Salem woke up with a start, his vision swimming as if the world itself was underwater. The room around him felt off — not just a little, but completely wrong. The walls shimmered subtly, like a bad TV signal struggling to find a channel.
He rubbed his eyes, hoping to clear the haze, but the flickering didn't stop. His heartbeat quickened as the familiar feeling settled in — something was breaking, slipping between reality and something else.
"Not again," Salem muttered, voice hoarse. He sat up slowly, glancing around. The sunlight filtering through the window bent unnaturally, casting twisted shadows that seemed to dance just beyond his sight.
A sudden whisper echoed inside his head — Not now. Not here.
He froze. The voice wasn't his. It was soft, yet urgent. It felt like a warning.
"Who's there?" Salem asked aloud, but only silence answered him.
His gaze flickered to the corner of the room where the shadows clung thick and heavy. For a split second, a vague silhouette appeared — a shape that grinned with unsettling amusement before vanishing like smoke.
His breath caught. Salem shook his head, trying to convince himself it was just a trick of the light, a side effect of the skips messing with his mind. But deep down, he knew better.
Getting up, Salem moved toward his desk where his journal lay open, pages cluttered with frantic notes and half-remembered fragments of time. He flipped through, skimming the chaotic scrawl: strange symbols, questions, reminders — all attempts to make sense of the missing days.
Then he stopped, heart pounding. There, scribbled in jagged handwriting not his own, was a message that sent a cold shiver down his spine:
"You're not the only one who remembers."
Salem's fingers trembled as he traced the words. How? Who else? Was it a clue? A threat?
A low chuckle echoed in his mind, playful and dark.
"Hey, Salem," he whispered, half to himself, half to the voice only he could hear. "If you think this story's over, you're wrong."
The room seemed to warp again. Colors bled into one another, sounds stretched and echoed unnaturally. The air thickened like fog.
And then the voice responded, clearer now, as if the boundary between the story and the storyteller was cracking:
"Oh, Salem, I'm just getting started."
Salem's eyes narrowed. This wasn't just a glitch. It was a game — a dangerous dance between reality and the story itself.
He clenched his fists, determination hardening in his chest.
"Fine," he said, voice steady despite the fear, "let's see who really controls this."
The shadows flickered, and Salem knew this fight was far from over.
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To be continued...