"Alucard!" The name was clear now, reverberating
through the darkness like a death knell. I woke up with
a start, my body drenched in sweat, my heart slamming
against my ribs as though trying to escape. But what
truly unsettled me wasn't the dream. It was the distinct,
unmistakable feeling that the name hadn't just been
whispered in my mind— it had been spoken aloud, here,
in the stillness of my room. I sat up, the shadows in the
corners of the room stretching long and menacing
under the faint glow of the streetlights outside. My
voice was unsteady as I called out into the void, "Is
someone there?" Silence. But it wasn't the comforting
kind. This silence was suffocating, dense, like the air
itself had grown heavy with anticipation. I laughed
nervously, trying to shake off the creeping dread. "I'm
losing it," I muttered to myself. "Just a hallucinating
idiot, that's all." But then, it answered. "Yes, I'm talking
to you." The voice was female, calm yet carrying an edge
of dry amusement. It wasn't coming from anywhere in
the room, yet it felt near—uncomfortably so, as though
it whispered directly into my ear. I froze, every muscle
in my body locking into place. My mouth moved, but no
sound came out at first. Finally, I forced out the words,
my voice barely a whisper. "Who's there?"
A pause, and then the voice returned, this time with a
tone of exasperation. "Look, I don't want to disturb you,
okay? I'll let you sleep. And before you ask, no, I mean no
harm...No, seriously, I mean no harm." Her casual tone was
jarring, like someone talking about the weather while
standing over an open grave. My mind raced, trying to
make sense of it. Was this a lingering effect of the dream?
Was I losing my grip on reality? "Am I hallucinating?" I
muttered under my breath. "Did I eat expired food or
something?" "Nope," the voice replied, clearly
unimpressed. "You're not hallucinating. But if it makes you
feel better, think of this as a dream. Now, just sleep, will
you?" I wanted to argue, to demand answers, but fear and
confusion had robbed me of my usual sharpness. Instead, I
croaked out a half-hearted protest. "How the hell am I
supposed to sleep when there's a voice in my head?"
"Fine," she said, clearly growing impatient. "I'll shut up.
Deal? Just— get some rest. You'll thank me later." And with
that, the voice fell silent. I lay back down, my mind still
whirling. The rational part of me clung to her suggestion—
maybe it was just a dream. Maybe I'd wake up in the
morning and laugh at my paranoia. But deep down, I knew
better. Something had shifted, something profound and
terrifying. I repeated the words to myself like a mantra
"It's just a dream. It's just a dream." Eventually, exhaustion
claimed me, and I drifted into an uneasy sleep.
The next morning, I woke to the sound of my phone
buzzing incessantly on the nightstand. I rubbed the sleep
from my eyes and reached for it, only to feel my stomach
drop as I saw the string of missed calls and unread
messages. Something was wrong. With trembling hands, I
opened the latest message. It was from a family friend. The
words blurred together at first, but then they sharpened,
stabbing into me with cold precision "Car accident. Your
mother." I felt the world tilt beneath me, the ground falling
away into an endless void. My mother was dead. The
funeral came quickly, a blur of black-clad figures and
murmured condolences. I stood among them, silent and
unmoving, my expression stoic. Strangely, no tears came.
Not a single drop. It was as though some invisible force was
holding me together, keeping the dam from breaking. I
wanted to cry, to scream, to rage against the injustice of it
all. But I couldn't. There was a quietness inside me, a calm
that wasn't mine. It was as though a hand had reached into
my chest and steadied my heart. Maybe it was God, holding
me together when I was too weak to do it myself. Or maybe
it was something else. As the priest spoke of life's
transience and the hope of eternal peace, I felt it again—
that ever-present sensation of being watched. But this time,
it was different. It wasn't the usual oppressive gaze that
had haunted me for as long as I could remember. This was
something warmer, more protective. I couldn't explain it,
but in that moment, I felt… not alone.
The ceremony ended, and the mourners began to disperse. I
stood at the graveside, staring down at the freshly turned
earth. A part of me whispered that this was it, the final
breaking point. But another part, deeper and quieter,
reminded me of what the teacher had said all those years ago
"God tests His creation, not to destroy them, but to see them
rise." I inhaled deeply, the air sharp and cold in my lungs. I
wasn't alone. Not anymore. Days bled into nights with little
distinction. My life had become a routine of drudgery and
exhaustion, splitting my time between university lectures and
scrubbing floors as a janitor in a lifeless office building. The
air reeked of cleaning chemicals and stale ambition, the
fluorescent lights casting a pale, sterile glow over a sea of
empty cubicles. Every mop stroke felt like a condemnation.
