The House of Shadows
804 Words
Darkness slammed into the room like a wave.
Not the absence of light—this was thicker, heavier, alive. It swallowed the lamps, the windows, the hallway, leaving only the faint outline of shapes trembling in the black.
Ana grabbed Marisol’s arm. “Don’t move.”
Tomás stepped in front of them, breath shaking. “Stay behind me.”
The watcher’s silhouette stretched across the wall—long, thin, bending at impossible angles. It didn’t walk. It glided, its limbs flickering like a candle flame in a draft.
Marisol clutched the pendant.
It stayed cold.
Dead.
The watcher stepped closer.
Tomás whispered, “Run when I say.”
Marisol shook her head. “No—”
“RUN WHEN I SAY.”
The watcher tilted its head, as if studying him. Its shadowed form rippled, expanding, contracting, like it was breathing.
Ana whispered, “It’s different. It’s… stronger.”
Marisol felt it too. The air vibrated with a low hum that made her teeth ache. The watcher wasn’t just present—it was feeding. Growing. Claiming the space around them.
Tomás took a step forward.
“Leave them alone,” he said, voice trembling but steady. “You want me. Not them.”
The watcher paused.
Then it moved.
Fast.
Too fast.
It lunged toward Tomás, shadow stretching across the floor like a tidal wave. Marisol screamed. Ana pulled her back. Tomás raised his arm—the one with the mark—and the watcher recoiled, shrieking without sound.
The mark glowed faintly.
Marisol gasped. “Papá—your arm—”
Tomás gritted his teeth. “It’s connected to it. It can’t touch me without hurting itself.”
The watcher twisted, its form flickering violently, as if the mark burned it. But instead of retreating, it shifted direction.
Toward Marisol.
Ana shoved her. “MOVE!”
They stumbled backward as the watcher’s shadow slammed into the wall where Marisol had been standing. The drywall cracked, splintering like ice.
Tomás shouted, “Get to the archive room!”
Marisol hesitated. “But—”
“GO!”
Ana grabbed her hand and pulled her down the hallway. The watcher shrieked again—silent, but sharp enough to make Marisol’s ears ring. The shadows along the walls stretched toward them, reaching like fingers.
They ran.
The hallway warped around them, the shadows bending, twisting, trying to block their path. The air grew colder with every step. The eucalyptus scent—usually warm, comforting—turned sharp, almost medicinal.
Ana gasped, “It’s trying to stop us!”
Marisol pushed forward. “The archive room is the only place it can’t fully enter!”
They reached the door.
Marisol shoved it open.
The moment they crossed the threshold, the air shifted. The eucalyptus scent deepened, warm and strong, like a protective shield. The watcher’s shadow slammed against the doorway but couldn’t cross.
Ana collapsed onto the floor, shaking. “I hate this. I hate this so much.”
Marisol slammed the door shut and locked it. The shadows pressed against the wood, stretching, clawing, but unable to enter.
Tomás’s voice echoed faintly from the hallway. “Marisol! Ana!”
Marisol pressed her ear to the door. “Papá?!”
A thud.
A crash.
Silence.
Ana whispered, “Oh no. Oh no, no, no—”
Marisol’s heart pounded. “Papá!”
No answer.
The shadows outside the door stilled.
Then slowly… they retreated.
The house fell silent.
Ana whispered, “Is it gone?”
Marisol shook her head. “No. It’s waiting.”
She turned toward the archive.
The notebooks were glowing.
All of them.
The green.
The blue.
The yellow.
The black.
Symbols pulsed across the covers like heartbeats. The air hummed with energy—alive, electric, dangerous.
Ana whispered, “What’s happening?”
Marisol stepped closer. “The watcher attacked because the stories are waking up faster than before.”
Ana swallowed. “Because of us?”
Marisol shook her head. “Because someone else is helping it.”
Ana’s voice cracked. “The traitor.”
Marisol opened the black notebook.
The hooked triangle symbol glowed bright red.
A new line of handwriting appeared on the page—fresh ink, forming right in front of them.
“La traición ya empezó.”
“The betrayal has already begun.”
Ana whispered, “What does that mean?”
Marisol stared at the words, her stomach twisting.
“It means the traitor isn’t from the past.”
Ana’s eyes widened. “You think it’s someone now?”
Marisol nodded slowly.
“Someone alive.”
Ana’s voice trembled. “Someone we know?”
Marisol didn’t answer.
Because she already knew the truth.
The watcher wasn’t just feeding on forgotten stories.
It was feeding on secrets.
And someone in Tres Robles was giving it exactly what it needed.
- Writer
