Chapter 4: Spiraling (The Evil Within fanfiction)

   The wind bellows in a crisp torrent of winter air. The gale curls around the limbs that peek from underneath the blanket, the frigid cold snapping at your skin. Its persistence eventually persuades you to stir from your slumber. You lift yourself from the bed and amble to the window, the grogginess of sleep still heavy in your steps. Outside, the moon dips the wooded landscape in its silver rays as a very light downfall of flurries is descending upon the earth-- softly floating like feathers. You close and latch the window with a click.
   Somewhere in the mansion you hear a noise. Something unlike the creaks and groans of the mansion pushing against the wind. It's someone else.
   The past few weeks, Ruvik and Jimenez's whereabouts have remained largely unknown and vague. When you did happen upon them it was in passing and they were always moving briskly towards their destination; the basement. You only shared an exchange of words when necessary. Evidently, conversation wasn't nearly as important to them as whatever they were up to. With the passing of time, the opportunity of an assistant position began to feel like a lost cause, as no mention of it has been uttered at all. However, the curious aura of mystery continued to swirl through your reverie and every day it grew heavier and darker; looming over you, morphing into some kind of monster that stalked you with daily preoccupation. Deep down, intuition whispers blatant truth; you want to know and, sooner or later, you will.
   You peek out of your doorway and curve your head around the frame. You flinch when the floorboards emit a groan beneath your foot--anxious as a newborn fawn. The atmosphere is hushed and expressionless. To your right, the corridor is a block of blackness, so dense that it appears as a solid mass. To your left, however, a splash of amber light skips and twitches from behind a door that sits ajar. You've hardly seen anyone in a week and, perhaps it's out of curiosity or sheer longing for human interaction, whatever it may be, it seduces you. The shudder and spasm of the faltering light source beckons you; an unseen hand waving for you to come closer.
    Abandoning the sanctity of your room, your steps are soft and cautious as you slip down the corridor. You absent-mindedly graze the walls with your fingers, as if gesturing for them to hold your hand for comfort as you venture further. Inside, a rational voice is pleading for you to retreat to your room, to avoid this at all costs--'curiosity killed the cat.' But the voice is weak in contrast to the one guiding you forward.
   As you tiptoe you barely create audible pit-pats on the wood floors. Your heart thuds loudly, so much so that the interest of the sound momentarily distracts you from your anxiety. You lean forward a couple inches and tilt your head, listening attentively to see if the room is occupied. You wouldn't want to disturb anyone..What kind of explanation would you give?
   You can only hear the insectile buzzing of a dying lamp. You carefully coax the door open enough for you to creep through.
   Beyond the door lies what appears to be a standard bedroom; A sizable bed, a dark armoir, a bookcase-- it seems that whoever furnished the house believed a room would not be complete without one-- and a desk, on top of which lies a small cluster of papers branded with Ruvik's familiar scrawl. Maybe that will shed some light. What has he been up to? It's not often you see Ruvik, and you wonder what he does in the basement, how he lives; does he sleep down there, too? You imagine him in the deep layers of the manor, eventually slumping over in a chair, succumbing to sleep deprivation after a long night--or several-- of brooding over research.
   Your eyes fix on the papers. Should you? Of course not. Yet somehow, that little inner voice begs you to continue, shoving out the care of all possible consequences. In one last moment of rational clarity, you glance behind you towards the door and lunge for it with the near enthusiasm of a child, closing it with as much silence as you can gather. You are inebriated with curiosity now; there is no turning back.
   Soon, the papers are held between shaking fingers.

  "I saw her there again, standing at the end of the hallway. Long black hair, beautiful as ever, streaked with moonlight, eyes dark pools in her porcelain face. She wore her favorite red dress, like a crimson sunset. Like a streak of blood in the waning light. Laura--"

   The click of a doorknob launches you into panic and you find yourself diving, your hands falling onto the hardwood floor. You scuttle under the surface of the desk, dust staining your skin along the way, and attempt to cover yourself with shadows. Pressing as far back into the wall as possible you fold your body tightly, bringing your knees up to your chin and dropping your head, attempting to stifle your wild breathing just as the creaking of the door informs you that Ruvik has entered. You cancel your breath.
   Did he see me? How are you going to explain yourself?
   You hear the slow thuds of pacing steadily creeping closer. The footsteps are ominous news; indicating the possibility that you'd have nowhere to go after pulling such a distrusting stunt. Perhaps worse. You aren't sure. Each step catapults your anxiety to new heights. Somewhere in the back of your mind, it reminds you of a morbid game of hide-and-seek.
   Half of his body strides into view, upper torso obstructed by the desk, his arm relaxed at his side. You take a deep gasp of air and seal it. He lingers. His form repeatedly shifts into reality and wanes back into darkness in between the flickers of the dying lamp. You hope he's paused with thought, or maybe he's scowling at you. You can't see his face. You can't tell.
   Your mind is shrieking, pleading for him to leave so you can retreat to your room, and vow to never let curiosity get the best of you again. Then you see it on the floor beside you; the white, slightly crinkled sheet scrawled with familiar writing. The paper has followed you under the desk.