The Forgotten

The graveyard was an unsettling hush, broken only by a howling wind around crooked tombstones—a sound reminiscent of lost souls. The half-hidden moon cast a ghastly glow on worn markers, igniting in Jonas a fierce struggle between a deep respect for history and a paralyzing fear of the dark. The rain-soaked earth exhaled a nauseating blend of decay and wiggling earthworms, drawing him ever closer to the abyss.

Desperation drove him to the town’s forsaken mausoleum—a hideaway he once mocked. His heart pounded with terror as he forced himself to see nothing more than cold stone and brittle dust. Crossing the threshold, an unseen pressure gripped him, as though gnarled hands wrestled with his lungs, fusing determination with overwhelming dread. The air was thick with a sickly rot and whispered secrets.

Trembling, he leaned against the frigid stone of the crypt, his tattered coat barely shielding him from the inner turmoil. In the dim, flickering light, he felt the presence of unseen eyes that mocked his logic. Though the iron doors remained unyielding, a sinister murmur beckoned him forward into oblivion.

Then came a slow, wet blink that shattered the calm. Paralyzed, Jonas wondered if his frayed mind was playing tricks or if an unspeakable horror lurked near. A scraping sound followed, as if unseen claws were moving ancient bones, then a brittle whisper sliced through the silence, stoking a storm of terror.

He shut his eyes, pleading for sleep, but a dry pressure grazed his cheek—as if decaying skin had brushed him—igniting pure panic. His body became a battleground, torn between the urge to scream and the crushing weight of dread, his senses spiraling into a nightmarish maelstrom.

A guttural, primordial voice broke the stifling quiet:

“You should not have come here.”

The words clawed at his soul, unleashing bitter anger, searing regret, and paralyzing terror. His cry was swallowed by a chorus of whispers—each one a heavy flutter, like the wings of a thousand moths against his mind. With every pulse, the pressure forced his eyes wide open, compelling him to confront a living nightmare.

The mausoleum shuddered, its walls trembling with the quaking of his tortured soul. As the iron doors stood mute, a sinister film began to peel from the walls like rotting flesh—a gruesome reminder of mortality that held him between repulsion and twisted curiosity. Each rhythmic pulse warned and beckoned him in one cursed breath.

Desperate, Jonas clawed at his face, seeking reality amid the crushing sensation of unseen eyes pinning him down. His scream died as the relentless force dragged him deeper into a frigid darkness—a waking nightmare where his inner torment merged with the dead’s condemning stare.

By dawn, Jonas had vanished, leaving only his battered coat draped over a disturbed grave marker—both an eerie invitation and a dire warning. Beneath that surface, shrouded in decay, his haunting eyes remained open, trapped forever in the terror and reluctant awe that marked his final, excruciating hours.