The rise of the Antichrist

The Rise of the Antichrist

Part 1

The young man woke up at 3:11 AM.

Once again, the sound of hurried footsteps echoed through the darkness.

His eyes, fixed on the ceiling, caught vague movements—shifting shadows that danced just beyond sense.

This had become routine.

And yet, each night still crushed his chest with dread and left his body frozen stiff.

There were moments he felt these events would never end.

He didn’t get out of bed.

Instead, he turned his gaze to the window overlooking the yard.

Someone—or something—seemed to be toying with the iron chain near the gate, plucking it like a string.

It was now the sixth week.

Ever since his father had died, the strange phenomena had grown worse—especially in his father’s old room.

That room had become a nexus for the most terrifying incidents.

Blood-curdling screams—always at night—came from there.

As if the departed was being dragged back to atone for unspoken sins.

A cold, unpleasant draft seeped in through the window, carrying with it the scent of mold and decay.

Sometimes, in these nights, he swore he’d tear down every wall in the house by morning.

He was already twenty.

But even in childhood, he had never lived through nights as terrifying as these.

He didn’t move.

Just whispered a single plea in his heart:

"Dear God, what is this? Am I losing my mind?"

The thought of being mentally ill was disturbing—

Yet somehow, it felt more comforting than accepting these horrors as real.

A single pill from the psychiatrist might erase all of it, like bad dreams dissolving with dawn.

But still...

That icy wind—it reeked of something far worse.

As if blown from the mouth of a grave.

Suddenly, the wind stopped. Dead still.

Everything fell into a silence so deep it rang like deafness.

That silence was worse than the noises.

Xurshid—driven to the edge by weeks of unnatural events—now met silence with sheer panic.

Every possible explanation that came to mind seemed worse than the last.

The kindest one was:

“Maybe my eardrums have burst.”

But no—

That was just wishful thinking.

The silence was no relief.

It was the calm before something far greater.

From outside, the dying shadow of a withered tree, usually lit by the streetlamp, now cast itself fully across his bedroom wall.

It began to move.

That shadow—crooked, tall—

pressed against the white wall near his bed, as if it had come for him specifically.

He watched.

Frozen.

A shadow, shaped unmistakably like a head, was now clearly visible on the wall.

It’s just the tree, he thought.

Just a trick of the light. Just a coincidence of shape.

But the shadow…

was swaying.

Even though the wind had long stopped.

The movement wasn’t random.

It was deliberate.

Even quantum physics would find no excuse for this kind of contradiction.

Then—

the shape of the shadow turned.

It had been facing sideways, but now—

now it was staring at him face on.

And the hollow pits where its eyes should have been?

Empty.

Wide open.

Undeniable.

This—was no tree.

The head-shaped shadow now seemed to press its face flat against the wall—

As if trying to look at Xurshid through the very surface itself.

He struggled to breathe evenly, his chest heaving in panic, praying—desperately—that sleep would just take him.

Silence again.

The silhouette remained motionless, carved into the wall like a stain that refused to fade.

And slowly, absurdly, Xurshid began accepting it.

Perhaps… perhaps it was supposed to be there.

A part of the scenery.

A fixed shadow caught in the square beam of light slicing through the window.

Yes.

Maybe that’s all it was.

But just as his nerves were beginning to adjust—

Two hands.

Two massive hands suddenly slammed into view on either side of the window frame.

No warning. No sound beforehand.

Just violent arrival.

Xurshid screamed—pure, high, guttural—and launched himself from the room.

He didn’t bother with stairs.

From the second-floor corridor, he hurled himself over the rail, crashing down toward the ground floor with a jolt that nearly shattered his ankles.

But he kept his balance.

He ran.

Straight for the nearest light switches.

He needed light.

If there’s light, there’s no shadow.

But none of the switches worked.

Nothing responded.

Refrigerator—maybe.

It runs for 30 minutes on backup even when power’s gone.

He flung it open.

The dull yellow bulb inside flickered dimly.

Just enough to give him a breath of false hope.

Just enough to make him think:

Maybe I’ll hide inside the fridge.

