Vincent sat in his chair, the faint hum of tension still buzzing faintly in his ears. The black screen of the CRT stared back at him, a lifeless void that seemed to swallow the dim light of his apartment. His hands rested on his lap, fingers twitching slightly as if they weren’t sure what to do with themselves. He’d been waiting, bracing, for something. For the game to restart, for the lights to flicker, for something inexplicable to happen.
But nothing did.
The silence grew heavier, stretching out like a rubber band about to snap. Vincent exhaled slowly, the sound almost startling in the quiet. He leaned back, the old chair groaning under his weight, and scrubbed a hand down his face.
“What the hell was that?” he muttered, glancing at the console sitting inert on his desk. The cobbled-together machine was dark, its usual faint glow absent. He leaned forward, pressing the power button once, then twice, harder each time. Nothing. Not even the comforting whirr of the fan spinning up.
“Great,” he said, his voice tinged with frustration. “Now you’re dead too?”
His gaze shifted to the CRT monitor, its curved glass surface reflecting a distorted version of his apartment. He reached out and pressed the small button on its side, expecting the familiar static fuzz of an inactive input. Instead, there was only silence. No glow, no flicker. Just the oppressive weight of its failure.
Vincent leaned back again, this time with more force, the chair creaking in protest. He crossed his arms, staring at the console like it had personally offended him. “Of course. Just when it was getting interesting.”
He tapped his foot against the floor, trying to think. He’d put so much effort into building this setup, scavenging parts from old forums, bartering with other retro enthusiasts, repairing what others had deemed unsalvageable. It wasn’t just a console. It was a piece of him, a connection to a world that felt real. And now it was gone, bricked by... what? A rogue signal? A virus?
His eyes drifted to the phone lying on the desk, its cracked screen dark and unassuming. He felt a twinge of unease, the memory of that strange notification creeping back into his mind. But the phone looked the same as always, just another relic of his minimalist lifestyle. Nothing about it should have been capable of affecting his system. Nothing about it should have felt so... alive.
Vincent shook his head, forcing himself to stand. “Okay, let’s figure this out.”
He moved to the small cabinet beneath his desk, pulling out a tangle of cables and adapters. If the console was bricked, maybe he could hard-reset it. He crouched down, unplugging and re-plugging wires with the precision of someone who’d done this too many times before. Still nothing.
The monitor was next. He unplugged it, checked the cord, even jiggled the ancient plug in the outlet. No response. Both were completely inert, as if something had sucked the life out of them.
Vincent sat back on his heels, running a hand through his hair. His mind began cataloging possibilities. Maybe it was a hardware failure, unlikely, but possible. Or maybe something in the game itself had corrupted the system, frying its ancient circuits with code that shouldn’t have been there. The thought made his stomach twist.
He glanced at the stack of games on his desk, their spines neatly aligned. Each one was a portal to another time, another place. They were his escape, his lifeline. And now, with his console dead, they might as well have been paperweights.
Vincent sighed, standing up and brushing off his hands. “Fine. I’ll deal with it later.”
He grabbed his phone from the desk, intending to search for repair guides or at least distract himself with something mindless. But as soon as he lifted it, the screen lit up.
The notification wasn’t from any app he recognized. It wasn’t even a message in the traditional sense. It was a countdown.
<hr>
2 Days: 23 Hours: 51 Minutes.
<hr>
The numbers ticked downward in real-time, the seconds flashing like a heartbeat. Vincent stared at it, his breath catching in his throat. The notification had no sender, no explanation. Just the cold, unrelenting march of time.
He swiped at the screen, trying to dismiss it, but the countdown stayed firmly in place. No matter what he did, double-tapping, restarting the phone, even holding the power button, it refused to go away.
“What the hell is this?” he muttered, his voice quieter now, edged with unease.
The phone felt heavier in his hand, its once-familiar weight suddenly alien. Vincent placed it back on the desk with deliberate care, his gaze flicking nervously around the room. Nothing had changed, but everything felt different. The air was colder somehow, and the faint hum of the apartment, normally a constant presence, seemed to have vanished.
Vincent began pacing, his footsteps muffled against the worn rug. His eyes scanned every corner of the apartment, searching for... something. He wasn’t sure what. Anything out of place. Anything unusual.
The stack of dishes in the sink was still there, just as he’d left it. The pile of laundry in the corner hadn’t moved. The photo on the fridge, a faded snapshot of his parents at some forgotten picnic, was still slightly crooked. Everything was the same. And yet, it wasn’t.
