Wither And Rot

by Ace_Scal

Summary:

Tommy's family recently moved to a new country. Something about a fresh start and all that.

Since he's constantly being ignored, or worse spoken too, he spends most of his time in the neighbouring forests. Playing with forces he doesn't quite understand.

Luckily three gods will be able to show him the ways.

Chapter 1: Not Home

The car door creaked open with a groan that sounded too alive. Tommy stepped out last, his boots crunching on gravel, the cold Norwegian air biting at his skin through his hoodie. The house in front of them loomed, quiet, grey, and half-drowned in fog. Too perfect. Too still.

Behind him, his adoptive brother Tubbo laughed at something his other adoptive brother Ranboo said. They were always laughing, loud, too loud, like nothing had ever touched them. Like their bones didn’t remember bruises.

His oldest brother, Dream, slammed the trunk with a bit too much force. Tommy flinched. It was automatic now.

"Grab your shit, Tom," Dream muttered, not looking at him.

Tommy didn’t answer. He just hoisted the battered duffel onto his shoulder, eyes locked on the house. This was supposed to be a fresh start. New country, new school, new walls to be locked behind.

He adjusted his grip on the bag and walked up the steps, already counting exits. Just in case.

The wood groaned beneath Tommy’’s feet as he stepped onto the porch, duffel slung low on his shoulder. His fingers curled tighter around the strap. The cold had already crept under his sleeves, but he didn’t shiver. He wouldn’t give them the satisfaction.

Behind him, Tubbo, all messy brown curls and too much energy, stumbled trying to carry two bags at once. “I got it! I got it! Wait, Ranboo, can you grab—?”

Ranboo, tall, pale, and always a little awkward, leaned over to help him. He moved like a shadow, careful, like the world might break if he stepped too hard. “I’ve got it, Tubbo. Careful with that one—it has your weird lamp thing in it.”

“Fairy lamp,” he corrected proudly.

Tommy rolled his eyes, but didn’t say anything. Tubbo had a habit of talking like life was some kind of game he’d already won. Ranboo followed him like he was hoping he'd show him the rules.

Then there was Dream-Clay, but no one called him that anymore. Blonde, broad-shouldered, bright green eyes and smiling in that perfect, press-ready way. He always looked good in photos. He always looked like he wasn’t lying.

He was standing with their parents now, Clementine and Henry, who had that middle-class gloss, expensive jackets, polite smiles, and just enough charity work to stay likeable. No one would ever believe what they let happen behind locked doors.

“Everyone ready?” Clementine asked, clapping her gloved hands. Her voice was bright. Too bright. “This is a beautiful chance for all of us.”

Tommy said nothing. Dream shot him a look from over their mother’s shoulder—something smug and private.

Henry opened the front door. “Go on in. Let’s get settled.”

Tubbo ran ahead, practically bouncing, yelling something about bedroom picks. Ranboo followed him, quiet but smiling. Tommy lingered.

He looked back one last time, out over the fog that curled along the driveway like it wanted to swallow the car. He wished it would.

Then, silent and small beneath his hoodie, he stepped inside.

Tommy lingered in the doorway, the scent of cold air mixing with something sharp and old beneath the fresh paint. The house was big, too big, with high ceilings and wide halls that echoed like they were waiting to be filled with yelling.

Tubbo's voice was already bouncing off the walls as he ran up the stairs, his curly hair flying behind him like a flag. "I’m taking the one with the window seat!" he shouted, his laugh trailing after him like sunlight. He wore two sweaters, one decorated with bees and boots covered in patches. Everything about him screamed color and noise.

Ranboo followed at a quieter pace, his long frame hunched slightly like he was trying to disappear through the floorboards. His coat was oversized, his scarf nearly swallowing his face. He glanced at Tommy as he passed, eyes flickering with something close to worry, but he didn’t say anything. He never did unless he had to.

Dream walked in next. Tall, clean-cut, with that perfect posture their parents loved. He carried himself like he was being watched, every step rehearsed. His eyes flicked across the space, landing on Tommy with that same unreadable expression he always wore. Not quite a smile, not quite a threat. Just a reminder.

Clementine moved through the space like she was already planning renovations. "What a charming place. I can already see where we’ll put the family portraits." Her heels clicked across the polished floors. Henry, standing behind her with the house keys still in hand, nodded along silently. He always agreed.

