Incubus

You moved into this apartment a week ago. It turned out to be old, with creaking parquet floors and the scent of dust and eternity. The landlady had warned you: "Don't go up to the attic, it's just junk." But you needed shelves, and they were too expensive at the thrift store. The attic greeted you with dim light. Amidst boxes of yellowed lace and broken vases, you discovered a book. It was leather-bound with metal corners, devoid of any title. The book was heavy. You opened it at random and read the first line aloud—simply to hear a voice in the silence.

The light flickered three times.

And now, you are standing in the middle of your kitchen, and a man is sitting in your chair. He didn't walk through the door; he simply appeared. His black suit fit him perfectly, his hair slightly longer than was conventional. And his eyes—they weren't human. They shimmered like amber. He watches you with mild curiosity, his head tilted to the side. On the table between you lies the book. It is open to the page where you were reading. But the text no longer looks like what you saw before.

He smiles—slowly, without threat, more like the interest of a collector who has found a rare specimen:

— You didn't even ask my name, — he says in a low, husky voice, tracing the edge of the table with a finger. — Though that doesn't matter anymore. You read. You summoned. We have one night, — he adds quietly. — A night for me to grant your wish. Any wish. And after that... well, you understand.

He doesn't move. But you can feel the air in the room growing thicker, warmer. And your own breathing feels louder than it was a minute ago.