In preface: This is the intro to the larger piece I'm working on, tentatively titled Subjects of the Level. Because it's a horror/thriller type it's supposed to be mildly upsetting, so I'll throw a big trigger warning on it.

TRIGGER WARNING. HOPEFULLY SCARY CONTENT. HANDLE WITH CARE.

There! Please leave a review in the comments so I can improve my work! Thanks!


***

And the light fades.
Shadows have fallen across your face, but it takes a moment before your body catches up. Now you can feel the shivers clawing across your skin and cutting into your consciousness. The wind is stalking you; it flits across the back of your neck like an uninvited hand. It kisses your exposed cheek with frigid lips and starts down the back of your shirt, reaching. You’re helpless to stop it, not even truly aware of what it’s doing. No, reality for you is closer to the place where your other cheek presses against the desk, or the warm spots your palms leave on the wood. The idea of hands seems alien to you right now, but still you seem to sense fingers stretching as if they mean to stop the wind from groping around your front. They accomplish nothing. You realize there’s a sharp pain in your back as it’s made more obvious by cool gooseflesh cropping up around it; a stiff hump from lying like this for too long. How long have you been there, fixed with those dead, taxidermy-looking eyes?
Slowly a low, gravelly snarl reaches your ears with the scrape of claws on the cold floor, setting alarms off throughout your being. The dog; a massive, scared beast; rumbles at something he must’ve dreamed up, but his snout’s directed at you as if you’re the threat. You’re the monster. Behind closed lids his eyes dart back and forth; his sleep is as restless as yours. You are sleeping, aren’t you? Or are you? I don’t know; how could I possibly know what’s happening in your mind?
As your body relaxes the shadows seem to deepen, thickening until it muffles everything else. The wind seems to sidle up next to you, leaving you cold and chapped. The dog whimpers before quieting down, and the world again fades to nothing you could take interest in.
“Are you listening?”
Your fingers twitch like they’ve been given a jolt, but otherwise you’re still. You stare with unfocused, bloodshot eyes, and your mouth open just a touch. The only other sign of it: every single strand of hair on your body stands on end a split moment before it arrives.
“Are you listening?” the empty air above you asks again. But it’s not just empty air, is it? No, it’s the feeling of snakes writhing in the pit of your stomach, it’s the way your throat moves to prepare a scream and the way your chest constricts so you can’t. It’s not a voice and it doesn’t use words; it’s something reaching inside your head and tapping Morse on your brainstem, speaking directly into your very soul.
You’re heart races; you should be wide awake, and yet you barely notice as the newspaper on your desk rustles and flips a couple of pages. The article comes to the top and a sweat starts on your brow. “You know that’s what I am,” it whispers. “...there...”
You don’t want to look; you’ve examined their faces a thousand times already now, but you have to. It’s as if a hand directs you where to look along the edge of the page to find the right little box.
Damious Young
November 8, 2431 – June 2, 2450
“Damious was an exceptional friend to me and everyone he knew,” the thing reads in your ear. “I told him directly once that his only flaw was an immense, sometimes violent concern for his loved ones, but I regret it; it was no flaw. That’s what he said about me,” the sensation explains. “So they wrote it there... honour us... But they cut out the best parts, don’t you think? Especially the way he cried. God, I love the guy...” The room seems to explode as if the walls themselves are screaming. You flinch, you’re eyes rolling and whipping around, still dead to what’s around you, reacting to something that may or may not be real. You want to struggle as around you a thousand voices cry out in agony, setting fire to your brain. “If there was anything I could do,” the presence intones, “anything that would just let me be Damious Young again, even for a day, I’d do it.”
Sharp footsteps seem to pace across the room and back as the voices fade away one by one, all silenced. “I saw you there,” he whispers. “At the funeral, when they put me under that sick tree with the dead branches. I was standing right behind you. I still am. You know that blur you see in the corner of your eye sometimes? That’s where I am. We’re always behind you... I’m leaning on the back of your chair right now.” It’s as if hot breath is wheezing in your ear. The mouth it comes from has to be only an inch above you. “You can feel me, right? You know the way your hair stands on end? That’s because I’m right- here- Doc. I’m breathing on your neck.” Ever so slowly he backs away. “I could shove you. The next time you’re standing at the top of those stairs I should. But right now you’re my little dog. I will drag you to the deepest, darkest hole I can find if it’s what it takes!”
You see nothing, feel nothing, think nothing. Everything is meaningless. You can’t move; it’s as if you muscles have all rotted away. You can’t wake or fall deeper into sleep. You are sleeping, right? You must be sleeping! Mustn’t you? I’ll never tell; it’s all for you to decide. A cold sweat starts dripping down your back. You’re afraid, aren’t you? It’s the irrational, crushing fear that paralyzes you to the spot; the feeling of being hunted.
“I- curse- you-” the voice spits with menace. “We curse you! We curse your very soul until you hear exactly what you did to us; I will whisper in your ear day and night, until you know it all. You will know the pain you brought down on us! We were the subjects of your Project. My name was Damious Young, Doctor. You killed me.”