Chapter 3: The Echo Chamber
Clara didn't hesitate. She swung the butt of the rifle, striking Arthur squarely across the jaw. He collapsed to the floor, unconscious.
Desperate to survive, she grabbed a jar of kerosene, splashed it over the crawling black carpet of threads, and threw the lantern down. Flames erupted instantly, creating a wall of fire between her and the open doorway.
She dragged Arthur’s limp body through the back window, tumbling out into the "snow."
Except it wasn't snow. The ground was covered in a thick, ash-like red powder that muffled every sound. The sky above was pitch black, stripped of stars, dominated by a massive, silent void.
Clara dragged Arthur into the emergency storm shelter beneath the cabin, slamming the heavy iron hatch shut and locking it from the inside.
Safe. She collapsed against the door, gasping for air in the dim light of the shelter’s battery-operated emergency lamp. Arthur lay breathing shallowly on the cot. The fire above them roared faintly, consuming the cabin and, hopefully, the creatures.
Hours passed. The silence of the world outside was absolute.
Clara sat by Arthur’s side, watching his chest rise and fall. The horror was over. They had survived. She reached out, gently wiping the dried black fluid from his cheek.
Then, Arthur’s eyes fluttered open. They were normal. The hazel was back. The pupils were fine. He looked at Clara and burst into tears, gripping her hand.
"Clara... oh my god, Clara, I'm so sorry," he wept. "I was trapped in my own body. I couldn't control it. Is it gone? Is it finally out of my head?"
Clara felt a massive wave of relief wash over her. She hugged him tight, crying into his shoulder. "It's gone, Arthur. I got it out. We're safe."
As she held him, the silence in the bunker felt comforting.
Until she noticed something.
Clara stopped breathing. Her embrace went rigid.
She wasn't hearing the sound of Arthur's heartbeat against her chest. She wasn't hearing the low hum of the battery lamp. She wasn't even hearing her own breath.
Slowly, Clara raised her hand to her own right ear. Her fingers came away wet.
Black. Oily.
And then, inside her own mind, a voice spoke—not from the room, but from deep within her brain stem. It was Arthur’s voice, but it wasn't coming from the man she was holding.
> "You got the small one out, Clara," the voice inside her head whispered with a wet, sickening chuckle. "But you forgot to check who was holding the tweezers."
May you like
Clara looked down at the "Arthur" she was hugging. His face began to dissolve into a mass of writhing black threads.
She tried to scream. But she had already forgotten how to make a sound.