He stopped near the window, his gaze drifting to the open crack where the fresh air still filtered in. The street below was quiet now, the group of drone hunters long gone. For a moment, he considered closing the window, shutting out the outside world entirely. But the idea felt suffocating. Instead, he leaned against the sill, letting the cold breeze brush against his face.
The countdown lingered in his mind, the numbers flashing every time he closed his eyes. He turned back toward his desk, the dark CRT monitor and lifeless console standing like monuments to some forgotten ritual. His phone sat beside them, its screen dim but still displaying the countdown.
Vincent clenched his jaw, forcing himself to move. He walked to the desk, grabbed his chair, and pulled it out with a sharp scrape. Sitting down, he stared at the phone again, willing it to make sense.
“Three days,” he said aloud, as if speaking the words might unravel their meaning. “Three days for what?”
The phone didn’t answer. The room didn’t answer. Only the faint ticking of the countdown filled the silence, its steady rhythm growing louder in his mind.
Vincent sat back in his chair, fingers drumming nervously on the desk as the phone lay in front of him, its screen glowing faintly in the dim room. The countdown continued to tick down relentlessly:
<hr>
2 Days: 23 Hours: 48 Minutes.
<hr>
The seconds moved in steady, unyielding beats, a metronome to his growing paranoia. It wasn’t just the countdown that unsettled him, it was the silence that accompanied it. The apartment felt heavier somehow, as though the very air had thickened. Even the faint hum of the refrigerator seemed to have dulled, leaving a void that amplified every creak, every rustle.
Vincent leaned forward, elbows on his desk, and ran a hand through his hair. His mind buzzed with questions. Was this some elaborate prank? A virus? Or was it connected to what had happened to his console? He glanced at the dead CRT, the dark monitor mocking him with its stillness.
He stood abruptly, the chair sliding back with a faint screech against the floor. His pacing began again, each step across the worn rug deliberate, heavy with thought. “It’s nothing,” he told himself, though the words rang hollow. “Just some glitch. A weird coincidence.”
But the feeling wouldn’t leave him, that prickling sensation crawling across the back of his neck. It reminded him of the paranoia he used to feel as a kid, watching horror movies late at night. The way shadows seemed to lengthen, the way every small sound turned into the imagined shuffle of footsteps.
His gaze swept across the room again. The dishes were still in the sink, the laundry still piled in the corner. The photo on the fridge remained crooked. Everything was the same. Too much the same.
His eyes darted to the door, the thought striking him like a sudden jolt of static. He hadn’t checked it.
Vincent crossed the room quickly, his socks sliding slightly on the floor as he reached the door. His hand hovered over the knob for a moment, hesitating. What if it doesn’t open? The thought was irrational, but it clung to him like a splinter. What if whatever was happening, whatever this countdown meant, was trying to trap him?
With a sharp breath, he grabbed the knob and turned.
It moved easily, the faint metallic click of the latch breaking the silence. He pulled the door open and stared into the hallway beyond. The fluorescent lights buzzed faintly overhead, their harsh glow casting the chipped linoleum floor into sharp relief. It was empty, the same sterile corridor he’d walked countless times before.
Relief bloomed in his chest, but it was short-lived. The unease remained, nagging at him like an itch he couldn’t scratch. He left the door ajar and turned back toward the room. His gaze fell on the window next.
Vincent walked over, the cool air still seeping through the crack where he’d left it open earlier. He tugged it the rest of the way open, the stiff frame resisting slightly before sliding upward with a faint squeal. The chill breeze hit him fully now, ruffling his hair as he leaned out and looked down at the street below.
It was as lifeless as ever. The group from earlier was long gone, the only movement coming from a lone drone zipping silently between the buildings. Nothing unusual. Nothing strange.
Vincent pulled his head back inside and shut the window with a soft thunk, leaving it locked this time. He turned, his hands resting on his hips as his eyes swept the room again.
“Still nothing,” he muttered under his breath, his voice a little sharper now, edged with frustration. He rubbed the back of his neck and moved back toward the desk, his steps slower this time. He glanced at the phone again, the countdown as steady as ever.
<hr>
2 Days: 23 Hours: 45 Minutes.
<hr>
He sank into the chair, letting out a long sigh as his eyes roamed the room once more. Every detail was burned into his memory now. The dishes. The laundry. The photo. Nothing had changed. Absolutely nothing.