Just as he took a step toward it—

CRASH.

The windows.

All the windows linking the house to the outside exploded with a deafening crack, glass raining in all directions.

The whole house shuddered.

Xurshid froze.

“Why?

What did I do?

What sin have I committed?”

He dropped to the floor in the hallway.

Curled into himself like a child.

He whispered prayers between every racing thought.

After each plea, he dared to glance at his surroundings.

Shadows.

Now there were many.

They were smaller than before—

But they were everywhere.

One in each corner.

Every sharp angle of the room now held a figure.

And the terrifying part?

They had started to move.

From his perspective, the shadows were tearing themselves off the walls—

Breaking free of the surface, like beasts crawling out of ink.

They were almost fully detached now.

Only their feet remained stuck.

Xurshid begged.

Over and over.

Whether his prayers were meant for God or the shadows… even he couldn’t tell anymore.

They growled—

Deep, bone-splitting growls as they strained to pull their legs free from the wall.

The sound stabbed into his ears like needles.

He pressed his palms over his head, but the roar only grew louder.

Only one more shadow remained partially stuck—

Just one foot still anchored.

Once it pulled free…

It would all be over.

Xurshid’s heart pounded for what felt like the last time.

He hoped it was.

He wished death would take him before the shadows did.

But no.

Instead, his heartbeat slowed—agonizingly slow.

Darkness began to close in at the edges of his vision.

Blood stopped reaching his brain.

His head drooped—powerless.

Pitch black.

1…

2…

3…

“Why so dark in here?!”

That voice—

sharp, annoyed, human.

Suddenly, one by one, the lights flicked on.

Warm.

Blinding.

Xurshid gasped—

as if cold water had been poured over him.

Still unable to lift his head fully, he barely turned his eyes toward the direction of the voice...

“Why are you crouched like that?”

The voice came from the doorway—

A tall, curly-haired boy around 18 stood there,

roughly 5'10",

wearing a loose denim jacket and jeans,

holding a large paper bag in one hand.

“Ah! I’m so sorry,” the boy added quickly,

“That was rude of me. I didn’t knock… and now I’m just asking questions.

The city felt uneasy tonight. I’m not from around here.

I guess your house looked… safe. I came in hoping to crash here for the night.

Well... without knocking. Sorry again.”

Still hunched on the floor, Xurshid squinted at this new… gift of the night.

Who was he?

Not a relative.

Not a neighbor.

But—

Why had everything changed the moment this stranger appeared?

The broken windows—gone.

The lights were on.

The shadows… where were those cursed shadows?

“Still thinking too much?”

The boy grinned, setting the paper bag gently on the floor.

Strangely, Xurshid felt no fear.

None.

Somewhere deep inside, he wanted to fear this person.

But couldn’t.

All he needed now was a reason—a logic—to understand why a complete stranger,

who somehow felt familiar,

had entered his home at this exact moment.

Whatever.

If things got bad again, he could always run.

“You... came to spend the night?” Xurshid stammered.

“Not to rob you,” the boy chuckled.

“Just to crash here for a while.

If you prefer, I can wait at the door.

But if you invite me in, maybe we can have some tea.

I’m starving.”

Xurshid was still on the floor,

but no longer curled or trembling.

Something…

something had entered the house with this boy.

It had eased the pressure in the room—

Not completely,

but enough.

He raised his head slowly.

His body still trembled, but now he breathed in rhythm.

His eyes regained a trace of alertness.

The stranger was already seated at the old wooden chair near the table,

legs crossed,

settled in like he’d grown up here.

As if this place was home.

Xurshid slowly got to his feet.

Every movement laced with suspicion,

but he fought to keep control.

He walked backwards, scanning the hallway:

The staircase.

The framed photos.

The flowerpot hanging from the ceiling.

All untouched.

And yet…

the energy in the house felt different now.

Like something dark had been chased out—

but not completely.

He passed through the corridor, toward his father’s old room.

The window was whole.

Even the torn patch of wallpaper on the ceiling was exactly as it had always been.

“What the hell was that?”

he wondered.

“Did I see it? Or just imagine it?”

