I stowed away the parchment because I didn’t find them interesting.

However groundbreaking the theory they represented, in the end, it was just that, a theory, not a fact. Theories are like grains of sands, countless. Only facts matter. The fact was that the invasion theory was unverified and not accepted by the association.

It was only a year later that I found them again, scattered throughout my room. A storm had blown open my room window and rampaged inside. It was then while gathering them that I found a list of books that the unnamed author deemed crucial to find the proof.

The list varied from topic to topic, from botany to geography, and dabbled into even culture and linguistics. A few of the books even had specific chapters marked on them, which the author had probably read and considered important, while the others were in name only.

I looked for the books in the academy library. I believed I wouldn’t find them, and was proven wrong. They were readily available in the library, even popular among the more serious senior students though they contained old information.

However, I soon realized something amiss when I didn’t find the chapters listed by the author in any of the books. The association didn’t destroy the published books, but they did castrate them, cut the meat, and left a hole in place of the pages where the nameless author had found treasure.

That was how I knew there was a truth to be found in the notes, and I was the only one who could figure it out. I could not help but dive into the deep waters of the academy because there is not a single scholar worth their weight who isn’t enticed by the meaty sent of hidden secrets and lost truths.

—The Witch

Mannat bought a long piece of bread and a canister of milk on the way and jogged back home.

The empty drone of his mother's laughter and shadows created by her memories now occupied the place once filled with the love of his family.

There was no liveliness.

There was no laughter.

If there was anything, it was weeds and dirt.

The house looked abandoned and would have looked worse if Mannat hadn’t taken it upon himself to clean it once in a while. Yet, the dirt from the road and the garden had accumulated on the porch, especially in front of the door where the wood had sunk and left a dent. That’s where his father would stand for hours after coming back home from the pub as if scared of meeting the dark emptiness inside.

At least he used to until the two had a huge fight.

No one won.

Mannat simply stop asking Raesh about his evenings afterward, and Raesh perhaps out of love for his son or compassion for his work, stopped embarrassing himself in front of the village; he tried at least.

Making his mind to pull the weed later, like every other day, Mannat knocked on the door. There was no answer as usual so he unlocked it and went inside. A simple spring mechanism shut the door behind him, whilst a crude and bulky orchestra of gears and pistons sprung in action to lock the door, ending with the heavy clang of a metallic bolt sliding into its slot, shutting the door close.

It was a lock system that Mannat had envisioned and his father had created after Mannat found the door open and his father sleeping on the floor a few too many times in the mornings.

He was not lying there this morning. There weren’t any mud prints on the floor either, which was a relief in itself as it meant less work for him.

Mannat dropped the food on the table in exchange for the key to the smithy, though left the half-empty and looked into the kitchen. There was no one there so he went to his father’s bedroom where he finally found Raesh sound asleep. His snores were reverberating in the room, making it seem like the house was breathing.

The curtains were drawn, but the rays of sunlight peeking from the blind spots were enough to show Mannat the room’s condition. Raesh looked like he had fought a demon before going to bed. His clothes were all over the place, and he hadn’t bothered to take off his shoes either. A faint stench of cheap liquor lingered in the room, while a rat sat on the bedpost, staring at him, holding a piece of something old and greasy black in its mouth. Perhaps, it was trying to act invisible. Well, it disappeared into the shadows as soon as Mannat made a move toward it. It was the twelfth time they had come face to face and Mannat had failed to capture it.

Mannat cleared the blinds and opened the windows to let fresh morning air breathe into the room.

Raesh groaned and moaned as light pushed the darkness and shadows to the corners and disturbed his sleep. His hand searched for the quilt, which was tangled around his legs and a bother to untangle. So he simply buried his face into the bed to hide from the light.

“Did you drink again last night?”

Raesh’s eyes opened wide at the question, at his son’s not so emphatic voice actually.

“When did you come back?” Raesh sat up on the bed and looked around, didn’t find what he was looking for and sighed in relief.

“The bottle is on the table in the lobby,” Mannat said, turning Raesh’s relief into despair. He didn’t let Mannat see the change of his expression and pounced at Mannat with a smile.

“My dear son! Am I getting older or have you gotten taller recently?”

Mannat dodged him by sidestepping. “Freshen up.” He replied coldly, like a sergeant ordering his cadet. “There is bread and milk on the table. Come to the smithy when you are ready. I’m leaving.”

Raesh smile fainted as soon as Mannat left the room. Sadness and longing replaced it. Slowly he folded back to the side of the bed as the front door unopened and closed. The room grew silent again.

He felt exhausted as the bed creaked behind his back. His heart rate shot through the roof as two grey and withered arms slithered under his armpits and tried to hug his chest. They brought a disgusting stench of burnt flesh and rot along. The limbs were freezing cold and shot goosebumps all over Raesh’s body.

Raesh got up before the hands could hold him. Panic growing in his eyes, he made for the door.

The room growled behind him as he ran away from it. He could almost hear someone calling from inside the room --between the growling and the screaming-- but he also knew it was all in his head.

The figure looked like little butcher after his death, but it had a head full of disheveled red hair and Noor’s small face. He saw her again on the dinner table, silently staring at him with her black eyes, sitting on the chair and cuddling her legs for protection. Her eyes followed him as he took a seat and watched him tear the bread into pieces and make a meal of it.

He was not being haunted. He was just sick and the medicine… he saw the medicine bottle on the table and took a big swig of it. The clear liquid rolled out of the murky glass bottle and slid down his throat. It burned his stomach and stopped all the noises. The dark, smirking figure still haunted his sight so he took another swig of the hot burning liquid and everything quieted down around him. The house stopped growling, the figure disappeared, and his mind went to rest. Finally, he was alone again, just like how he wanted it.