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Will sat in the stillness of his living room, but the stillness wasn't real. The quiet was a lie, blanketing the chaos in his mind.
His dogs lay scattered across the room, their steady breaths a metronome for his thoughts. The lamp on the side table cast a dim glow, but the shadows on the walls seemed to swell and shift, threatening to overtake the light entirely.
It had been weeks since the Chesapeake Ripper case had started to unravel him again. This killer was unlike any Will had encountered - too precise, too theatrical. The bodies weren't just displays; they were monologues in some terrible, blood drenched play. Each scene felt designed to reach into his head, twist the wiring, and leave him dangling by frayed threads.
And it was working.
He couldn't stop hearing him.
"The skin folds back so easily," came the voice of Garrett Jacob Hobbs, as clear as if the man were standing in the room with him.
Will flinched, his hands clenching the armrests of his chair, nails turning white from the pressure. He scanned the room, his eyes darting over the familiar shapes of the furniture, the soft curve of his dogs' sleeping forms.
He saw nothing. No one.
But he felt it.
The shadows in the corners of the room stretched and curled, moving like they were alive. The wooden floor under his feet warped and twisted, forming the suggestion of a face - a wide grin with sharp, jagged teeth; something out of a child's nightmare. Will blinked hard, but it didn't vanish.
"I know what you're capable of," the voice said again, a low rasp that echoed from every corner of the room.
"Shut up," Will whispered, his voice trembling. "You're not real."
But the room disagreed.
The walls began to pulse, faint at first, breathing in rhythm with his quickening heart. His gaze flickered to the far corner, where the shadows grew into something darker, more solid.
It stepped forward.
Its towering, skeletal form scraped the ceiling as it moved closer, black eyes fixed on Will. The stag-like antlers curved wickedly, their tips brushing against the walls. Its presence filled the room, suffocating and cold.
Will stood abruptly, knocking over the lamp. It shattered on the floor, the sound sharp and jarring, but the Wendigo didn't react. It only stared, head tilting slightly, as if curious.
"You're not real," Will said again, louder this time, his voice almost a growl.
But the creature took another step forward, its hooves clicking softly against the floor.
The dogs began to whine, their ears flattened against their heads as they huddled close to one another. Will's hands clenched into fists. He wanted to run, to get away from the suffocation of the creature and the voice of Garrett Hobbs that vibrated in his mind.
Instead, he turned toward the door, his movements jerky and desperate.
The night air hit him like a slap, sharp and cold, but it wasn't enough to clear his head. He stumbled down the gravel path, the trees looming like silent sentinels.
The voice followed him.
"You took my life," Hobbs said, his tone almost conversational. "But you couldn't stop there, could you? You had to take my daughter, too."
"I didn't take her," Will hissed, his breath clouding in the cold air. "You did."
"She's still with me," Hobbs murmured, and for a moment, Will could see Abigail's young face, pale and bloodied, flickering in the edges of his vision.
Will doubled over, clutching his head as the image of her throat opening under Hobbs' knife forced itself into his mind. Blood poured out, pooling on the forest floor, seeping into the earth. Will's stomach turned, bile rising in his throat.
"Stop," he said hoarsely, his voice barely above a whisper.
The ground beneath him shifted, the leaves and dirt forming shapes - faces. Hobbs' face. Abigail's. The Wendigo's. They stared up at him, their eyes hollow, mouths twisted into silent screams.
Will stumbled backward, his foot catching on a root. He fell hard, the impact sudden, but the pain was minuscule compared to the chaos in his mind.
When he opened his eyes, the Wendigo was there.
It stood at the edge of the river, its reflection rippling in the dark water. The moonlight turned its black form to silver, its antlers gleaming like sharpened knives.
Will dragged himself to his knees, his hands trembling as they dug into the cold earth. He wanted to scream, to yell at the creature, at the voice, at himself.
"You don't belong here," he said, his voice cracking. "You're not real."
The Wendigo tilted its head, its gaze unwavering.
"You've always known what you are," it said, though the voice wasn't its own. It was Hobbs'.
Will clenched his teeth, his fists curling into the dirt. The weight of the words pressed down on him, threatening to crush him entirely. But somewhere, deep inside, a spark of defiance remained.
"You’re wrong," he said, though he wasn't sure who he was talking to.
The Wendigo stepped forward, its reflection breaking apart in the water as it loomed over him.
The world fractured.
Will was standing in his kitchen, though he didn't remember walking back to the house. The walls of the room shuddered around him. The wooden countertop under his hands felt hot, then cold, then hot again, the temperature shifting erratically.
And the blood.
It was everywhere.
It oozed from the walls in slow, viscous flows, pooling on the floor and staining his bare feet. It dripped from the ceiling, splashing onto his hands, the irony smell suffocating him. He tried to move, but his legs felt heavy, anchored in place.
The Wendigo stood across the kitchen, black eyes fixed on him, its antlers scraping against the cabinets. Behind it, Hobbs' face appeared in the blood-slicked walls, his expression twisted into a mocking grin.
"You'll never escape me," Hobbs said, his voice echoing and distorting.
Will grabbed a kitchen knife from the counter, the cool metal grounding him for a fleeting moment. He pointed it at the Wendigo, his hands shaking violently.
"You're not real!" he screamed, his voice breaking.
The Wendigo tilted its head yet again, a low growl reverberating through the room.
"Neither are you," it whispered.
The words hit Will like a physical blow, his knees buckling under him. He dropped the knife, the clang of metal against tile piercing through the roar in his head.
When he opened his eyes, it was morning.
The blood was gone. The Wendigo was gone. The kitchen was silent except for the soft sounds of his dogs padding around the room. They nosed at him cautiously, their warm breath a comfort against his cold skin.
Will sat there for a while, his back against the cabinet, his hands trembling in his lap. The golden sunlight streaming through the window felt fragile, as though it could shatter at any moment.
He wasn't free of it - not really. The darkness would return, and so would the voices.
But for now, he was still here. Alive.