Chapter XIX: The Entity
The night never left Nathaniel Cross. It lingered even when the morning came, a shadow that clung to him like a second skin. London's weak daylight filtered into the flat, but the walls seemed to absorb it, leaving only a murky half-light. His notebook remained open, the words scrawled in uneven ink staring back at him:
THEY WILL RETURN.
The letters weren't his, but they were written in his notebook, on his desk, inside his locked flat. That was the part that unsettled him most. He remembered gripping the pen until his knuckles ached, forcing himself to steady his hand, and yet—these words... they were foreign.
His scar pulsed again, as though the sentence had been carved directly into his chest.
Nathaniel stood at the desk, fingers pressed to the edge so hard the wood groaned under the strain. "You're not losing your mind," he whispered. His voice was flat, a hollow mantra he had repeated a hundred times. "You're not losing your mind."
But the silence seemed to laugh back.
By evening, his world had shrunk into ritual. He had reinforced the locks, checked the bolts, even dragged the bookcase halfway across the door. The blinds remained drawn, but his eyes kept straying toward them, certain that something stood on the other side.
The hum of the city beyond—the distant sirens, the occasional rumble of the Underground—normally grounded him. But tonight, it was gone. Muffled. As if the flat were a sealed coffin and he, its restless occupant.
The television screen flickered to life on its own. No remote pressed. No console switched. Just a burst of white static swallowing the quiet.
Nathaniel stumbled back, wrench in hand. His scar burned under his shirt, like fire spreading veins across his chest.
On the screen, shapes swam through the static. Not images, but shadows. Limbs too long, faces stretched thin, bodies that weren't built for this world. They warped, twisted, folding back into static like the screen itself was alive.
And then—the sound.
A chorus of whispers erupted, layered atop each other, a thousand voices speaking over themselves. None in English. None in words his mind could anchor. It was the same language that had leaked through the door the night before.
Nathaniel's breathing quickened. He gripped the wrench until it cut into his palm.
"Show yourself!" His voice cracked.
The screen obeyed.
The static parted for a moment, like curtains drawn back to reveal a stage. And on that stage—a figure.
Tall. Shrouded. Faceless.
It didn't move. Didn't need to. Its presence filled the flat, pressing against Nathaniel's lungs until he staggered forward, gasping for air.
The whispers cut off. The figure raised one elongated hand and pressed it against the inside of the screen.
A print appeared.
Five long fingers, black against the white noise.
And then—
The flat's lights exploded.
Nathaniel screamed as glass shattered from the bulbs, raining sparks onto the floor. He ducked behind the couch, covering his head. The television still glowed, though no power should have remained. The shadow pressed harder against the screen, its faceless head tilting, studying him.
The scar flared. Nathaniel clutched his chest, teeth gritted as pain shot through him like lightning. He could feel something tugging—something pulling—from inside him, as if the figure were trying to draw him into the static itself.
"Stay out!" he shouted, forcing the words past his burning throat. "Stay the hell out!"
But the figure didn't listen.
The television shrieked. A high-pitched static howl tore through the room, rattling the glass in the windows, shaking the bookcase that barricaded the door. Nathaniel's ears rang, blood seeping where the sound ruptured skin.
Through the haze, he saw it.
The screen bulged outward.
Not just light—matter. The surface warped, stretched, as if the television were a membrane being pushed from the inside. That hand... that black, skeletal hand... was pushing through.
"No..." Nathaniel staggered to his feet, wrench ready. "No, no, no..."
The hand pierced through.
Static crackled around it like fireflies. Fingers clawed into the air, dripping strands of white noise that hissed as they hit the floorboards.
The scar erupted in agony. Nathaniel fell to his knees, clutching his chest, sweat streaming down his face. His vision blurred silver again, the room bending like water around him.
The figure's arm was free now, stretching too long, twisting unnaturally as it reached for him.
Nathaniel forced himself upright, wrench in hand. He swung—metal met static with a sickening crack. The sound wasn't natural, like steel colliding with glass and flesh at the same time. The arm recoiled, but the static didn't bleed. It rippled, repairing itself, reaching again.
He swung again. And again. Sparks burst from every hit, but the entity pushed forward, relentless.
"Get out!" Nathaniel roared, tears in his eyes, voice ragged with fury. "You don't belong here!"
The figure paused.
Not from pain. Not from resistance.
It paused to tilt its faceless head again, as if... curious.
And then it spoke.
Not whispers this time. Not layered tongues.
But English.
"You... do not belong here."
Nathaniel froze. His blood turned cold.
The voice wasn't one voice. It was thousands. Male, female, child, elder—every register blended into one. A choir of humanity stitched together and forced into a single mouth.
His scar pulsed in agreement.
"You are broken," the entity continued, pressing another arm through the screen. "You are... bridge."
"Bridge?" Nathaniel gasped, wrench lowering despite himself. His chest burned hotter, his breath ragged. "What do you mean, bridge?"
The static roared. The figure stepped further out of the television, body unraveling as it emerged, limbs bending, torso splitting and reforming. It wasn't designed to exist here. Its very shape broke the laws of space.
"Two worlds," it hissed. "Yours. Theirs. And you—Cross."
It knew his name.
Nathaniel stumbled back until he hit the wall. "Stay away from me!"
"Cannot." The entity lurched closer, its many limbs dragging static across the floor. "Your scar... the wound is door. We knock. You hear."
The two raps echoed through the flat again, though no hand touched the door this time. Nathaniel's heart nearly tore itself apart in his chest.
"You are threshold," it whispered. "Open... or close. Decide."
The scar seared. Nathaniel screamed, collapsing to his knees. He clawed at his chest, feeling as though something inside him were trying to burst free. Images flashed in his mind—blood in glass dishes, silver in his eyes, Eris's fangs sinking into his flesh, her cold lips on his neck.
"No..." he sobbed. "Not again... I won't let you..."
The entity towered over him now, static dripping onto his skin. The burns it left sizzled, etching glowing lines across his arms.
"You are becoming," it said.
Nathaniel lifted the wrench with shaking hands, holding it like a blade. His vision swam, silver light overtaking the room, but he forced his voice into a growl.
"I am Nathaniel Cross. And I don't belong to you."
With everything he had left, he swung.
The wrench struck the entity's torso, not shattering but ripping it apart like cloth. Static poured out, flooding the room with shrieking light. The entity screamed—thousands of voices at once, a symphony of anguish.
Nathaniel staggered back, blinded. His scar flared so hot he thought his chest would ignite.
And then—silence.
When his vision cleared, the television was dark again. The flat smelled of burnt wires. The lights remained shattered, glass scattered across the floor like fallen stars.
Nathaniel collapsed against the wall, wrench slipping from his hand. His chest still burned, but the scar's rhythm slowed, quieting to a dull throb.
The notebook lay open on the desk, untouched. Yet new words had appeared again.
NOT DESTROYED. ONLY DELAYED.
WE WILL KNOCK AGAIN.
Nathaniel buried his face in his hands, sobs tearing through him, though no tears came.
The flat was silent, but the silence was no longer empty.
It was waiting.