He circled back through the rooms.

Eventually returned to the doorway.

And there he was.

The boy.

Still standing.

Arms crossed, eyes focused, waiting.

“I’m still here,” he said calmly.

“Want me to leave?”

“No!” Xurshid blurted, louder than he meant to.

“Good. Catch this.”

The boy tossed the paper bag toward him.

The heavy paper bag landed in Xurshid’s arms with a soft crinkle.

The handsome boy finally stepped fully into the house.

He walked calmly toward the round table in the center of the living room—surrounded by twelve chairs—and chose the one directly opposite the door.

He sat, as if he had every right to.

Xurshid, still half in shock, wandered toward the cozy open kitchen, casting quick glances around the room while still clutching the paper bag.

“I'm not exactly the quiet type,” the guest said casually.

Xurshid was starting to regain mental clarity.

For the first time since the chaos, he found himself able to speak.

“I… uh… I’ll… I’ll be right with you,” he stammered.

The boy slowly reached into the inside pocket of his denim jacket and pulled out a white handkerchief.

“Shouldn’t you wash your hands?” Xurshid asked.

“I’ve got a wet wipe. I always carry one. Can’t stand germs,” the boy replied nonchalantly.

“If only you’d told me your name earlier,” the boy added with a faint smirk, “it’d be easier to start a real conversation. So? What is it?”

Xurshid washed his hands and wiped them quickly, then turned his attention to the paper bag.

As he opened the top, a strong scent of vanilla rose up and hit his senses—sweet and strangely calming.

Inside, an assortment of treats: sugar-dusted pastries, layered cakes, even chocolate-covered ice cream bars.

“Has the city been tense lately?” the boy asked as Xurshid started placing the sweets onto a plate.

“People are swarming like ants, totally on edge. No greetings, no smiles. Everyone looks like they’re being hunted by something.”

Xurshid replied as he arranged the pastries, his voice more grounded now:

“Lately, every home feels disturbed.”

“Why?” the boy asked.

**“Mine too… it’s not been peaceful.”

“Tax agents giving you trouble?” the boy asked with a straight face.

Xurshid blinked, confused by the randomness of the question, then just muttered,

“No.”

He moved to prepare some coffee to go with the pastries.

As he placed the first cup under the espresso machine, his hands trembled.

The cup clattered and tipped over—

but didn’t break.

“Power outages common around here?” the boy asked casually.

Suddenly—

Thump.

A cloth-like sound from the other side of the room.

Xurshid instinctively turned toward the guest.

The boy held up his white handkerchief and remarked dryly:

“You’ve got a fly problem.”

Xurshid exhaled slowly.

“Lately, yeah. There weren’t any before you showed up.”

“Probably all these oversized apartment blocks they’re building nonstop,” the boy muttered,

“Overloaded the grid. Transformers can’t keep up.”

Xurshid finished preparing the second cup and carefully arranged the drinks on a tray.

He carried it toward the guest.

The house was calmer now—

not peaceful,

but relatively quiet.

He wasn’t entirely at ease.

But at least…

he wasn’t alone anymore.

There was warmth in the room.

In the boy’s presence.

His eyes—

a pale, steel gray.

Unnaturally large.

Calm.

Focused.

“My name’s Xurshid,” he said at last.

“Xurshid,” the boy repeated, nodding with a grin.

“Why so cold when I arrived? Are you a sociopath or something?”

The question, though laced with humor, struck surprisingly close to home.

But how could he explain what had happened in this house… before the boy arrived?

How could you explain madness to a stranger?

“Lately… I’ve been hit hard. Mentally, I mean.”

Xurshid took the first sip of his coffee, the warmth grounding him slightly.

“I know—maybe not the kind of thing you tell someone who just walked into your house.

But after what I’ve been through…

I need to let it out. Even to a stranger.”

“Something happened in your house?” the boy asked, casually picking at a corner of the paper bag.

“It’s haunted,” Xurshid muttered.

“Spirits, shadows, things I can’t explain…”

“Oh, come on,” the boy interrupted with a scoff.

His tone was firm, almost playful.

