The house loomed in the heart of a quiet town, a forgotten relic of a life once lived. Its two and a half stories sagged under the weight of years and sorrow. Amir, at 18, had become a ghost in this house, isolated, a shadow of the boy he had once been. He was nothing more than a collection of sharp edges, a jarring presence that had no friends and no love for anyone. Not his mother, certainly not the world around him.
His father had died in 2014, an incident wrapped in vague explanations and hushed tones. His mother, once kind-hearted, had become embittered, angry at life, angry at the world, and most of all—angry at Amir. Every day, she looked at him with disgust, as if he were the cause of all their misfortune.
"You’re a failure, Amir," she would snap, her words like bitter daggers. "You’re nothing like him. Just a disappointment."
Her words stung, but Amir didn’t care. He never cared about her opinion. The house had become his prison, and the world outside, with its laughter and connections, felt like a cruel joke. There was only one thing that kept him from truly succumbing to the despair: his *friend*.
It started as a voice in his head, a murmur in the silence of his room. At first, it was faint, almost imperceptible, like a whisper lost on the wind. But as the days went on, it grew stronger, more insistent. A presence. Something familiar. Something that understood him.
"Amir…" The voice was deep, warm, and strangely comforting.
He sat up in bed, his heart thudding against his ribs. *Who’s there?* he thought, his breath catching in his throat.
“I’m here,” the voice responded, a faint chuckle in its tone. “I’ve been waiting for you.”
Amir’s hands trembled as he gripped the edge of the bed. *What is this?* He wasn’t sure if it was some twisted delusion, the result of too much time alone, or something else entirely. But as the days passed, the voice became more than just a whisper. It became a presence.
"You’re lonely," the voice would say. "You hate the world. You despise the weakness in people. I understand. I’m like you."
Amir began to feel an odd sense of attachment to it. It understood his anger, his frustration, his absolute indifference to the world. It didn’t judge him. It didn’t try to tell him to be better. It simply listened.
Soon, the voice became more than just a whisper. It had a name—his *friend*. It was always there, in the darkness of his room, when the house felt too quiet, when his mother’s shouting from downstairs seemed like the only sound in the world.
He never questioned it. Why would he? It was the only thing that made sense to him. The only thing that didn’t push him away.
"Amir, you’re different," the voice murmured one night, its tone softer, almost coaxing. "You see the world for what it really is—weak, pathetic. You could have so much more. You could have everything you want."
Amir leaned back against his pillow, a strange sense of peace settling over him.
“More?” Amir whispered, barely daring to believe what the voice was suggesting.
"Yes," it replied, its voice lowering into a dark, seductive drawl. "Power, control. You could make the world bend to your will, Amir. You could make them fear you."
Fear. The word twisted in Amir’s chest like a kn*** . For once, he felt something stir in him—a burning desire. He had spent so much of his life ignored, dismissed, powerless. His mother had never cared, never treated him as if he was important. And the world outside? It never seemed to notice him at all.
"But how?" Amir asked, his voice shaky but eager. "How do I get that?"
"You know the symbols," the voice whispered. "You’ve seen them. In your books. In your dreams. The symbols of power, the ones that make men bow, that make the world kneel. All you need to do is draw them. Channel the energy. You don’t need to believe in gods or demons. You only need to believe in yourself."
The idea was intoxicating. It felt right. Amir began to sketch the symbols on the floor of his room—circles, lines, angles—strange marks that filled him with an exhilarating sense of purpose. They were simple enough: jagged, ancient, dark. He drew them late at night, after his mother had gone to bed, under the dim light of his desk lamp. And the more he drew, the more he felt something shift inside him.
The walls of his room began to feel different. The air became thick, as if charged with electricity. The shadows, which had once seemed distant and cold, now seemed to move, alive, swirling around the edges of the room.
"Do you feel it?" the voice whispered. "Do you feel the power growing inside you?"
Amir felt his pulse quicken. *Yes,* he thought. *I can feel it.*
But as the days wore on, and the symbols continued to fill his room, something darker began to creep into Amir’s thoughts.
*What will it cost?*
At first, it was just a fleeting thought, something he pushed aside. But the more the voice spoke to him, the more it suggested. The more it pushed him.
“Your mother,” the voice said one night, its tone both comforting and chilling. “She’s a barrier, Amir. A weakness. She holds you back. You could be free of her. You could have your power. But she is the last obstacle.”
Amir sat up in bed, staring into the darkness. His mother. Always so angry. Always so disappointed in him. Always reminding him of how he would never be good enough. Always telling him how worthless he was. He hated her. He hated how she made him feel small. Weak.
*Do it,* the voice coaxed. *You’ve wanted to be free, haven’t you? She’s the only one holding you back. She’ll never let you become who you’re meant to be.*
Amir gripped the edge of his bed, a cold sweat running down his neck. He looked at the door, half-expecting his mother to burst in at any moment, shouting about something he had done wrong. But the voice—the presence that had become his companion, his *friend*—was right. She held him back. She was the only thing that kept him from stepping into the world of power that had been waiting for him.
"You have to do it, Amir," the voice urged again. "Only then will you truly be free."
The pressure built inside Amir like a pressure cooker, the words swirling in his mind, building into a crescendo. His hands shook, but it wasn’t fear that gripped him. It was the power. The exhilaration of finally breaking free of his mother’s grip. Of breaking free of everything.
He stood up, the cold floor pressing against his bare feet as he made his way to her door. His breath was shallow. His hands clenched into fists. The knife he had hidden under his mattress felt heavy in his grip. The darkness in the room seemed to pulse with life, the shadows stretching toward him, urging him forward.
He opened the door.
His mother was asleep, her face twisted in an expression of irritation, even in her slumber. The anger she carried with her every day was etched into the lines of her face.
Amir moved closer, the weight of the kn*** in his hand heavier than ever before.
*It’s the only way,* the voice whispered, soothing and dark. *She’ll never let you be free. She’ll never let you have the power you deserve.*
With a trembling hand, Amir raised the kn*** . His heart pounded in his chest, his thoughts a blur of darkness.
And in that moment, as the cold steel met its mark, the house seemed to come alive, the shadows curling around him, the symbols on the floor glowing in eerie brilliance.
But as his mother’s l*feless body crumpled to the floor, Amir realized, too late, that the power he had sought had come at a cost. The shadows didn’t retreat. They swallowed him whole.
*You’re mine now,* the voice whispered, but it wasn’t a comforting sound anymore.
It was a claim. And Amir knew then that he was no longer the one in control.
The house—his house—had claimed him. And now, he was trapped. Forever.