Narrator 1: Well, here we are again, another incomplete story.
Narrator 2: He is dead. Dead from the inside, can't you see that?
Narrator 1: Maybe. But what about the readers? They must be lost. Should we keep going?
Narrator 2: What's the point? The story ended the way it should have—bleak, unfinished, like the one who told it.
Narrator 1: (faint laugh) The tone itself is the grave.
Narrator 2: Wake up, you who faints while telling a story. Look around. It's only been twenty minutes, yet he told it as if hours passed. Time is wrong here.
Narrator 1: Might seem that way. Who knows? Let's get out of here—wait… what's happening?
A shadow stood between them. A man, or the husk of one. His hair was wet as if it still dripped from the storm. His eyes were two pits, ringed in exhaustion, yet behind them burned a faint red pulse—the afterglow of a star that had no business in human skulls.
Sylus: I'm afraid, gentlemen, you two will share the same fate as the couple before you.
He moved stiffly, like his body was not entirely his own. From the folds of his coat, he drew a syringe—long, crooked, filled with liquid that shimmered like ground glass.
Narrator 1: (stumbling back) Who—what—
Narrator 2: That's him. Don't you recognize him? Sarid. Or what's left.
Sylus: Not Sarid. Not anymore. He stayed in the house. I walked out.
He pressed the syringe against Narrator 2's neck. A hiss. The plunger sank.
Narrator 2: (choking) Cold—burns—burns like teeth in my veins—
Narrator 1: Stop! We're only telling the story!
Sylus: Exactly. And stories are how it feeds. You speak, it listens. You write, it tastes. Every retelling, every whisper—another bite for the star. You should have stayed silent.
Narrator 2 convulsed, foam bubbling at his lips, before collapsing sideways. His eyes rolled white, mouth stretched in a grin too wide.
Narrator 1: (screaming) What are you?
Sylus: A vessel. A shadow given a voice. The house was only a doorway. I am what came through.
He advanced. Narrator 1 stumbled into the desk, scattering pages. They fluttered across the floor like frightened birds.
Narrator 1: But the story—it's not finished! The readers need to know what happens to Clara!
Sylus paused, tilting his head as though the name clawed at something buried. His lips twitched.
Sylus: Clara. Yes. She screamed until her voice broke. She begged until her body broke. She doubted me, and in doubting, she fed the star more than she ever knew. She is still screaming. Somewhere in the walls.
The syringe hovered inches from Narrator 1's throat. His breath came in ragged sobs.
Narrator 1: Then why us? We didn't step into the house. We only told.
Sylus: That's worse. You carried it forward. You dragged more eyes to it. Do you not understand? Every reader you ensnared became another window. Another mouth for it to eat through. You've spread its shadow farther than even Elias dreamed.
The needle sank in. Cold lightning poured through his body. Narrator 1 fell to his knees, gagging. His vision blurred until Sylus was a smear of shadow and red.
Narrator 1: (whispering) The… star…
Sylus: The hungry star. It waits above. And below. And now, inside you.
Both narrators lay sprawled, trembling, their bodies twitching like marionettes on broken strings. Sylus knelt, pressing the empty syringe between them.
Sylus: You asked what happens next? What happens is this—your story isn't yours anymore. It belongs to the feast.
The floorboards groaned, splitting. Black light bled up from the cracks, swallowing ink and paper alike. The scattered pages writhed, words sliding off them like leeches, slithering toward Sylus's boots.
Narrator 2: (gurgling, voice warped) The story… is eating us.
Sylus: As it should. As it always will.
The room collapsed inward, walls bending like ribs closing around a heart. The last candle went out. In the dark, only Sylus's eyes burned—twin embers echoing the red star's gaze.
And then silence.
Until a voice—faint, curious—spoke from nowhere.
Unseen Reader: …hello? Is this the end of the chapter?
A pause.
Sylus: (softly, almost tender) No. This is where you begin.
The page itself shuddered, letters running like ink in water. The words re-formed into a new sentence, jagged and wet:
You are already inside the house.