thin sliver of movement in the dim light that didn't match the direction of the hallway bulbs. It curled upward, dragging itself along the wall like smoke.
I backed away, pulse pounding so hard I swore my teeth would crack from the pressure.
The knife was practically humming now. You're seeing it too. Good. That means you're ready.
I didn't ask what I was ready for. My mind was too tangled between what Tom had just said and whatever was now slinking into my room.
The shadow climbed the wall until it reached the ceiling. And then it hung there, like it was deciding whether I was worth dropping down on.
"Say something," I whispered into the dark. I didn't even know if I was speaking to the knife, the shadow, or my own mind.
The knife answered first. He isn't finished with you. He's going to take more than your voice next time.
My voice?
Before I could process, the shadow split. Just tore itself in half — two black, spindly shapes stretching downward toward me.
I stumbled back, my heel catching on the bed frame, and my back slammed against the wall. That's when I saw it — not a shadow at all, but fingers. Long, skeletal, pulling something toward me.
The knife surged in my hand now, no longer waiting for my choice. Cut it. Or it will take you like it took her.
"Her" again. My mother.
The black shapes lunged. I didn't think — I yanked the knife free, the metal cold but alive in my grip, and slashed upward.
The blade didn't just slice the air — it connected.
A scream tore through the room, not human, not animal, but deep enough to shake the walls. The shadow recoiled, splattering against the ceiling like tar, before slithering back toward the door.
And then it was gone.
Silence.
Thick, suffocating silence.
I sank to the floor, my chest heaving. My hands were shaking so hard I nearly dropped the knife.
That's when I noticed it.
The blade wasn't clean anymore.
Dark red. Too real. Too fresh.
And I hadn't cut Tom.
The knife's voice was soft now, almost like it was smiling. Good. Now you've started.