Tommy’s hand curled tighter around his bag. The light overhead flickered. He looked up and narrowed his eyes. Maybe the house had ghosts. That would be better than what he was used to.

He stepped farther inside. The door closed behind him.

Tommy hadn’t made it halfway down the hall before Dream cut in front of him.

Not rushed, just there. Like he’d been waiting. Like he always knew exactly where Tommy would be. His posture was casual, arms crossed, leaning just enough to look relaxed but not enough to give space.

Tommy stopped walking.

He kept his gaze fixed on Tommy with that same unreadable look he wore like a second skin, half-smirk, half-threat. His presence crowded the hallway, too big, too hot, like a wall of smoke and heat you couldn’t breathe through.

“You gonna pick a room,” Dream said, tilting his head slightly, “or just haunt the place like a bad smell?”

Tommy didn’t respond. He moved to step around him. Dream mirrored the move.

Tommy’s hand curled around the strap of his duffel bag. His voice came low, flat. “Move.”

Dream didn’t. He leaned in instead, close enough that Tom could feel the heat of his breath.

“You don’t get to act like none of this matters, Tom,” he said quietly. “Not here.”

Tommy didn’t flinch. Just glared. “You done?”

Dream smiled. “yes.”

He finally stepped aside, but the space he left behind still felt like him, tight and watching.

Tommy brushed past without another word, boots creaking over the floorboards as he climbed the stairs. He didn’t care which room he got. He just needed a door to shut behind him.

The first one at the top of the landing was fine. Small, bare, silent. No distractions. No charm. Just a square with a window and four blank walls.

He stepped inside and dropped his bag in the corner like a stone.

Then, without knocking, Dream was there again, leaning in the doorway, arms crossed, like the conversation hadn’t ended.

“You always choose the ugliest one,” Dream said, eyes dragging across the bare walls.

Tommy kept his back turned. “Still better than yours.”

Dream huffed out a dry laugh. “Tubbo hates you. Ranboo too. You know that, right?”

Tommy didn’t answer.

He could hear the floor creak behind him, one step, then another.

He spun around fast, tone sharp. “Get out.”

Dream didn’t even blink. Just smiled slow, smug. “Make me.”

They stood there, tension stretched like wire.

Then “Tom, Dream! Come see the bathroom, there’s literally a chandelier in the bloody bathroom!” Tubbo’s voice cracked through the hall like light through a closed curtain.

Dream’s smile vanished.

Tommy didn’t move. He didn’t say a word. Just turned back to the window, eyes dull, and pressed his forehead gently against the cold glass

A few seconds later, Dream was gone.

And just like that, he was trapped again.

Chapter 2: It Was Already Open

Summary:

He was looking for anything, really. Not this. Definitely not this. But Tommy didn’t open the book. It was like that when he found it. Right?

Tommy sat on the floor of his room, eyes fixed on the dense line of trees outside the window.

His room was still mostly empty, just a few bags and boxes scattered around, waiting for the inevitable trip to the furniture store that would come whenever his parents finally got around to it.

The quiet in the house felt heavy, but not in the way he was used to. He could hear Tubbo’s footsteps pounding down the hallway, running as usual. Tommy wondered, not for the first time, how long it would take before Dream lost his patience and told him to quiet down.

He sighed, dropping his head into his hands, his elbows resting on his knees.

"Tommy!" His mum’s voice pierced through the stillness, shrill and demanding.

His head shot up, and he sprang to his feet in a rush, his heart skipping. He bolted for the door, nearly tripping over the cluttered floor as he fumbled with the handle. He didn’t want to deal with whatever was coming, but it didn’t matter. The command in her voice made sure of that.

As he hurried down the stairs, he glanced across the hall and caught sight of Dream sitting cross-legged on the floor of his own room, phone in hand, just across from Tommy’s. It wasn’t unusual. He was always there.

But Tommy pushed the thought aside. Focus. His mum needed him, and that was all that mattered, at least for now.

Tommy bolted down the stairs, his heart thudding as he rushed to where his mum was calling from. The hallway stretched out too long, the quiet too thick in the air, and Tommy’s thoughts started to swirl in frustration.

He had barely unpacked, barely gotten his bearings in this new place, and now everything felt wrong again.