Every bill that landed on my doorstep whispered of debts
unpaid, dreams deferred. My world was shrinking under the
weight of it all: first the unshakeable feeling of being watched,
then my mother's sudden death, and now this relentless
grind. I wanted to scream, to tear open the night sky and
demand justice. But I bit my tongue. After all, hadn't I been
taught that life's trials were divine tests? That perseverance
was the path to grace? I tried to believe that, to hold onto the
faint hope that this suffering had meaning. But faith is a
fragile thing, easily crushed under the heel of despair. One
night, dragging myself home from work, I unlocked the door
to my dimly lit apartment. I dropped my bag and collapsed
onto the couch, barely summoning the energy to kick off my
shoes. The silence wrapped around me like a shroud. And then
— "Welcome back."
My blood turned to ice. The voice, unmistakable, slid
through the air with an unsettling familiarity. I sat bolt
upright, scanning the room for its source. "You again," I
muttered, my throat dry. "Hey, calm down," she said, her
tone light, almost playful. "I know you're going through a
lot right now, but hey, I'm here, buddy." "Do I know you?" I
asked, my voice low and wary. "I know you," she replied
smoothly, "better than anyone." A bitter laugh escaped my
lips. "More than my mother?" I challenged. "More than
yourself," she said, her voice tinged with something deeper
— something ancient. Her words unsettled me, a stone
dropped into the still waters of my mind. "What does that
even mean?" I demanded. "Who are you?" The air in the
room thickened, charged with an otherworldly energy.
Then, before my eyes, she materialized. She stood tall, a
figure both commanding and otherworldly. Her long, silken
hair was as white as moonlight, cascading over her
shoulders in flowing waves. Two crimson horns jutted
proudly from her skull, gleaming faintly in the dim light.
Her skin was the color of storm clouds, smooth and
unblemished, a stark contrast to her piercing red eyes that
glowed like embers. She wore a flowing, scarlet dress that
clung to her form. A golden bracelet adorned her wrist,
matching the elaborate pentagram necklace that rested
against her collarbone. In one hand, she held a crimson
trident, its edges sharp enough to split reality itself. To any
other, she might have looked like a cosplayer stepping out of
some elaborate fantasy. This is kinda how I saw her.
I blinked, my mind struggling to process what I was
seeing. "Okay," I said slowly, my voice dripping with
disbelief. "This is not what I was expecting. And it's not
Halloween yet." She narrowed her eyes. "Don't you dare
talk to your mother like that." The words hit me like a
thunderclap. I stared at her. "Mother?" I repeated. "My
mother's dead." "This isn't some hallucination," she said,
her tone softening. "I've been watching over you." I
laughed, a harsh, bitter sound. "Oh, watching over me? Is
that what you call it? The feeling of eyes burning into my
soul for years? That was you?" She crossed her arms, her
trident resting against the floor with a dull thud. "Not
entirely," she said. "But we'll get to that." "No," I snapped.
"We won't. You've got the wrong person. I'm not your son,
and I don't want any part of whatever this is. Go find your
kid somewhere else." Her eyes softened, a flicker of
annoyance crossing her face. "Is that how you thank me
after I tried to comfort you at the funeral?" she asked. I
froze. "That was you?" She nodded. "I've been here all
along, Adam. My name is Nasira, the Queen." I stared at
her, my mind racing. "Queen?" I repeated, my voice
dripping with sarcasm. "Great. I'll be sure to invite a priest
over for tea." Nasira raised an eyebrow. "And what exactly
would the priest do?" she asked, a hint of amusement in
her voice. "Exorcise you, obviously," I shot back. "No
wonder I've had such terrible luck. No wonder everything
feels wrong."
"Excuse me," she said, her tone sharp. "I told you, I
mean no harm." I scoffed. "Why would I trust a demon?
Let alone their queen?" Nasira sighed, her expression
softening. "You don't have to trust me," she said. "But
know this, I've been watching over you, and not just me.
There are forces at work here that you can't begin to
comprehend. Things are not what they seem." She
stepped closer, her eyes locking onto mine. "For now,
take care of yourself, and stay calm, my dear. We'll speak
again." And with that, she vanished, fading into the
shadows as though she had never been there. I stood
alone in the darkened room, my heart pounding. My
mind was a storm of questions, doubts, and fears. What
had I just witnessed? Who or what was Nasira? And
what did she mean by her cryptic warnings? I sighed,
rubbing my temples. Life was strange enough already.
First, the unshakable feeling of being watched. Then my
mother's passing, a soul crushing job, and the endless
grind of bills. And now… a demon? I muttered to myself,
"Life is strange, but hey… God is with me. Right?"