Chapter 3: The First Piece

Chapter 3: The First Piece

Two days of sleepless paranoia had carved new lines onto Liam’s face. Dark, bruised-looking hollows had appeared under his eyes, and his already lean frame seemed to have shrunk, his clothes hanging loosely. He’d given up trying to discard the scarab. The futile struggle had only deepened his exhaustion. Now, he simply carried it. The cold, heavy stone was a permanent resident in the pocket of his jeans, its presence a constant, low-grade hum of dread against his thigh. He’d surrendered.

His mom, oblivious to the true cause of his decline, had attributed his haggard appearance to college stress and forced a list of chores upon him. “Some fresh air and hard work will do you good, honey. Get you out of your head.”

And so, Liam found himself wrestling with their ancient, sputtering lawnmower under the oppressive heat of the afternoon sun. The roar of the engine was a welcome noise, a wall of sound that almost drowned out the frantic thoughts skittering through his mind. He focused on the simple, repetitive task: push the mower forward, turn, overlap the last row, repeat. The smell of cut grass and gasoline filled the air, a scent of mundane summer normalcy that felt like a cruel joke.

He could still feel the scarab. Even through the denim of his jeans, he was acutely aware of it. The phantom sensation in his palm had become a permanent tic; he’d find his fingers tracing the shape of an object that wasn’t there, his muscles tensing in a grip that held nothing. But the real stone in his pocket… it felt different today. Warmer. It seemed to be vibrating, a faint thrumming that was almost imperceptible, like a trapped insect buzzing its wings.

He was halfway through the backyard when the first cough hit him. It was dry and hacking, a simple tickle in his throat. He paused, catching his breath, and wiped a sleeve across his sweaty forehead. Probably just inhaled some dust or pollen. He yanked the cord, and the mower roared back to life.

A few steps later, it happened again, but this time it was different. It wasn't a tickle. It was a violent, deep-seated spasm that originated somewhere in his diaphragm. It bent him over the mower’s handlebars, his knuckles white. The cough was wet and ragged, tearing its way up his throat with a brutal force that left him gasping. He stumbled away from the machine as it coughed its own plume of blue smoke and died.

Another wave seized him. His lungs burned, his airway constricting. This wasn't a normal cough; it felt like his body was trying to expel something foreign, something lodged deep within his chest. He fell to his knees in the freshly cut grass, his vision blurring at the edges. A thick, coppery taste filled his mouth. He gagged, his whole body convulsing with the effort.

With one final, wrenching heave, something shot from his mouth. It wasn't liquid. It was wet, solid, and sharp. It hit the concrete of the patio with a distinct, sickening clatter.

Liam remained on all fours, panting, strings of saliva dangling from his lips. His throat felt raw, scraped. It took him a full minute to get his breathing under control, his heart hammering a wild, panicked rhythm. Trembling, he crawled over to the patio, his eyes searching for whatever his body had so violently rejected.

At first, he thought it was just a piece of gravel, maybe a woodchip he’d somehow inhaled. It was small, no bigger than his pinky nail, and dark with a wet sheen. He reached out a shaking finger and prodded it. It was hard, like stone. He wiped the saliva and smear of blood off with a blade of grass, and his blood ran cold.

It wasn't a rock.

It was a leg. A tiny, jagged limb, impossibly sharp and segmented, carved from the same oily, black stone as the scarab. It was a perfect, horrifying replica of one of the artifact’s limbs.

A choked sob escaped Liam’s throat. His hand flew to his pocket, his fingers fumbling with a desperate, terrible need. He pulled out the scarab. He held it up to the glaring sunlight, his hand shaking so badly the image blurred. He forced himself to be still, to focus, to count.

One, two, three legs on the right side. One, two, three on the left. All six were there. The scarab was whole. Perfect. Unblemished.

He looked from the intact artifact in his hand to the severed, jagged piece lying on the concrete. The horror was no longer just a psychological weight, a paranormal anomaly he couldn't escape. It had breached the barrier of his own skin. It wasn't just tethered to him anymore. It was inside him. Growing. Replicating. Breaking apart within his very flesh and blood.

He scrambled for his phone, his fingers slick with sweat, barely able to unlock the screen. He needed an anchor. A voice of reason in a world that had abandoned it. He dialed the only person connected to the source of this nightmare.

Uncle Joe picked up on the third ring. “Yeah, what’s up, kid? You finish that lawn already?”

“Uncle Joe,” Liam gasped, his voice a ragged whisper. “The house. The one on Broke Neck Ridge.”

“What about it?” Joe’s voice was instantly wary. The laid-back tone was gone, replaced by the no-nonsense gruffness Liam knew well. “You feeling sick? You sounded like hell when we left yesterday.”

“The owner,” Liam pushed on, ignoring the question. “The guy who lived there before. The one who disappeared. What was his name? You have to tell me.”

There was a pause on the other end of the line, filled with the distant sound of a power tool whining. “Liam, what’s this about? Are you in some kind of trouble?”

“No! Yes! I don’t know!” Liam cried, his control shattering. “I just… I need to know who he was. Please. It’s important.”

Joe let out a long, heavy sigh. He didn't understand, but he could hear the raw, undiluted panic in his nephew’s voice. “Finch,” he said finally, his tone serious. “Arthur Finch. Some kind of crackpot professor, the papers said. Filled that house with junk about pyramids and curses. One day, he just… wasn't there anymore. Left everything behind. Why are you so worked up about him?”

Arthur Finch. The name echoed in the screaming silence of Liam’s mind. It was a thread, a clue, the first tangible thing he could grasp onto in this waking nightmare.

“I… I think I found something of his,” Liam said, his voice dropping, the lie tasting like ash.

He looked down at the patio. At the small, dark object glistening under the sun. It wasn't something he had found. It was something he had produced. It was the first piece. And a terrifying, gut-deep certainty told him it wouldn’t be the last.