“Tommy, in here!” His mum’s voice cut through the haze of his thoughts. He pushed open the door to the living room and found her standing in the small kitchen, hands on her hips, brow furrowed in that way that meant something was about to be said he wouldn’t like.

“You’re supposed to be helping with dinner,” she said, tone sharp.

Tommy bit back a groan. “Yeah, well, I’m busy,” he muttered under his breath, but she heard him.

“Don’t get smart with me, Tommy,” she snapped. “You don’t get to just disappear into your room and hide from everyone. You’ve got responsibilities.”

Tommy’s stomach twisted, and for a second, he hated how her words felt like a weight pressing on his chest.

He opened his mouth to argue, to remind her that he had just moved here, that he didn’t ask for any of this, but before he could say anything, her voice softened.

“I need you to help, okay? We’re all trying to adjust, but you don’t get to check out.” She glanced toward the hallway, where he could hear Tubbo still running around, shouting something he couldn’t quite catch.

“And Clay’s been too quiet. Go talk to him or something. I don’t care. Just do something.”

Tommy’s lips pressed together.

He quickly nodded at his mum before turning toward the stairs.

“Yes mum,” Tommy said through gritted teeth, trying to keep his voice level. His feet carried him back up the stairs before she could respond.

As Tommy reached the top of the stairs, he didn’t pause. He turned sharply into Dream’s room, head ducked low, only to walk straight into him.

Dream towered over him, a grin already tugging at his lips. His green eyes squinted with mock delight. “Are you a good boy for mummy?”

Tommy recoiled at the words, his face twisting. “Just pick something to do, dickhead.”

Dream chuckled, shrugging one shoulder. He slung an arm over Tommy like it was a casual thing, like they were friends. But his grip was tight, too tight, as he steered him back down the stairs.

“Passed something interesting on the drive up,” Dream said, voice syrupy and fake. His hand dug into Tommy’s shoulder, thumb pressing into bone.

Tommy made a vague sound in response, too focused on the door as it slammed shut behind them. The air outside was cooler than before, already dim with the coming evening. Night fell faster here. He hated that.

Dream glanced sideways, his eyes narrowing. “Cold?” he murmured.

Before Tommy could answer, Dream’s hand slid lower down his side. He flinched, shoulders tensing. “’M’ fine,” he muttered, barely audible.

Dream let go abruptly, disappearing inside. A few moments later, he returned, lime green hoodie in hand. Without a word, he pulled it down over Tommy’s head.

The fabric was warm, but the scent, familiar and wrong, clung to him.

Tommy said nothing, just tugged at the sleeves and edged away. “Can we just go?”

Dream beamed, his voice too bright. “Of course! I’ll lead the way.”

The walk wasn’t long, but it felt like it stretched on forever, each step dragging him deeper into the eerie quiet.

Dream lead, his pace unnervingly calm, his whistling low and tuneless, echoing in the spaces between the trees. Tommy couldn’t shake the feeling that the forest was watching them, that the world itself had gone still in anticipation.

They reached the destination after a few minutes, standing before the broken remnants of what had once been an imposing structure.

The stone walls were cracked and weathered, vines snaking through the gaps like the fingers of something long forgotten. A crooked sign, barely visible beneath the weight of moss and decay, read "St. Elian’s Retreat" in faded lettering.

Tommy stood at the threshold, staring at the monastery in silence. It felt wrong, like it had been abandoned for a reason.

“This... doesn’t look like a place people go for a nice visit,” Tommy muttered, half to himself.

Dream didn’t answer. Instead, he just smiled, that same unsettling grin, and pushed open the door with a soft creak.

The inside was no better. Shadows pooled in every corner, the air thick with the smell of damp wood and old, rotting stone. Broken pews lay scattered across the floor, cracked glass crunching under Tommy’s boots as he stepped forward.

The altar at the far end had crumbled, but something stood behind it, a pedestal, unmistakably ancient, yet still standing tall amidst the wreckage. There, atop the pedestal, was a book. A heavy, leather-bound thing, gleaming faintly despite the years of neglect.

Tommy instinctively moved towards it, his heart beating faster, not sure if it was the strange pull of the place or just his own curiosity.

“This is it?” Tommy asked, glancing over his shoulder at Dream, expecting some kind of comment, some kind of reassurance.

But Dream wasn’t there.

Tommy turned, his pulse quickening for a different reason. The door had swung shut, and Dream was nowhere to be seen.