Still, he found himself getting up again, pacing, checking everything one more time. The door. The window. The desk. He ran his hands over the console, over the CRT, as if touching them might somehow breathe life back into their dead forms.
Nothing.
When he finally sat back down, his body felt heavy, the tension in his shoulders pulling him forward. He stared at the phone, the steady rhythm of the countdown ticking in his mind like a second heartbeat.
<hr>
2 Days: 23 Hours: 43 Minutes.
<hr>
He let out a dry laugh, the sound cutting through the oppressive quiet. “I’m losing it,” he muttered, running a hand through his hair again. His gaze drifted back to the stack of games on the desk, their familiar spines a small comfort against the growing unease.
The feeling reminded him of the first time he’d watched a real horror movie. Not the kid-friendly stuff his parents had started him on, but the real ones, the kind that left you checking over your shoulder for hours afterward. He remembered the way the fear lingered, how it wrapped itself around you like a cold blanket, even long after the credits rolled.
That same paranoia prickled at his mind now, subtle but persistent. It was irrational, he knew that. Nothing had changed in the apartment. Everything was exactly where it should be. And yet...
Vincent leaned back in his chair, exhaling slowly as he tried to calm the racing thoughts in his head. He told himself it was just his imagination, the product of too many late nights and too much isolation.
But no matter how much he tried to rationalize it, the feeling wouldn’t leave him.
Vincent leaned back in his chair, his hands laced behind his head as he stared at the ceiling. The oppressive silence was starting to get to him, each second stretching out longer than it had any right to. His gaze flicked back to his phone on the desk, the countdown glowing faintly like a low-burning ember.
<hr>
2 Days: 23 Hours: 39 Minutes.
<hr>
He realized he’d been glancing at it every few minutes, as if somehow expecting it to change. It didn’t. It just kept ticking down, relentless and indifferent.
Vincent swore under his breath, snatching the phone and locking the screen before tossing it back onto the desk. “Damn paranoia,” he muttered. “You’re letting this get to you.”
He stood up, rolling his shoulders to work out the stiffness, and started pacing again. He needed a distraction, something to ground him, to keep his mind from spiraling further into whatever this was. But his options were limited.
The console was still dead, the CRT a lifeless void. He glanced at the stack of games, their colorful spines mocking him with the promise of a reprieve he couldn’t access. His fingers itched to pick one up, to lose himself in the familiar tension of a survival horror title. But that wasn’t an option right now.
And his phone? Useless. He wasn’t about to mess with that damn countdown again.
“Fine,” he muttered, walking over to his small desk in the corner. His laptop was sitting there, half-buried under a pile of notebooks and cables. He powered it on, the screen flickering to life with a faint hum. At least it still worked.
The familiar desktop greeted him, a chaotic mix of shortcuts and files that he hadn’t bothered organizing in years. He opened his browser, intending to check his email, maybe send a message to one of the few online friends he still kept in touch with.
But when he navigated to the login page, something strange happened. Instead of the usual fields for his email and password, there was only a single line of text:
<hr>
This account has been deleted. Access denied.
<hr>
Vincent blinked, his fingers hesitating over the keyboard. He tried refreshing the page, thinking it might be a glitch. Nothing changed.
“What the hell?” he muttered, frowning as he leaned closer. He clicked on the help link, but it redirected him to the same page. His email was gone.
His mind raced, the familiar weight of paranoia creeping back in. It couldn’t be a coincidence, not after the console, the CRT, the phone. Something, whatever this was, didn’t want him reaching out.This tale has been unlawfully obtained from Royal Road. If you discover it on Amazon, kindly report it.
For a moment, panic bubbled up in his chest. He wasn’t exactly the most social person, but he wasn’t completely isolated either. He had connections, fellow horror buffs he chatted with in forums, people who shared his love for the genre and the catharsis it brought.
But the thought only made him laugh, a dry, humorless sound that broke the oppressive silence. He pushed himself back from the desk, shaking his head.
“They don’t know, do they?” he said aloud, the words carrying an edge of defiance. “I don’t have anyone close. No family, no friends to call up and save me. Just a few people online who’d probably think this is some elaborate prank if I told them.”
The laughter faded, leaving a bitter taste in his mouth. He rubbed the back of his neck, the tension in his shoulders returning. He wasn’t sure what was worse, the idea that someone was actively trying to isolate him, or the fact that he was already so isolated it didn’t even matter.
