Chapter 17- The eye ball
The room stank of sweat, rust, and cheap disinfectant.
A single bulb dangled above, swaying on its cord, painting the walls in nervous circles of light
Carl sat on the edge of a broken chair, one leg bent over the other. His injured thigh throbbed in rhythm with his heartbeat. A strip of torn fabric was wrapped around the wound, already darkened with blood. His fingers trembled slightly as he pulled the final knot tight.
"Damn it…" he hissed under his breath. "That bastard…"
He looked down at his leg, the pain flaring sharp each time he flexed the muscle. For a moment, rage boiled in him like molten lead—but then he smiled, crooked and slow, the kind of grin that twisted across his face like a cut reopening.
"But you have nowhere to go," he muttered to the shadows. "There are ghosts everywhere… only I can come and leave."
The laugh that followed was quiet, almost tender, the kind that didn't belong in a place like this. He pushed himself up with a grunt, testing his balance. The floorboards creaked under his weight, whispering secrets to the silence.
He glanced around the room. He knew every inch of this place—the cracks in the plaster, the stains that refused to fade. This corner of the building was safe, for now. The spirits outside couldn't cross the wards he'd carved into the walls days ago. But the corridor… that was another story. His brother, Simon, was out there. Waiting. Lurking.
Carl could feel it—the cold pressing against the door, the faint scrape of something shifting in the darkness beyond.
Still, he wasn't afraid. Not of Simon. Not anymore.
"Brother…" he murmured, running his tongue over his teeth. "Now you started hunting?didn't you? Let's see if you are worthy for this whole hunting thing "
He grinned again, the expression thin and cruel.
From his coat pocket, he pulled out a small wooden box. The surface was etched with foreign symbols, spiraling carvings that seemed to move if one stared too long. He set it down on the table and traced the patterns with the tip of his finger. The wood was cold—unnaturally cold, like something buried in snow.
When he opened it, a low hum filled the room.
Inside lay an eyeball.
It wasn't dead. It pulsed faintly, veins twitching like living worms. The sclera was a shade too dark, almost gray, and within its center burned a slit pupil, faintly red. A sigil—two horns sprouting from a skull—was carved across the cornea, glowing with a dull crimson shimmer.
Carl's breath hitched.
Even after all this time, it fascinated him.
He remembered the cloaked man's voice, that rasping whisper that had slithered into his dreams for weeks. "Feed it blood, and it will serve. It will hide you from the eyes of the dead. It will burn their flesh and silence their screams. But remember… it must eat."
Carl chuckled, shaking his head. "Eat, huh? You and I aren't so different."
He reached for the blood-stained cloth he'd used earlier, the one soaked with the blood from his wounded thigh. Holding it above the box, he let the drops fall.
The eyeball reacted instantly.
Its veins extended, tiny tendrils of red crawling up toward the cloth. They latched on and began to drink. The sucking sound was faint but nauseating—a wet, eager slurp as the veins pulsed and thickened, drawing every drop of blood until the fabric turned bone-white.
Carl's grin widened.
"That's it… drink up, little one," he whispered, eyes gleaming in the gloom.
When the cloth was dry, the eyeball shuddered. The sigil flared briefly, casting a bloody glow across the room, painting the walls with shapes that seemed to crawl. Carl shut the box and tucked it back into his coat.
His pulse steadied. The presence of the cursed object was comforting, in a twisted way. With it, he felt untouchable.
He limped toward the door.
The hallway waited beyond—long, narrow, suffocating. The wallpaper peeled in strips, exposing the rotted wood beneath. The air was colder there, heavy with something old and hateful. Shadows clung to the corners like oil.
Carl hesitated only a second, hand on the doorknob. His grin returned.
"Come on, Simon…" he said softly. "Don't you want to eat me?"
The door creaked open.
Cold rushed in immediately, biting at his skin. The temperature dropped as if he'd stepped into a freezer. His breath came out in visible clouds. Every instinct screamed at him to step back—but he didn't. He moved forward slowly, savoring the tension in the air.
The corridor stretched ahead like a throat, lined with doorways that led to nothing but darkness. Every few steps, the boards moaned under his weight.