"Great. Just what I need," Tommy muttered under his breath, feeling the absence of Dream’s presence like a weight settling on his shoulders. He’d been alone plenty of times, but there was something off about this silence. It wasn’t comforting. It was suffocating.

He turned back to the book. It was sitting there, almost inviting him, the chains wrapped around it twisted in intricate patterns. Symbols were carved into the links, markings that shifted slightly in the dim light, as though they were alive. Tommy hesitated. A whisper of doubt tugged at him, but he couldn’t pull away. He had to know.

With a deep breath, he took a step forward, reaching out a hand to touch the chains. His fingers brushed against the cool metal, and for a moment, nothing happened. But then—

A sudden gust of wind, sharp and cold, rushed through the open doorway, sending a shiver down Tommy’s spine. He pulled his hand back, startled, and the chains rattled. A strange sound filled the air, almost like a voice whispering, but too faint to understand.

He took another step back, glancing around for Dream. “Hey, Dream, where are you?”

No answer.

The sound of rustling pages broke the silence.

Tommy froze, eyes darting back to the book. It was open. The pages, once still and unmoving, were now fluttering, turning on their own as if some unseen force had pulled them. But that didn’t make sense. He hadn’t touched the book.

His breath caught in his throat. The pages seemed to slow, then stop, resting open to a page that gleamed with strange symbols. Something in Tommy's chest squeezed, a primal fear clawing at his insides, urging him to run. But he couldn’t. The book, the book, was calling him, its pages unfolding like a secret being whispered into his ear.

He stepped closer again, reaching out without thinking. His fingers brushed against the edge of the page, and the room around him seemed to shift. The air thickened, pressing in on him. His heart raced, and his hand trembled as it hovered over the book, unsure whether to touch it or pull away.

“Tommy.”

The voice was low, familiar—and it sent a jolt through his body. Dream stood in the doorway, watching him with that strange, unreadable expression. His green eyes glinted in the dim light, full of something Tommy couldn’t name.

“What are you messing with?,” Dream said softly, his voice almost... amused?

Tommy turned quickly, his fingers still inches from the open book. “It’s just a book?”

Dream stepped closer, his footsteps deliberate and slow. “Huh,” he said, voice flat. “I guess.”

Tommy shot him a glare, pulling his hand back, but he couldn’t quite tear his eyes away from the book. The unease that had settled in his gut was growing, spreading through him like a poison.

"What's it even doing here?" Tommy asked, his voice rough. He didn’t know if he was talking to Dream or to himself.

Dream’s frown was slow and confused. "Find out."

He took another step toward the book, but Tommy stepped in front of it, instinctively blocking his path.

“No,” Tommy said, his voice low but firm. “I saw it first.”

Dream’s frown deepened. “I wasn’t gonna take it, idiot. But I don’t think it’s here for you.”

Tommy turned back to the book, the words written across the pages no longer seeming to make sense. They shifted before his eyes, rearranging into symbols he recognized, but only vaguely. Something dark, something old.

Before he could say anything else, Dream was already gone, disappearing as quietly as he’d arrived.

Tommy stood frozen, his eyes tracing the strange symbols on the pages of the book. It seemed to pulse, as though it were alive, feeding off something Tommy couldn’t name. His fingers itched to turn the page, but his mind screamed to stop. There was something too... unnatural about the whole thing.

A chill prickled along his skin, and he instinctively took a step back. He glanced around, suddenly aware of how quiet it was. The wind had died down, the rustling of leaves outside replaced by a suffocating silence.

Then, the voice came.

Low. Cold.

"Not yet, child."

The words echoed in Tommy’s mind before they even reached his ears. His heart stuttered in his chest, his breath catching as he spun around. His eyes darted to the corners of the room, but there was no one there.

Nothing. Just shadows, stretching across the walls like dark hands reaching for him.

Tommy swallowed, his throat dry, and he turned back to the book, but something had changed. His stomach twisted, unease crawling up his spine. The voice had been so real, so close, it had felt like it was right behind him, whispering just over his shoulder.

His head snapped up at the sudden sound of something fluttering.

A crow. It appeared out of nowhere, landing on the edge of the broken altar, its black feathers gleaming in the dim light. Its beady eyes locked onto Tommy, unblinking and unnervingly focused. It cocked its head, studying him like it knew exactly what he was thinking.