The laptop screen dimmed slightly, the cursor blinking in the empty search bar. Vincent stared at it for a moment before closing the lid with a soft click. The idea of trying to reach out felt pointless now, like screaming into a void.
He stood up and paced to the window, running his hands through his hair as he stared out at the darkened street below. The breeze from earlier had stopped, the air still and heavy now.
“Okay,” he said to himself, his voice quiet but firm. “So it doesn’t want me reaching out. Fine. That’s fine. I can handle this.”
Vincent leaned back against the desk, his fingers tapping an irregular rhythm on the wooden surface as he stared at the closed lid of his laptop. His mind churned, pulling at threads of logic, memory, and intuition in a desperate attempt to make sense of what was happening.
Then it hit him, there was one place he could go.
The forums.
They weren’t just any forums; they were the forums. Hidden corners of the web where horror enthusiasts gathered, trading stories, theories, and forbidden content. He hadn’t been active on them for a while, not since life had settled into its predictable monotony. But he knew those people. If anyone could help him figure this out, it would be them.
Vincent flipped the laptop open again, the screen casting a faint glow across his face. He navigated quickly, his fingers flying over the keyboard with the muscle memory of someone who’d done this a thousand times. The first step was opening the VPN, a cobbled-together service that barely worked half the time but was good enough to keep prying eyes away.
Once the connection was secure, he entered the URL. It wasn’t something you could find on the surface web, and even if you did, the main page was designed to look like a long-abandoned blog about film tropes. The real forums were hidden behind a login screen, accessible only with the right credentials.
Vincent paused, his fingers hovering over the keyboard. He hadn’t used his login in years, but he remembered it clearly. How could he not? He’d created it when he was fourteen, back when he was convinced he was the next great horror auteur.
With a deep breath, he typed in the username:
<hr>
DarkRaven_Nightmare999
<hr>
He cringed inwardly as the letters appeared on the screen, the memory of his younger self painfully vivid. Fourteen-year-old Vincent had been sure this name sounded cool and mysterious, the kind of moniker that would strike fear, or at least mild respect, into the hearts of his fellow forum members. Now, it just felt embarrassing.
He typed in the password next, his lips twitching into a faint smile as he remembered it.
<hr>
BloodMoon_Eternal999
<hr>
Because of course, the numbers had to match.
The login screen spun for a moment before the page loaded, revealing the familiar dark theme of the forums. The background was a grainy texture that resembled fog, with faint silhouettes of trees at the edges. The banner at the top still bore the same phrase it had for years:
"In Shadows, We Speak."
Vincent clicked into the general discussion board, his eyes scanning the thread titles. Most of them were the usual fare, debates about classic horror films, analyses of obscure urban legends, and the occasional blurry screenshot of some alleged “lost” game.
He hit the “New Thread” button and leaned back, cracking his knuckles before typing out the title. For a moment, he hesitated. He needed this post to stand out, but not in a way that screamed “troll” or “attention seeker.”
And then he remembered the code word.
It was an unwritten rule on the forums, something everyone respected. If you used this specific word, it meant you were being completely serious, no matter how outlandish your claim. It wasn’t flashy or dramatic, just a single, unassuming word.
<hr>
Thread Title: Help Needed (Trust)
<hr>
Satisfied, Vincent moved on to the body of the post. He tried to summarize everything as clearly as possible, starting with the strange notification on his phone and ending with his bricked console and email account. The more he typed, the more absurd it sounded, but he forced himself to keep going.
<hr>
Hey everyone, long time no see. Not sure if anyone remembers me, but I need some serious help. Something weird is happening, and I don’t know how else to deal with it. Here’s the short version:
<ul>
<li>I got a notification on my phone about some kind of countdown. It just showed a time, 2 Days, 23 Hours, and some minutes. No sender, no app name. Just... there.</li>
</ul>
<ul>
<li>My gaming setup, including my console and monitor, stopped working right after. Completely dead.</li>
</ul>
<ul>
<li>My email account is gone. Deleted. I can’t access it at all.</li>
</ul>
I know this sounds insane, but it feels like whatever this is, it’s trying to isolate me. Like it’s cutting me off from everything.
If you’re going to reply, please pretend this is real. Don’t care if you think I’m full of crap, just give me your honest thoughts as if it’s 100% true.
Thanks.
