Part Three

The scream echoed through the room like a distant wail, then faded into nothingness. The wind stilled, the bats outside fell silent, and the

once-clouded sky cleared to an unnatural, eerie calm. It was so quiet that the masked man felt as though

he'd gone deaf. The stillness pressed against him, thick and suffocating, until nausea clawed its way into his Stomach.

Then, a sound shattered the silence-a soft, rhythmic drip. He turned toward it, his heart pounding. Blood. Dark red droplets fell from the severed finger of the man bound to the chair. Oliver. Motionless, his head slumped forward, his body unnervingly still. The slow, deliberate dripping of blood onto the cold floor was the only sound, and it crawled under the thug's skin, filling him with unease.

A chill crept through the room, raising goosebumps along his arms. He couldn't tear his gaze away from Oliver, as though some unseen force had rooted him in place. The thug stood there, paralyzed by terror, his thoughts spiraling. Then, without warning, a hand clapped his shoulder.



He flinched, whipping around with a strangled gasp, only to find one of his men standing behind him.

"What was all that noise?" the man asked, frowning. "And where's that guy?"

The question confused him. "What do you mean? He's right here," the thug replied, turning back toward the chair.

But the words died in his throat.

The chair was empty. Blood still pooled beneath it, the ropes lay shredded, but Oliver was gone.

"What the hell?" he whispered, his voice trembling.



His partner frowned. "Where is he?"

The thug stared at the empty chair, his mind unraveling. His breathing quickened, and the edges of his vision blurred as panic took hold. Before he could respond, a bloodcurdling scream erupted from upstairs.

Without hesitation, the larger thug bolted toward the stairs, his smaller companion scrambling after him. They reached the top and froze.

A crimson river spilled out from beneath the door to one of the rooms.

The metallic scent of blood was overpowering, and as they edged closer, they heard the wet, sickening sounds of tearing flesh.



The big thug hesitated, dread pooling in his chest. But something compelled

him forward. Slowly, he pushed the door open.

What he saw stole the air from his lungs.

Oliver crouched over the lifeless body of one of their partners, his face buried. In the man's torn abdomen. His hands gleamed with blood as he ripped into the corpse, devouring its innards like a ravenous beast.

The thug's stomach churned. He stumbled back, shaking, his mind

unable to process the horrific scene before him.

"W-we need to" he began, but a

Scream cut him off.

The smaller thug, having caught up, had

seen it too. He screamed with

everything he had, the sound reverberating through the house.

Oliver stopped.

Slowly, he lifted his head.

His eyes-pitch black and soulless-locked onto theirs. His mouth twisted into a bloodied grin, revealing rows of razor-sharp teeth. Shreds of flesh hung from his lips, falling in thick chunks to the floor.

The two men stood frozen, paralyzed by Oliver's inhuman gaze. He tilted his

head, his smile widening. It wasn't the smile of a man. It was the smile of a predator savoring his prey.

Hours later, the front door creaked

open.

"Honey, we're home!"

Oliver's wife called out, her voice echoing in the stillness. She stepped inside with their two children, balancing a bag of groceries. Her brow furrowed.

Something felt wrong.

The house was too quiet. Too clean. Not a speck of dust, not a single thing out of place. It was as if no one had

been home at all, let alone a place that had hosted unspeakable violence just hours before.

"Mom, where's Daddy?" Riley, her daughter, asked, clutching her hand.

"I...I don't know," she admitted. Her voice wavered, unease growing in the pit of her stomach.

She put the children to bed, her mind racing. Where was Oliver? Why hadn't he left a message? The eerie calm of the house only deepened her anxiety.

As she wandered the living room, her gaze fell on a picture frame sitting on the table. It was empty. The photo that had been there-of her and Oliver on their wedding day-was gone.

She sank into a chair, crossing her hands over her heart. Closing her eyes, she whispered, "Wherever you

are...please be alright."

But she didn't know the truth.

Her husband hadn't disappeared. He had returned to the thing he once was.

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