Tommy’s breath caught in his throat. He knew better than to trust animals, but this… this felt off.

The crow hopped forward, as if on command, its claws clicking sharply against the stone. Tommy took a step back, his gaze flicking to the book again. The crow flapped its wings once, but there was no sound. It was as though the world had gone completely still.

The voice came again, though this time it was a whisper, almost a caress.

"You’re close. Don’t turn back now."

Tommy’s blood ran cold, his eyes locking onto the crow once more. It stood still, watching him with a knowing look, its head tilting to one side. The voice... the crow... it was all too much. Something in the air seemed to thicken, the room growing colder by the second.

His hands shook, but he couldn’t look away. The book seemed to call to him again, its pages fluttering gently as though beckoning him to read further.

But Tommy had had enough.

He stepped back from the crow, shaking his head, refusing to let the weight of the voice or the book pull him in any further.

"Not yet, child."

The voice was sharper this time, and Tommy could feel it vibrating in his chest. The crow took a sudden step forward, its wings flaring for just a moment, and in the brief flash of movement, Tommy could’ve sworn he saw something in its eyes—a flicker of something familiar, something that made his skin crawl.

He turned away, his feet moving without thinking. The crow remained, perched where it had been, and the air hung thick with that same heavy silence. Tommy stumbled to the doorway, half-expecting something to stop him, but it didn’t.

Not yet.

He burst out of the monastery, the cold night air hitting his face with a harsh slap. The world outside seemed normal again, quiet, peaceful. The trees swayed gently in the wind, the moon casting a pale light across the broken landscape.

Tommy’s breath came in shallow gasps as he ran, his legs aching from the effort, but the fear pushing him forward. He could feel the weight of whatever had been lurking in the monastery closing in on him, as if the air itself was thick with something wrong.

The woods were still and silent, save for the crunch of leaves underfoot. His thoughts raced, trying to make sense of what had happened. The book, that book, was old, too old, and something in it had been alive. It felt alive. He couldn't shake the feeling that something had reached out from it, something dark and ancient, and now it was after him.

Tommy pushed himself harder, but every step felt heavier. It was like the ground was trying to hold him back. Then, just when he thought he couldn’t run anymore, he heard it.

“Tommy…”

His name whispered in the wind. Low, guttural, almost like a growl. It was as if the very trees themselves were calling him. He stopped dead in his tracks, heart pounding in his chest.

“Tommy…”

This time, the voice was closer. He spun around, expecting to see something, anything, but there was nothing there, only the trees, tall and looming in the dimming light. His skin crawled.

“Tommy!” The voice called again, louder this time, though still distorted, like it was coming from everywhere and nowhere at once.

The feeling of eyes on him intensified, and he knew. He knew it wasn’t just his imagination. Something was here. Something was hunting him.

Without another thought, Tommy turned and ran, pushing himself harder, faster. His breath burned in his throat, his legs screaming at him to stop. But the voice, its voice, kept calling, a distorted echo that seemed to come from the depths of the woods.

Suddenly, Tommy collided with something, hard enough to knock the wind out of him. He stumbled back, landing on his hands and knees, gasping for air.

“Tommy?” Dream’s voice was sharp with worry. He was standing over him, looking down with that same intense, calculating stare. “What the hell are you doing?”

Tommy didn’t answer immediately. He couldn’t. His chest was heaving, his mind still reeling from what had just happened. “We have to go,” he finally rasped, scrambling to his feet.

Dream raised an eyebrow, glancing around the darkened forest. “What? You run into the monastery, get spooked, and now we have to go?”

Tommy shook his head, fear flooding him all over again. “There’s something here. Something after me. I heard it. A voice...” His voice shook, and for a moment, he thought Dream would laugh it off, like he had done with everything else. But instead, Dream’s expression darkened.

“After you?” Dream repeated slowly, his eyes scanning the trees warily. “What did you see, Tom?”

“I don’t know. It’s... it’s in the woods.” Tommy’s heart thundered in his chest. He couldn’t shake the feeling that whatever had called to him wasn’t far behind.

Dream’s hand shot out, grabbing Tommy’s wrist. “We’re getting out of here. Now.”

Tommy didn’t resist, too rattled to argue. He felt Dream’s grip tighten, felt his older brother's eyes darting around, as though he was sensing something, too.

