Chapter XXI: The Hollow Choir
The night pressed against London with the weight of wet stone. The city breathed in sighs of fog and rainfall, its streets shining black under amber lamps. Nathaniel Cross sat at his desk, staring at the closed notebook like it was an executioner waiting for his consent.
He hadn't written in it since last night. He hadn't dared.
But the words still appeared.
When he returned home earlier, exhausted and drenched from the storm, the notebook had already opened itself on his desk. Pages curled as if someone had flipped through them with deliberate hands. Symbols crawled across the margins—spirals and crooked lattices of ink that stretched like veins. He had shut it, shoved it under textbooks, and turned away.
But even now, sitting in silence, he heard it whisper.
A dry scrape, like paper against paper. The sound of writing without a writer.
He closed his eyes, but that only worsened things. Behind his eyelids, the quad replayed—the faceless figure, the frozen world, hundreds of eyes turning toward him in absolute unison. The knock reverberated again in his skull, two sharp pulses that rattled the bone.
He opened his eyes and realized his hand was clutching the wrench again.
The flat seemed smaller tonight. The windows fogged, the radiator clicking like arthritic bones, the clock hands jerking too slow. Even the shadows felt swollen, stretched across the walls like ink stains spreading in water.
He stood abruptly. The silence in his own flat was suffocating him. He grabbed his coat, pocketed his phone, and shoved the notebook into his satchel despite himself.
If he stayed, he'd suffocate.
The streets hissed with tires over wet asphalt, umbrellas bobbing like dark mushrooms. Nathaniel walked fast, his reflection broken across every puddle. The scar burned faintly under his shirt, an ember refusing to cool.
He told himself he was only walking to clear his head, but every step carried the sense of being herded—like invisible hands were guiding him somewhere.
Through alleys slick with rain. Past pubs glowing with muffled laughter he couldn't enter. Toward the river, where the Thames moved like an oil spill under the bridges.
That was when he noticed the sound.
Not footsteps. Not whispers.
Humming.
A low, tuneless hum that seemed to seep from the walls of the buildings themselves.
Nathaniel stopped under a lamp. The light flickered once, twice. The humming stopped.
Then—
Knock. Knock.
From inside the lamp post itself.
Nathaniel stumbled back, nearly slipping on the pavement. His chest seized as though the scar was trying to claw free of his body. The humming started again, louder this time, rolling through the streets.
It wasn't coming from one place. It was everywhere.
Every lamp, every door, every window.
Nathaniel broke into a run. His shoes splashed through puddles, heart punching against his ribs. The humming followed, layering over itself until it became something else entirely—voices. Hundreds of voices, rising in a dissonant chant.
No words. Just a hollow vibration that felt too large for the human throat.
He turned down a side street, chest heaving, and froze.
The entire street was lined with figures.
Not people. Not fully.
They stood shoulder to shoulder, lining both pavements. Tall and thin, their faces blurred, their bodies outlined by a faint static glow. Like echoes of humans copied badly onto the world. Their heads tilted as he entered the street.
The humming grew louder.
Nathaniel gripped the wrench so hard it cut into his palm. "Stay back," he croaked, though his voice was drowned in their chorus.
One of the figures stepped forward. The humming stopped. The silence that followed was heavier than the sound.
Then, in a voice that was not one but many, it spoke:
"You are the bridge."
Nathaniel staggered. "What do you want from me?"
The figure tilted its head, movements jerky like a marionette with tangled strings. "Want? We do not want. We return."
"Return... from where?"
The voices layered again, but the words bent into shapes that his ears couldn't follow. A static surge filled the air, making the streetlamps buzz and die. Darkness swallowed the street, leaving only their faint, glowing outlines.
Then—two sharp knocks echoed through every skull in unison.
Knock. Knock.
Nathaniel dropped to his knees, hands pressed against his head. The scar ignited, a river of molten metal across his chest. The notebook in his satchel twitched, pages fluttering of their own accord.
And then the voice of the choir changed.
Lower. Sharper. Singular.
It came not from the figures but from the scar itself.
"They will take your flesh," it hissed inside him. "Unless you speak."
Nathaniel gasped, clutching his chest. "Speak what?"
Silence.
The figures stood motionless, their glow flickering like candle flames in wind.
Then his satchel burst open. The notebook flew out, pages ripping as it hovered in the air before him. Ink bled across the paper, words forming in jagged black script:
"OPEN THE DOOR."
Nathaniel shook his head violently. "No. I've seen what's behind it."
The notebook trembled, letters rearranging into new words:
"YOU ARE ALREADY OPEN."
The scar pulsed in agreement. He screamed, a raw animal sound, but the figures didn't flinch. Their hollow faces leaned closer, as if waiting.
The choir returned, louder than ever:
Knock. Knock.
The world tilted. The rain stopped midair. Time bent again, freezing the city around him. Cars on the bridge halted. Drops of water hung like jewels. Only the figures moved.
They surrounded him.
Nathaniel thrashed, swinging the wrench wildly, but it passed through them like mist. Their static outlines rippled with each swing, reforming instantly.
One leaned close, its voice brushing against his ear:
"You are not running. You are rehearsing."
The words detonated inside his skull. His vision cracked.
He was falling.
Not through space, but through sound. The knocks echoed endlessly, layering into thunder, into drums, into the beating of his own heart.
When he opened his eyes, he was no longer on the street.
He stood in a hall of mirrors.
Endless reflections stretched in every direction, each one showing him—but not him. In one, his eyes were solid silver. In another, his skin flaked like ash. In another, he was faceless, humming with the choir.
Every reflection mouthed the same words:
"Next, they open."
Nathaniel stumbled back, but there was no floor—only water. He plunged into it, sinking fast. The reflections above him blurred, their faces watching from the surface as he fell deeper into black.
And from below, something waited.
It rose from the dark like a cathedral breaking the ocean's surface. Vast. Shapeless. Its body was made of every voice he had ever heard, woven into a single moving mass. The air shook with its presence, though he was underwater.
Nathaniel's chest convulsed—he should have drowned. But the scar burned hotter, filling his lungs with something other than air.
The entity spoke without words. Its meaning tore through his mind, leaving him trembling.
"YOU CARRY THE DOOR."
Nathaniel's voice cracked. "Then take it! Take it from me!"
The entity pulsed, soundwaves crushing against his bones. "IT IS NOT CARRIED. IT IS YOU."
Nathaniel screamed, the sound lost in the endless water. His arms flailed, but his body was dragged deeper, closer to its vast shape. Tendrils of static reached for him, wrapping around his wrists, his throat, his chest. The scar flared in response, fighting but failing.
"You are wrong," Nathaniel rasped. "I am not—whatever you think I am. I'm—"
The entity's choir swallowed him.
He jolted awake on his couch, gasping for air, drenched in sweat. The wrench was still in his hand.
His satchel lay on the floor. The notebook was open.
Three words glared back at him in his own handwriting.
WE OPEN SOON.
The scar pulsed like a countdown clock.
Nathaniel sat frozen, heart stuttering, his flat dark and silent around him.
But he knew the silence wouldn't last.
The knocking would come.
And next time—it wouldn't wait outside.