<ul>
<li>DarkRaven_Nightmare999</li>
</ul>
<hr>
Vincent stared at the screen, rereading the post twice before hitting “Submit.” As the page refreshed and the thread appeared in the list, he felt a flicker of anxiety. The forums were a tight-knit community, but they didn’t suffer fools lightly. He could already imagine the responses, half of them serious, half of them mocking his old username.
Still, he felt better having done something, even if it was just shouting into the void.
Leaning back in his chair, he glanced at his phone again. The countdown ticked on, unrelenting.
Vincent tapped his fingers against the desk, his gaze fixed on the forum thread he’d just posted. The screen hadn’t refreshed yet, and the line of text at the bottom, “No replies yet”, stared back at him like a taunt.
He leaned back in his chair, arms crossed, his foot jiggling nervously against the floor. Waiting was the worst part. His mind filled the silence with imagined scenarios, each one more unsettling than the last. What if no one replied? What if whatever was happening to him, whatever had bricked his console, deleted his email, and planted that countdown, wasn’t just isolating him physically but digitally too?
He tried to push the thought aside, but it clung to him, digging in like a thorn. He clicked the refresh button again, his stomach twisting when the screen blinked back to life with no change. Still nothing.
“Relax,” he muttered to himself, running a hand through his hair. “It’s just a forum. People don’t reply instantly.”
But the minutes dragged on, each one stretching longer than the last. The silence of the apartment felt heavier now, pressing down on him like a weighted blanket.
He refreshed the page again. Nothing.
Vincent let out a frustrated sigh, his foot jiggling faster now. The forum was always active, even in the dead of night. Someone should have seen his post by now. His mind raced, each passing second adding fuel to the fire of his paranoia. What if the VPN wasn’t working? What if the forums had gone down, or worse, been compromised?
“What if it blocked me?” The words slipped out before he could stop them, and he immediately hated how ridiculous they sounded. Still, the thought was there now, gnawing at the edges of his mind.
He refreshed the page again, the click of the mouse too loud in the quiet room. The screen loaded slowly this time, and for a heart-stopping moment, he thought it might not load at all. But when it finally refreshed, something new appeared.
<hr>
Replies: 3
<hr>
Vincent let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding, his shoulders sagging as the tension ebbed slightly. Relief flooded through him, though it was tinged with the faintest edge of lingering unease.
He clicked into the thread, his eyes scanning the replies as his heart began to slow.
The first reply was from a user he recognized, "Cryptkeeper69", someone who had been around the forums even longer than he had. They always had a knack for pulling obscure references out of thin air, and their reply didn’t disappoint.
<hr>
Okay, first off: wow. This is giving serious The Ring vibes. Countdown? Strange interference with your electronics? Classic cursed media trope. My advice: don’t ignore it. These things always escalate when you try to brush them off. Maybe try communicating with it, if it’s sentient, it might respond. Or it might just kill you faster. Who knows? Good luck!
<hr>
Vincent couldn’t help but laugh, a short, sharp bark that broke the silence of the room. The humor was morbid, but it was exactly what he needed.
The second reply came from "ScreamQueen22", someone he vaguely remembered as a hardcore slasher fan. Their tone was more cautious.
<hr>
This is weird, but it doesn’t sound like a prank. If horror movies have taught me anything, it’s to trust your instincts. If you think this thing is trying to isolate you, then it probably is. Keep your doors and windows locked, and don’t let your guard down. If you’ve got sage or any other ritual stuff, maybe burn some just in case, it can’t hurt, right?
<hr>
Vincent rolled his eyes, though the advice wasn’t entirely unwelcome. He didn’t have sage lying around, but the idea of locking his doors and windows didn’t seem so crazy.
The third reply was from a newer user, "Obscura7", someone whose name he didn’t recognize. Their reply was the most serious, and it sent a faint chill down his spine.
<hr>
If this is real, then you need to start documenting everything. Write it down, take pictures, record audio, whatever you can. The countdown might mean you’re being tested, or it could be a warning. Either way, you need proof. And whatever you do, DON’T break the chain. If you started engaging with it, you have to see it through.
<hr>
Vincent leaned back in his chair, letting out another breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. The replies were exactly what he’d hoped for: serious, direct, and laced with just enough gallows humor to keep him grounded.
He refreshed the thread one more time, watching as more replies trickled in. Each one carried its own flavor of advice, from practical suggestions to outright absurdities. But the unwritten rule of the forum held firm, everyone treated his post like it was real.
