The first thing Allen Harrison noticed was the silence.
It was not the tranquil hush of a sleeping town, nor the soft quiet of an early dawn. This was heavier—thicker—like a shroud pulled over the world. It pressed into his ears until he thought he could hear the faint thud of his own blood in his skull.
He was standing in the middle of Ashworth Street, the cracked asphalt glistening faintly under a pale half-moon. The streetlamps—once tall, proud sentinels—leaned drunkenly at odd angles, their bulbs shattered, glass glinting like scattered ice. Somewhere far off, a sign creaked lazily in the wind, the sound barely audible, as if muffled by invisible hands.
Allen's breath clouded in the cold night air. He had no memory of how he'd come to be here. One moment, he was in his apartment, nursing a drink, staring at the rain-warped reflection of the city beyond his window. The next, he was here—in this place he half-recognized, a place that smelled of damp stone and rotting wood.
A faint scrape reached his ears. He turned sharply.
No one.
The houses lining the street stood like hollow skulls, their windows gaping black, their doors crooked in their frames. Some were boarded up, others hung open to the night, swaying gently as if breathing. A faint odor drifted from one—metallic, sour. His stomach tightened.
He told himself to walk. Just walk.
But his feet carried him toward that open doorway.
Inside, the air was stagnant. Wallpaper peeled from the walls in long curling strips, like skin sloughing away from bone. Something had been dragged across the dusty floorboards—faint grooves, twin tracks, disappearing into the shadows. Allen followed them with his eyes until they vanished beneath a doorway at the far end.
He hesitated.
It was then that he saw her.
A flash of pale—a face, half-lit by the moon spilling through a broken window. Catherine.
Her eyes met his for an instant, and in that instant his heart lurched. She looked exactly as she had the last time he saw her: the loose strands of chestnut hair, the sharp tilt of her chin, the curve of her mouth—though now her lips were colorless, almost blue.
He took a step forward.
She turned, vanishing into the shadows beyond the doorway.
"Catherine—!" His voice cracked in the oppressive silence.
The only answer was the faint drip… drip… drip… coming from somewhere deeper inside.
He crossed the room, his boots whispering against the floorboards. The air grew colder the closer he came to the doorway, until he could see his breath again. His hand grazed the frame—something sticky clung to his fingertips. In the dim light, it looked dark. Too dark.
Blood.
He pulled his hand back, pulse quickening, and stepped through.
The narrow hallway beyond was worse—its walls close, suffocating, lined with deep scratches. Not random ones, either. These were claw marks, deliberate and frenzied, gouged into the wood as though someone—or something—had tried to tear its way out.
At the far end, the sound grew louder: drip… drip…
Allen's throat felt dry. "Catherine?"
This time there was a reply—a faint whisper, almost inaudible.
"Allen…"
His breath caught. He knew that voice.
He quickened his pace, the boards creaking beneath him. The hallway ended abruptly in a small room, its walls blackened with soot. In the center stood a chair—old, wooden, its back splintered. A rope hung from its arms, frayed and darkened with stains.
And on the floor beside it—
Allen froze.
It was a hand. Pale, slender. The nails painted the soft pink Catherine always favored. But the wrist ended abruptly in ragged flesh and dark clots, as if it had been torn rather than cut.
He stumbled back, his body trembling, bile rising in his throat.
The shadows shifted.
From the far corner, something moved—a figure stepping into the dim light. A man. Tall, shoulders broad beneath a black coat, the collar turned up to hide half his face. The faint glint of eyes—cold, watchful.
Allen's voice was barely a whisper. "Who… are you?"
The man didn't answer. Instead, he bent, picked up the severed hand with a strange gentleness, and tucked it into the inside of his coat.
Allen took a step back.
"Where is she?" Allen's voice cracked, fury mingling with fear. "Where's Catherine?"
The man tilted his head slightly, as if studying him. Then, in a low voice, calm and unhurried, he said:
"She's closer than you think."
And with that, the light flickered—once, twice—and went out.
The last thing Allen heard before the world went completely black was the sound of footsteps, slow and deliberate, moving toward him.
If you like, I can immediately continue into Chapter Two, keeping the same cinematic and tension-heavy style so the momentum builds without pause. This way, by Chapter Three we'd be deep into the emotional and violent spiral.