“You don’t believe in any of this?” Xurshid asked.

“I’m a realist,” the boy replied.

“I don’t jump to supernatural conclusions.

And by the way, where’s the water? Who drinks coffee without water?”

Startled, Xurshid stood up to fetch it, but before he could take a full step,

the boy gently grabbed his elbow.

“Wait. If you don’t mind, I’ll get it myself.

I’m curious about your kitchen anyway.”

His tone was smooth—his charm magnetic.

He smiled, those pale gray eyes catching the light just enough to feel unsettling.

He twirled his white handkerchief in his fingers as he walked toward the kitchen.

Xurshid, still frozen in place, could feel the exact point on his arm where the boy had touched him.

It was cool—

not unpleasant, but noticeable.

Like the chill left behind by someone with pale, gold-tinged skin.

Like him.

“Maybe you’ve just been binging too many horror movies,” the boy called out over his shoulder,

“Too much of that stuff can mess with your brain.

Before you know it, you're waking up gasping in the dark,

dragging yourself through the day in a fog.

Red eyes and all—that part definitely checks out, by the way.”

He laughed softly as he filled two glasses with water.

The sound of liquid hitting glass,

the rustle of cloth…

normal sounds—almost.

But Xurshid was watching him.

Watching everything.

And beneath that surface of calm,

he noticed things.

Faint shadows—

not strong,

but still there.

Spread thin across the room, shifting like oil on water.

They were crawling.

Subtle.

But moving.

Following the boy into the kitchen.

Slipping after him like smoke.

Could he see them?

Could he feel them?

The boy didn’t seem disturbed.

He moved easily, unbothered, like this was his house.

And then—

Thump.

The soft, familiar thud of fabric hitting floorboards.

From the kitchen.

Xurshid’s eyes snapped toward the sound.

The boy returned from the far end of the half-open kitchen, holding a glass of water.

The white handkerchief still dangled from his shirt sleeve.

“Always drink water with your coffee,” he said cheerfully, placing the glass down.

Then, noticing the antique grandfather clock near the corner, he added:

“Oh, does that clock chime on the hour?”

“No,” Xurshid replied curtly.

He’d turned it off himself—

the sound of that clock at night, especially after everything else,

was just too much.

Another small horror he didn’t need.

But the boy didn’t step away from the clock.

He lingered there.

Moved slowly around it.

Watching.

Earlier—Xurshid remembered clearly—

a cluster of shadows had hovered around that very spot.

Now the boy was there too.

And he seemed to be gravitating toward every place those things had been.

Even if he was pretending otherwise,

Xurshid was sure of one thing:

the boy knew.

He knew something.

And that handkerchief—

he kept fidgeting with it, almost like… it did something.

“What exactly are you doing?” Xurshid asked coldly.

The boy turned around slowly,

his hands slipping behind his back.

The charm didn’t fade.

He smiled, almost innocently.

“Your clock’s really old-fashioned,” he said lightly,

but Xurshid wasn’t buying the act anymore.

He had seen it—

just for a second—

that dark smoke-like shadow coiled in the boy’s hand,

as if he had grabbed it,

was holding it.

Xurshid took a slow step forward.

“You showing up at night… that’s odd enough.

You look like a teenager, but your skin’s flawless—not a single blemish.

You move like you’ve been here before.

And you pretend not to see the shadows crawling through this house…”

He kept walking, his voice rising with each step.

“Who are you?”

His voice was sharp now.

Demanding.

The boy only smiled wider.

And the more he smiled,

the more those pale gray eyes shimmered—

like precious stones catching firelight.

They glowed.

“You don’t scare me,” Xurshid continued.

“But I do have doubts.

You said you were hungry—yet you haven’t even touched what you brought.

Not a single bite.

So tell me—

now.”

The boy stood tall, tilting his head slightly.

Then—

he said it.

“Shall I tell you?”

“Right now!” Xurshid snapped.

The boy’s grin softened, his eyes glowing ever so slightly brighter.

“I am your guardian angel, Xurshid.

I came here to protect you—

openly, this time.”

*************************************