They moved quickly through the trees, Dream leading the way, but Tommy couldn’t help but glance over his shoulder. Every crack of a branch, every gust of wind, felt like something was just behind them, waiting.

“Dream...” Tommy started, his voice barely a whisper, “Do you believe me?”

Dream didn’t look at him, but his hand on Tommy’s wrist tightened. “I don’t know, Tommy, but we’re getting the hell out of here.”

Tommy glanced over his shoulder once more, and just for a second, he thought he saw something moving in the shadows. A flicker, like a figure, no, a shadow of something, just beyond the trees. His blood ran cold.

Dream didn’t look back. He kept moving, his steps faster now, but Tommy could still feel the pulse of something following them, the air thick with tension.

Tommy didn’t say another word. There was nothing more to say. They just had to get away.

But no matter how fast they ran, Tommy couldn’t shake the feeling that something was still out there, waiting. Watching. Following.

The woods stretched on, endless, and with each step, the distance between them and whatever was behind them only seemed to grow. Tommy’s heart was still racing, the voice echoing in his mind.

“Tommy...” It called again.

This time, he didn’t stop running.

Notes:

I wonder who he saw?

Chapter 3: The Stranger

Summary:

Someone keeps tap, tap, tapping on the window, of the second floor...

Tommy stumbled through the door, his heart still racing from the strange, silent pursuit they’d endured on their way back.

He had barely stepped inside before the door shut behind him, sealing off the cool night air with a loud thud. He didn’t look up, didn’t even acknowledge his parents, who were lounging in the living room, pretending they hadn’t noticed the time.

It was as if nothing had happened.

Dream, though quieter now, was still buzzing with excitement behind him. Tommy wasn’t sure if it was the adrenaline from their run or his sheer stubbornness, but he could feel the man’s gaze on him, steady and persistent, as if trying to piece something together.

"I need to rest," Dream said, strained, though there was a strange shakiness to his voice.

Tommy didn’t answer. He didn’t have the energy to, and frankly, he was too tired to deal with Dream’s shit. Without a word, he darted up the stairs and into his room, slamming the door behind him with more force than he intended.

He let out a shaky breath, feeling the weight of the silence crash down on him like a blanket.

The house was dead quiet, only the faintest hum of the fridge downstairs breaking the stillness. It was past midnight, and his brothers had long since gone to bed. His parents were oblivious to everything. They always were.

The night felt suffocating in its quiet.

Tommy didn’t bother turning on the light. His room was cast in shadow, save for the dim glow of streetlights filtering in through the window. He just wanted to get into bed and forget everything.

Forget the unsettling book, the crow, the sense of something, or someone, following them. He stripped off Dream’s hoodie and tossed it on the floor, then crawled into the sleeping bag he’d hastily set up earlier.

The fabric crinkled beneath him, and Tommy closed his eyes, trying to block out the tension that clung to him like a second skin.

It wasn’t the cold that made his skin prickle. It was something else.

A sound, a shift, a subtle creak, came from the window. Tommy froze. His pulse thundered in his ears as he slowly opened his eyes. Outside, beyond the curtain, there was movement. At first, he thought it was just the wind, but as he stared, his heart dropped.

There, standing in the dim light outside his window, was a figure. A man. Or… not a man.

He wasn’t sure what to call it. The figure was tall, unnaturally still, as though it wasn’t quite part of this world. The air felt heavy, pressing against him, and for a moment, Tommy couldn’t breathe.

The house was silent. There was only him and this stranger, standing in the dark. Tommy’s hand gripped the edge of his sleeping bag, and he forced himself to look away, trying to convince himself it was just his mind playing tricks. But when he glanced back, he was still there. He was still staring.

Tommy’s breath hitched as the figure took a step closer to the window, his hands outstretched, as if trying to reach for him.

“Tommy,” a voice whispered from outside.

It wasn’t Dream’s voice. And it wasn’t a voice that Tommy recognized.

A cold sweat broke out across his forehead.

Tommy’s breath caught in his throat as he stared at the figure outside his window, his pulse hammering in his chest.

The night was still, the air thick with the kind of silence that made every sound seem too loud. The figure stood motionless, just beyond the glass, its shape almost blending with the shadows, but its presence undeniable. Tommy couldn’t move. He couldn’t even blink.

