In the days that followed, Mr. Sheidele's transformation began.

  At first, it was subtle. His appetite waned, and his body grew thin and pale. His movements became jerky, his joints stiff. Then came the whispers, faint but constant, urging him to crawl, to burrow, to shed.

  He obeyed.

  By the third day, Mr. Sheidele was on all fours, dragging himself through the house, chewing at his fingertips until they bled. His vision blurred, replaced by strange patterns and colors, as if he were seeing through compound eyes.

  "I'm becoming," he whispered, his voice trembling with a mix of fear and reverence.

  The townsfolk noticed his absence. A group of them gathered, emboldened by concern, and knocked on his door. There was no answer. When they entered, the house was suffocating with the smell of decay. They found Mr. Sheidele writhing in the corner, bound in a makeshift straitjacket he'd crafted from his own clothing.

  "I am free!" he shrieked. "The god has chosen me! I am one of them!"

  They carried him to the asylum, but Mr. Sheidele believed it was a cocoon. His body continued to change—hard growths sprouted from his back, his skin flaked like a molted shell, and his teeth sharpened unnaturally. Doctors called it psychosis. He called it destiny.

  It was on the sixth day after Mr. Jonathan's capture that he stood before the door of the asylum. The building loomed like a forgotten relic of a past age, its walls cracked and stained with the weight of time. But it was the pungent smell that struck him first—the bitter odor of decay, of something far worse than mere illness.

  He had not intended to come. But Mr. Jonathan had always been a peculiar soul, and something deep within stirred at the thought of his condition. The whispers of the town, the rumors of his apparent madness, had drawn him here at this moment. He had been reluctant at first, afraid of what might await within, but there was no turning back. Not now.

  Mr. Jonathan had always been a solitary man, content to let the world pass by while he focused on his own obsessions. He had never been one for social interaction, preferring the company of books and the comforting hum of his work. But there had been a time when things were different. Mr. Jonathan had once shared long conversations into the night, discussing philosophy, science, and the nature of the universe with someone who had once seemed so much like him. That was before the change, before the strange shift in his life that which began to crack his very essence.

  Now, as Mr. Jonathan reached for the door, his hand trembling slightly, he pushed it open with a sense of inevitability. There was no turning back. He is coming, whether he liked it or not.

  The asylum's interior was dark, the air thick with the scent of mildew and antiseptic. The flickering light from a nearby lamp cast long, wavering shadows along the walls, making the place feel even more suffocating. A nurse at the desk looked up, her face pale, tired, as though she had seen too many similar cases. She nodded at him, but her gaze lingered for a moment longer than necessary.

  "He's in Room 3," she said softly, her voice distant. "You may want to prepare yourself."

  He didn't answer her. His mind was already elsewhere, focused on Room 3. It was all he could think about. The rumors, the whispers, the unsettling accounts. They had become more than idle gossip—they were the echoes of something deeper, something darker... what is this something?. He needed to see it with his own eyes.

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  The hallway stretched before him, narrow and suffocating, with doors lining either side. Faint sounds of distant cries and muffled murmurs echoed down the passageway, but Mr. Jonathan's focus remained unwavering. Room 3. That was where everything would change, he knew it. And it wasn't far now.

  Finally, he reached the door.

  It opened with a low creak, and Mr. Jonathan stepped inside, feeling the weight of the moment crash over him like a wave. The room was dimly lit, the single bulb above casting a sickly, flickering glow across the space. In the far corner, a figure huddled—his back hunched, his form unnaturally twisted in the shadows.

  At first, Mr. Jonathan didn't recognize him. The man he had known—someone proud and assured—was gone. In his place was someone, no, something... else. Something grotesque. The figure seemed to pulse and writhe, the air around it thick with an unsettling energy.

  The man's features, once human, were now obscured by jagged, dark growths sprouting from his back and shoulders, as though his very body was being consumed from within. His skin had taken on a mottled, insectoid appearance, akin to a grub, iridescent under the dim light. His eyes, once so bright with curiosity and insight, were now hollow, black voids that seemed to suck in the light around them.

  He had shed his humanity. There was no mistaking it.

  "What have you become?" Mr. Jonathan whispered, his voice hoarse and barely audible.

  The figure stirred slowly, jerking its head in his direction. Its movements were unnatural, like something struggling against its own form. A chilling silence filled the room, thick with the weight of something ancient, something beyond comprehension. The figure's lips parted, revealing sharp, jagged teeth that gleamed with a sickly sheen.

  "I am... one... with the... god," it rasped, its voice a low, reverberating echo that seemed to echo from deep within. "And you, Mr. Jonathan... are next."

  A cold chill ran down Mr. Jonathan's spine, his heart racing. The realization hit him with a sickening clarity, one he had avoided for too long, one that had gnawed at the edges of his mind ever since he first encountered this transformation.

  "You..."Mr. Jonathan's throat tightened as his words were caught, unable to fully form. "You.. did this... to... yourself..?"

  The figure's head tilted slightly, its movements jerky and insectile.

  "No," it rasped, its voice laughingly growing deeper, layered with an ancient, primordial resonance.

  "You opened the door... You gave me... the key."

  Mr. Jonathan's breath quickened, his mind reeling, trying to process what he was seeing. The room seemed to close in around him, suffocating, the walls pressing in as the weight of the figure's words settled like a crushing weight on his chest.

  "No..." Mr. Jonathan murmured again, his words barely forming. "This... this can't be... real."

  "Oh, it's real," the figure replied, its lips curling into a twisted grin. "More real... than you could ever imagine."

  The air thickened. It wasn't just the figure; something else, something far older, seemed to stir beneath the surface of reality itself. The shadows in the room seemed to grow darker, stretching, twisting toward the figure like tendrils of some unseen force. The walls pulsed, as if breathing in time with the figure's grotesque transformation.

  Mr. Jonathan's mind raced, seeking an escape. But his body betrayed him. He stood frozen, his feet rooted to the spot, trapped by the suffocating grip of the room, caught in the thrall of the figure's maddening presence.

  "You were always... sear...ching... for the... an...swers.., weren't... you..?" the figure continued, its voice now rising, taunting. "You thought you... were the one... who could... uncover... the truth... But you were nothing but a tool... A vessel for what was always meant to come."

  The room, the very space around him, seemed to shrink, the walls pressing in like the grip of an unseen force.

  "I... I didn't know," Mr. Jonathan stammered, his voice breaking.

  "I DON'T KNOW WHAT YOU'RE TALKING ABOUT!"

  The figure's hollow eyes gleamed, the blackness within them swirling with an ancient, malevolent energy. "It's too late... for that. The change has already begun. You're already part... of it."

  And then, with a sickening lurch, it moved toward him. The figure's body seemed to ripple, its form no longer bound by the limits of flesh. Its limbs twisted and contorted in unnatural ways, bending and stretching in impossible angles.

  "Join us," it whispered, its voice now soft and almost tender. "We'll finally be free."

  As the figure reached out, the very fabric of Mr. Jonathan's reality seemed to fracture. The darkness pressed in, thick with the whispers of something ancient and hungry, waiting.

  And in that instant, Jonathan Sheidele finally understood.

  He wasn't merely a witness to this transformation.

  He was its final step.