Chapter 15: The Secrets of the Book

Wilson sat by the dim embers of the fire, the charred book resting on his lap. He stared at it, the blackened cover seeming to pulse faintly, like a heartbeat. The thought of Damsel's words lingered in his mind-was the book controlling him? Was he becoming like the house?

But then he remembered his father.

His father had vanished when Wilson was just a child. No explanation, no trace-just gone. For years, Wilson had grown up hearing whispers of his father being involved in something dark, something that no one dared to discuss openly. The disappearance had haunted him, fueled his nightmares, and left a void in his life that nothing could fill.

Now, sitting in the silence, Wilson couldn't shake the feeling that this book, this cursed house, was connected to his father.

He opened the book carefully, the pages feeling unnaturally warm beneath his fingertips. Symbols danced across the pages, shifting and rearranging themselves into patterns that hurt his eye to look at.

"Show me," Wilson whispered, his voice barely audible. "Show me what this is about."

The symbols glowed faintly, and a sudden gust of wind extinguished the remaining embers of the fire. The forest plunged into darkness, and for a moment, Wilson thought he was alone.

Then the whispers began.

At first, they were faint, like the rustling of leaves in the wind. But soon, they grew louder, more distinct.

"Wilson..."

His breath caught in his throat.

"Wilson, my boy..."

It was his father's voice.

---

A Forgotten Truth

The darkness around him shifted, and suddenly, Wilson was no longer in the forest. He was standing in a dimly lit room, the walls lined with old bookshelves. The air was thick with the scent of dust and decay.

In the center of the room stood a tall figure, his back turned to Wilson. He was wearing a long coat, and his posture was stiff, almost unnatural.

"Dad?" Wilson called out, his voice trembling.

The figure turned slowly, revealing a face that was both familiar and strange. It was his father-but his eyes were hollow, his skin pale and waxy.

"Wilson," his father said, his voice a low, echoing whisper. "You shouldn't have come here."

Wilson took a step forward, his heart pounding. "Dad, what's going on? Where have you been? Are you-are you alive?"

His father's expression twisted into something between sorrow and anger. "Alive? No. Not in the way you understand. The house took me, Wilson. It took everything."

"The house?" Wilson repeated, confusion and fear mixing in his mind. "But it's gone. We destroyed it."

His father shook his head. "You destroyed its shell, but its essence remains. It's in that book, binding everything together. Binding me."

Wilson looked down at the book in his hands, horror dawning on him. "You're... you're trapped in this?"

"Yes," his father said, his voice barely above a whisper. "And so are countless others. The house feeds on us, uses our memories, our faces, to lure new victims. It's a cycle, Wilson-a cycle you're now a part of."

"No," Wilson said, shaking his head. "There has to be a way to free you. To end this."

His father stepped closer, his hollow eyes locking onto Wilson's. "There is a way. But it will cost you more than you're willing to give."

"What do I have to do?" Wilson asked, desperation creeping into his voice.

"Destroy the book," his father said. "Completely. Burn it, bury the ashes, make sure it can never be used again."

Wilson hesitated, his grip on the book tightening. "But... what about you? If I destroy it, won't that destroy you too?"

His father's expression softened. "Yes. But it's the only way to break the cycle. The house's power will fade, and no one else will have to suffer."

Wilson's mind raced. Could he do it? Could he destroy the only link he had to his father, even if it meant saving countless others?

Before he could answer, the room began to shake. The walls cracked, and a low, guttural growl filled the air.

"It knows we're talking," his father said urgently. "It won't let you go without a fight."

"What do I do?" Wilson asked, panic rising in his chest.

"Run," his father said, his voice firm. "Run and don't look back."

---

The Keeper Returns

Wilson's surroundings dissolved, and he was back in the forest. But something was wrong. The ground beneath him felt alive, pulsing like a heartbeat, and the air was thick with the scent of rot.

A low growl echoed through the trees, and Wilson turned to see a hulking, shadowy figure emerging from the darkness. It was the Keeper, its massive form twisting and writhing as it moved.

Wilson clutched the book to his chest and ran, his heart pounding in his ears. The Keeper's growls grew louder, closer, as if it was right on his heels.

"Wilson..." the whispers came again, this time louder, angrier. "You can't escape."

He tripped over a root and fell hard, the book slipping from his grasp. The Keeper loomed over him, its glowing red eyes burning into his soul.

Wilson scrambled to his feet, grabbing the book and clutching it tightly. "You're not taking me!" he shouted, his voice shaking.

The Keeper lunged, its massive claws swiping at him. Wilson dodged, barely avoiding the attack. He knew he couldn't fight it-not like this.

But as he ran, an idea began to form in his mind. The book was the key. If he could figure out how to use it, maybe-just maybe-he could turn the Keeper's power against itself.