It was unlike anything he had ever seen, something so deeply wrong, it made his blood run cold.

The man, if he could even be called that, was towering, unnaturally tall, his head almost grazing the top of the window frame.

His skin was so pale it almost glowed in the moonlight, a sickly, unnatural white, with patches of iridescent blue scales dotting his arms and chest, like a grotesque mosaic of glimmering freckles. His face, beautiful in a horrifying way, was sharp, too sharp. His features were angular, exaggerated, as though his skin had been stretched too thin over his skull. His cheekbones jutted out at impossible angles, his lips too thin, stretching into a smile that made Tommy’s stomach churn.

The most unsettling thing about him were his eyes. Bright blue, but flickering with veins of a sickly, snake-like green, they glowed faintly in the darkness.

His pupils were slits, the kind of eyes that shouldn’t belong to a person, if he was even a person. They locked onto Tommy with an intensity that felt like a vice closing around his chest.

The longer Tommy stared, the more those eyes seemed to stretch, widening impossibly, as if they were drinking in his very soul.

And then, the figure smiled, revealing teeth too sharp and too numerous, like a predator’s grin, stretching impossibly wide. The smile was too wide, a grin that shouldn’t fit on a human face.

Tommy’s breath hitched in his throat. He tried to move, but his limbs felt frozen, weighed down by an invisible force.

The figure’s voice slithered through the glass, smooth and thick, like syrup mixed with venom. “Get the book, Tommy.” The words seemed to slither into Tommy’s mind, dark and heavy. “You’ll need it.”

The voice sent a chill down his spine. The words echoed in his head, like a curse that wouldn’t stop repeating. You’ll need it. He couldn’t breathe. His body wanted to scream, to run, but he couldn’t make a sound. He couldn’t even move his muscles.

Tommy squeezed his eyes shut, trying to block out the image of the creature, hoping it would go away, that this was some nightmare he could wake up from. But the figure didn’t leave. It didn’t move. It was too still, standing there, staring at him with its predatory gaze, waiting.

Then the figure’s voice came again, but this time it was quieter, softer—like a whisper just for Tommy, and yet it felt like it was coming from everywhere. "Mine," it hissed, the word dripping with malice. "You are mine, Tommy."

The words seemed to slither into his skin, wrapping around his bones, squeezing tight, suffocating him.

Tommy squeezed his eyes tighter, forcing himself to breathe slowly, to pretend he was asleep. He had to be quiet. If he made a sound, if he moved, it would see him. He had to stay still, even though his skin felt like it was crawling, like it was burning beneath the weight of that gaze.

He could hear the creature's breath, shallow and slow, as though it were savoring every moment of his fear. The air in his room seemed to thicken, oppressive, pressing in on him from all sides, like the walls themselves were closing in.

“Mine…” the voice purred again, closer this time. Tommy felt a chill race down his spine, as though the words themselves were freezing the air around him. He tried to hold his breath, but his lungs ached. He couldn’t hold on much longer. “Tommy… Come to me.”

Tommy’s mind screamed at him to run, to do something, but his body remained frozen, unwilling to move.

The figure took a slow, deliberate step closer to the window, and Tommy saw a flash of movement—a shadow passing across the windowpane. It was moving towards him, but he couldn’t look. He refused to look. The words kept ringing in his ears, like a drumbeat: You are mine.

Then, the whisper came again, this time right by his ear, though the figure was still outside. “The book is calling to you. You cannot hide from me, Tommy. You cannot run.”

Tommy’s eyes snapped open, and for the briefest moment, he thought he saw the figure flicker, like a shadow moving too fast, too fluidly to be human. Then, just as quickly as it had appeared, it vanished.

Tommy didn’t dare move. His body was trembling, shaking uncontrollably, his teeth clenched so hard he thought they might crack. He kept his eyes shut, breathing shallowly, listening to the stillness of the room. He didn’t know how long he stayed like that, curled up in the blankets, but it felt like hours.

Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, Tommy allowed himself to open his eyes, just a crack. He peeked out, looking around the room, making sure the figure was really gone.

The night was still. The figure was nowhere to be seen.

But Tommy couldn’t shake the feeling that the presence hadn’t left, that it was still there, lurking just beyond the edges of the room. Watching him.

