The dagger still felt warm in Harrison's hand.
Warm, and wrong.
The blue runes along its blade had faded to a dull gray now, but every time he loosened his grip, his skin itched—as if invisible hooks beneath his flesh were pulling it back to him.
"You're lucky to still be here," Evelyn said quietly. She knelt across from him in the lantern room, sleeves rolled up, hands streaked with his blood. "Most don't come back once the Black Pharaoh gets that far in."
Harrison didn't answer. He stared at the floorboards. Every knot in the wood seemed to shift when he blinked, spiraling outward like tiny black holes.
He rubbed his temples. His head felt heavy, as though something had burrowed in behind his eyes and was now pressing against the inside of his skull.
"I still hear him," Harrison said finally. His voice was hoarse. "Not… loud. Just… whispers. Like he's pacing around in my brain, waiting for me to open the door."
Evelyn looked up sharply. "He is waiting. That's what he does. He's patient. And hungry."
Harrison laughed bitterly, then winced—his chest still burned where the golden sigils had flared. "You make it sound like he's got all the time in the world."
Evelyn's gray eyes softened slightly. "He does."
⸻
Outside, the lighthouse groaned under the weight of the fog rolling in off the sea. The sound of distant waves was muffled, almost dreamlike.
Harrison pushed himself to his feet, swaying slightly. "So what now? You told me stabbing myself would slow him down. And here I am—still bleeding, still hearing his voice."
"That ritual bought you time," Evelyn said. "That's all it was ever meant to do."
Harrison fixed her with a glare. "Time for what?"
"Time to find the girl."
⸻
They left the lantern room in silence.
As they descended the spiral staircase, Harrison's sixth sense began to prickle faintly along the base of his skull. The sensation was weak at first—a feather-light itch—but as they reached the lower levels, it sharpened into a pulse.
Thump.
Thump.
Like a second heartbeat.
"Do you hear that?" Harrison murmured.
Evelyn glanced back. "Hear what?"
Harrison froze at the bottom of the stairs. The fog outside the lighthouse windows pressed thick against the glass. Shapes seemed to move within it—figures tall and thin, with too many joints in their arms.
"Never mind," Harrison muttered. But his hand slid to the dagger at his hip.
⸻
The streets of Arkham were quieter than he remembered.
Not peaceful quiet. More like the silence that creeps in when the world is holding its breath.
As he and Evelyn walked, Harrison noticed the way people watched him.
An old man sitting on a stoop hummed a tune in a strange, off-key cadence. A shopkeeper sweeping her steps froze mid-motion, her broom hanging in the air as she stared. Children stopped playing in the street and slowly turned their heads to follow his steps, their eyes blank.
"Prophet…" one of them whispered, almost too softly to hear.
Harrison stopped.
"What did you say?"
The little boy just smiled, baring too many teeth.
Evelyn grabbed Harrison's arm. "Keep walking."
Harrison let himself be pulled forward, but he didn't take his hand off the dagger.
⸻
They reached the edge of town, where the streets ended in scrubby woodland.
"This is where Grace said she lost the trail," Evelyn said. She pointed to a narrow dirt path winding between twisted trees. "Her daughter was seen heading toward the old Ashworth house."
"Ashworth house?" Harrison asked.
Evelyn nodded grimly. "No one lives there anymore. Not since…" She trailed off.
"Not since what?"
"Not since it began appearing and disappearing," she said.
Harrison raised an eyebrow.
Evelyn shook her head. "You'll see."
⸻
The path wound deeper into the woods.
Harrison's sixth sense was screaming now. The trees leaned too far inward, their branches forming claw-like shapes against the sky. The air felt… thick. Wrong.
"Wait," he said suddenly.
Up ahead, the Ashworth house rose from the earth like a wound.
It didn't look abandoned.
The windows glowed faintly gold. The front door was ajar.
Harrison felt something cold crawl down his spine.
He swore he could hear a little girl singing inside.
"Clara," he whispered.
⸻
"Don't go in there alone," Evelyn warned.
Harrison drew the dagger. The blue runes flickered faintly, like dying embers.
"Stay here," he said. "If I'm not back in ten minutes…"
Evelyn gritted her teeth. "Then I'm coming after you."
"Yeah." Harrison stepped toward the door. "That's what I'm afraid of."
⸻
Inside, the house was impossibly still.
Each step Harrison took made the floorboards groan like they were in pain. The air smelled of rot and something sweeter—like honey left out too long.
The girl's voice echoed faintly from upstairs.
Ring around the rosie…
Harrison tightened his grip on the dagger.
"Clara?" he called.
The singing stopped.
And then, in a voice too deep to be a child's:
"Hello, Prophet."
The voice wasn't Clara's.
It was too deep, too smooth—like silk sliding over a knife.
"Hello, Prophet."