Then it came—a faint hiss, a sound like metal scraping against stone.
Carl froze, his grin faltering for the briefest moment. He turned his head slightly, and his peripheral vision caught movement.
A shadow slipped across the far end of the hallway, fluid and sinuous.
"Brother," he whispered, almost fondly.
He could feel Simon now. The chill was unmistakable. It pressed against his skin, worming beneath it, filling his veins with ice. The corridor seemed to breathe with him—exhaling frost.
Carl's hand slipped inside his coat. He drew out the box again. This time, he opened it fully.
The eyeball rose from the container on its own.
Veins erupted from its surface, lashing outward like crimson tendrils. They swirled around Carl, forming a writhing cocoon before bursting in a bloom of scarlet mist. The air thickened, heavy with the copper tang of blood. The mist shimmered faintly, forming a barrier that pulsed in time with his heartbeat.
From the darkness ahead came a sound—a guttural growl, low and wet.
Then, silence.
A tentacle of black smoke shot forward from the far end, slicing through the air faster than a whip. It was long and barbed, lined with jagged shards of bone. It darted straight for Carl's abdomen.
But just as it struck, the mist flared.
The tentacle froze mid-air, its surface hissing as the red mist seeped into it. In seconds, the flesh began to melt—first bubbling, then disintegrating entirely into ash. A shriek split the air, high and inhuman, echoing through the corridor like steel tearing apart.
Carl laughed, the sound booming and ugly.
"Sorry, brother! Did it hurt?"
The mist pulsed again, feeding off his amusement. He could feel it vibrating around him, alive, eager to consume more. The smell was overwhelming—burned flesh and copper filling his nose until it stung.
From the darkness ahead, a shape stumbled forward.
It was human—or had once been. Its skin hung in tatters, its face half-rotted, eyes glowing faintly blue. Simon. His body jerked unnaturally, bones cracking with each movement. He stared at Carl with empty sockets that still managed to radiate rage.
Carl tilted his head. "You always were the loud one."
Simon lunged.
The corridor filled with noise—wet impacts, screams, the squelch of flesh burning. The red mist flared brighter, each pulse accompanied by another shriek. The walls trembled; paint peeled and curled as if recoiling from the fight.
Through it all, Carl stood unmoving, his face twisted in ecstatic glee. Each scream, each burst of blood against the mist, was music to him.
But then—something shifted.
He felt it before he saw it. A presence. Heavy, cold, deliberate.
Carl's laughter faltered. His head turned slowly toward the end of the hallway where a door creaked open.
A figure stepped out.
The light from the dying candles flickered over his face, revealing sharp features, eyes like pale fire, and a knife glinting faintly in his hand. His steps were measured, soundless, as though he carried the silence itself.
Lumian.
For a moment, neither spoke.
The mist swirled around Carl protectively, veins pulsating faster as if recognizing danger. The air between them thickened, almost tangible. Somewhere behind Lumian, the distant walls groaned, the building itself reacting to their meeting.
Carl's smile returned, slower this time, more calculated.
"Well," he said softly, voice dripping with mockery, "look who crawled back."
Lumian didn't answer. His expression was unreadable, eyes steady and unblinking. The knife in his hand caught the faint light, a single bead of blood from the earlier fight sliding down the edge.
Carl tilted his head, studying him. "You've changed," he murmured. "Those eyes… they don't belong to a human anymore."
The air grew colder.
The mist hissed, tightening its circle around Carl, its red hue deepening. The hallway seemed to darken further, the flickering lights fading until only the two of them remained—two figures, one wrapped in living blood, the other standing silent in the dark.
Carl took a slow breath, the scent of iron filling his lungs.
"So, little guest," he said, voice low and dangerous. "Are you ready to join the family? I promise… I'll make it art."
Lumian's knife tilted slightly in response, his expression unchanging.
The silence stretched thin, trembling on the edge of violence.
Carl's grin widened once more, his eyes glinting with madness.
"Come on then," he whispered, his tone almost joyous. "Let's make something beautiful."
---
The candlelight flickered once, then died.
The corridor sank into crimson shadow.
The game had begun.