With a trembling hand, Tommy pulled the covers tighter around himself, squeezing his eyes shut once more, too scared to look out the window again. His mind raced with the horrible realization that whatever that thing was, it wasn’t done with him. It was coming for him.

The words echoed in his head again: You are mine.

Tommy squeezed his eyes shut tighter, praying that when he opened them again, it would all be a dream. But deep down, he knew it wasn’t.

Tommy sat on the kitchen floor, hunched over a plate of waffles that had gone cold ten minutes ago. Tubbo and Ranboo bickered lazily across from him, arguing over syrup. Their voices were quiet, like the house hadn’t quite woken up yet. Sunlight filtered through the grimy windows, dust catching in the beams like ash.

Dream sat opposite him, chewing absently on the edge of his fork. His eyes kept flicking to Tommy.

“Did you sleep?” he asked, casually.

Tommy didn’t look up. “Yeah.”

He hadn’t.

Dream hummed. “You look like shit.”

“So do you,” Tommy muttered, pushing his food around with the fork.

Their mum walked past behind him, rubbing her temples. “Language, boys.”

Tommy didn’t answer. The house was too quiet despite all the noise. Like it had a thick layer of silence underneath everything. He swore he could still feel the eyes from the window. Still smell the forest on his skin.

“Hey,” Tubbo said, poking his arm. “You alright?”

“Fine.”

Ranboo raised an eyebrow. “You sure?”

“I said I’m fine.” He stood abruptly. “I’m going out later.”

Dream straightened. “Where?”

Tommy didn’t answer. He just grabbed his plate, dumped the uneaten waffles into the sink, and left the room without another word.

Behind him, Dream watched him go, eyes narrowed.

And outside, far beyond the house, perched on a dead branch at the tree line—a single black crow stared back.

Tommy didn’t take the path to the monastery.

His feet veered left, into the underbrush, where no trail had been carved. Branches scratched at his arms, brambles snagged his jeans. He ducked under a crooked limb, stepping deeper into the woods where the trees grew close and the sky barely touched the ground.

It was stupid, probably. Going out alone, no plan, no direction. But the air felt different here. Like it remembered what had happened last night. Like it had watched.

He pushed on, leaves crunching underfoot, breath puffing clouds in the cold morning air. Somewhere behind him, the house was still, swallowed up by trees.

The forest didn’t make noise. No birds. No wind. Just the soft creak of wood bending, like something breathing slowly all around him.

A flicker of movement caught his eye. He turned, but there was nothing, just a gnarled tree that almost looked like it was leaning in.

He kept walking.

The crow came again. He didn’t hear it land—just looked up and saw it already there, perched on a low branch, staring with eyes too dark to reflect the light.

“…You again,” Tommy muttered.

The bird tilted its head. Like it understood. Like it was listening.

He took another step.

Behind him, a stick cracked. Not by his own foot.

Tommy froze.

“Who's there?” he called, voice low.

Nothing answered.

He took one shaky breath, then turned slowly.

There was no one there. But the space between the trees looked wrong—like the shadows didn’t line up. Like they were watching, too.

And then, clear as a whisper pressed to the back of his neck “Tommy.”

He spun. The crow was gone. Leaves rustled—up ahead, this time. Something moving.

Tommy didn’t call out again. He just started walking faster, deeper into the woods, toward whatever this was. Because something had already found him, and pretending otherwise wasn’t going to help anymore.

The trees were taller here. Thicker. Light barely touched the ground, and his breath had turned shallow, sharp in his throat. Something was pulling him forward, like the forest had bent to make a path just for him.

Then he saw it.

Half-sunken in the roots of an ancient tree was a stone slab. Black as ash. Smooth as glass, except for the jagged markings carved deep across its face—runes, maybe. Or something older. Tommy knelt beside it, brushing off the leaves with a trembling hand.

One symbol burned against his fingers. Cold at first. Then hot. The air around him dropped, like the forest was holding its breath.

And behind him, again, closer this time, came that same sweet voice.

“There you are.”

Tommy’s head snapped up.

Something stood at the edge of the clearing.

Too tall. Not quite human. Eyes glowing faintly blue-green in the dark.

Then

Everything went black.

Notes:

I don't really know what they are, a mix of Norse gods/creatures and cryptids

Notes:

starting things off quiet, tense, and a little too close for comfort. nothing explodes—yet—but it will soon. you’ll see what i mean.