Harrison froze in the hallway, one hand gripping the dagger, the other resting on the wall for balance. The wood beneath his palm was warm. It pulsed faintly, like the heartbeat of a living thing.
"You're not her," he said quietly.
The air shifted. Somewhere upstairs, a floorboard creaked under a heavy weight.
"No," the voice murmured. "But she's here. Would you like to see her?"
Harrison's throat tightened. His sixth sense screamed like a siren now, the pressure behind his eyes almost blinding. The dagger in his hand hummed faintly—its runes glowing blue in time with his racing pulse.
"Where is she?" Harrison demanded.
Silence.
Then: "You always ask questions, Prophet. That's why I like you."
The shadows along the staircase writhed. Shapes formed and dissolved—hands stretching, fingers too long, faces that melted into nothing.
Harrison forced himself forward, each step heavier than the last.
⸻
The second floor was worse.
The hallway stretched too far, twisting subtly left and right. Doors lined either side, each identical: black wood, brass handles, faint gold light leaking from beneath.
He counted them. Seven doors.
But when he looked again, there were nine.
Don't look too long, Evelyn's voice echoed in his memory. Things aren't always where they seem in places like this.
"Clara," Harrison called. His voice sounded hollow, swallowed by the thick air.
This time, she answered.
"Help me."
The words were faint, barely above a whisper, but they were a child's voice. Clara's voice.
Harrison's heart lurched. He turned to the nearest door and reached for the handle—
"Wrong one."
The deep voice again, slithering into his ears.
Harrison jerked back. "Shut up."
"It's not me you should be afraid of, Prophet. It's yourself."
The brass handle twisted on its own.
⸻
The door opened.
Beyond was not a room.
It was a vast expanse of black stone, stretching endlessly in all directions. The air shimmered with heat, though no sun hung above.
Harrison stumbled back, but his feet stayed rooted. The doorway pulsed with gold light.
And in the distance, he saw her.
Clara.
She stood on a stone platform, her small hands clasped in front of her. She wore a pale blue dress stained with ash. Her face was turned away.
"Clara!" Harrison shouted.
She didn't move.
But something else did.
A figure towered behind her, its form shifting constantly—a man, then a beast, then a roiling mass of eyes and mouths.
Nyarlathotep.
"You came for her," the voices said. "But you're too late."
Harrison raised the dagger. "Let her go."
The figure laughed. A thousand mouths, all laughing at once.
"You still don't understand, do you? You're not here to save her. You're here to bring her to me."
⸻
Harrison's chest burned. The golden sigils flared to life, vines of light crawling up his neck and down his arms.
"No," he growled through gritted teeth. "Not again. You won't take her like you took Ethan."
The figure tilted its faceless head.
"But Prophet… you brought me Ethan too."
⸻
Harrison screamed and plunged the dagger into his chest.
Pain blossomed outward, tearing through muscle and bone. The blue runes flared bright as lightning.
The doorway shattered.
⸻
Harrison stumbled backward into the real world.
The Ashworth house groaned. Its walls shivered. Dust rained from the ceiling.
"Harrison!"
Evelyn's voice.
He turned and saw her at the end of the hall, her gray eyes wide with alarm.
"Out!" she shouted. "It's collapsing!"
The house shrieked.
Shadows spilled from the walls, forming grasping hands and gnashing teeth. The floorboards split like dry paper.
Harrison ran.
The front door was already gone—swallowed by the writhing dark.
"Window!" Evelyn shouted.
Harrison didn't hesitate. He hurled himself through the nearest window just as the house convulsed and imploded behind him.
⸻
The two of them tumbled into the dirt outside.
Harrison rolled onto his back, gasping for air.
The Ashworth house was gone.
Not collapsed.
Gone.
The clearing where it stood was empty, as though it had never been there at all.
Evelyn pushed herself up, breathing hard. "You saw him, didn't you?"
Harrison didn't answer. His hands shook violently. The blue runes on the dagger had faded again, but the golden sigils on his chest still pulsed faintly.
Evelyn grabbed his shoulder. "Did you see Clara?"
Harrison nodded.
"She's still alive," he whispered. "But he has her."
⸻
Far in the distance, bells rang out across Arkham.
Low, sonorous.
And from the town square, a chorus of voices rose in unison:
"Prophet… Prophet… Prophet…"
Evelyn and Harrison turned toward the sound.
A line of figures in black robes stood waiting in the fog.
"The Black Choir," Evelyn said grimly. "They know you're here."
⸻
Harrison pushed himself to his feet.
His chest burned.
His head throbbed with whispers.
And somewhere, deep inside, he felt a smile that wasn't his own stretching across his soul.
"The game begins now, Prophet," Nyarlathotep whispered. "Bring me the girl… or I'll bring her to you."
Harrison gripped the dagger tighter.
"I'm coming for you," he muttered.
But part of him wondered if, when the time came, he'd even be himself anymore.
⸻
End of Chapter 6