For the first time in hours, Vincent felt himself begin to relax. He didn’t know if any of their advice would actually help, but just knowing that someone, anyone, was out there listening was enough to steady his nerves.
He leaned back in his chair, staring at the screen as the faint beginnings of a smile tugged at the corners of his lips.
Vincent scrolled through the replies again, his eyes darting over the familiar mix of gallows humor, practical advice, and outright absurdities. Most of the names in the thread were the usual suspects: edgy, dramatic handles meant to match the tone of the forum. But one response caught his eye, not because of what it said, but because of who it came from.
The username was startlingly mundane: "JohnB47."
Compared to Cryptkeeper69 and ScreamQueen22, it stuck out like a sore thumb. It wasn’t the kind of name you saw on these forums. No dramatic flair, no reference to horror or darkness. Just plain, simple, unremarkable.
That was what made it so unsettling.
Vincent clicked on the reply, his curiosity overriding the faint chill running down his spine. The message wasn’t long, but something about it made his breath hitch.
<hr>
"Do not ignore the countdown. It is already too late to stop it, but you may still survive. The isolation is the first stage, it’s meant to prepare you, to strip you of distractions. You’re already chosen, Vincent Price. You always were.
Remember: Do not run. Do not hide. And whatever you do, do not answer when it knocks."
<hr>
Vincent’s fingers tightened on the edge of his desk. He didn’t notice he was leaning forward until his nose was practically brushing the screen. He read the message once, then again, the words sinking deeper into his mind with each pass.
“Do not answer when it knocks,” he whispered, the phrase tumbling from his lips like a stone dropping into water.
The words were heavy, almost physically so, as though speaking them aloud brought them closer to reality. The weight of them pressed down on his chest, a cold knot forming in the pit of his stomach.
For a moment, Vincent sat there in silence, the faint hum of his laptop the only sound in the room. Then, with trembling fingers, he clicked on the username.
The page loaded quickly, revealing... nothing.
<hr>
User Not Found.
<hr>
“What the hell?” Vincent muttered, his voice sharp in the stillness of the apartment. He refreshed the page, but the result was the same. There was no profile, no history, no evidence that JohnB47 had ever existed.
His heart began to pound, the steady rhythm filling his ears as he clicked back to the thread. He scrolled through the replies, searching for the message, but it wasn’t there.
It was gone.
Vincent’s mouth went dry. He scrolled again, slower this time, scanning each reply carefully. Cryptkeeper69. ScreamQueen22. Obscura7. All the others were still there. But the one from JohnB47? Gone.
He cursed under his breath, his hands clenching into fists. He should have taken a screenshot. He should have saved it, something. But the thought hadn’t even crossed his mind in the moment. He’d been too caught up in the weight of the words, the strange familiarity they carried.
Pushing back from the desk, Vincent ran a hand through his hair, his fingers tugging at the strands. His mind churned with possibilities, none of them comforting. Had someone deleted the message? Or worse, had it never been there at all?
Vincent’s fingers hovered over the keyboard, his thoughts still churning as he tried to make sense of what had just happened. The message, the disappeared message, felt like a thread dangling in the void, teasing him with the promise of answers he couldn’t quite reach. He clicked into his original post and began typing, summarizing the strange reply as best as he could remember.
<hr>
Edit: Something weird just happened. Got a reply from a user named ‘JohnB47.’ They said the countdown couldn’t be stopped, that isolation was the first stage, and that I shouldn’t answer if it knocks. Tried clicking on the username, but it says they don’t exist. Now the reply is gone completely.
Not sure if anyone saw it before it disappeared, but let me know if you did.
<hr>
He paused for a moment, rereading his words. It felt incomplete, but what else was there to say? With a frustrated sigh, he hit Post Edit and leaned back in his chair.
The laptop screen dimmed slightly, a subtle reminder that he’d been staring at it for too long. His gaze drifted to the stack of dishes in the sink, the pile of laundry in the corner, the cluttered desk. The weight of his surroundings pressed down on him, amplified by the uneasy silence of the apartment.
He couldn’t sit here all day. Not now. Not with this hanging over him.
Vincent stood, stretching until his joints popped. The tension in his shoulders made him wince, a physical manifestation of the growing anxiety he couldn’t shake. He glanced at the window, still shut tight, and then at the door, still unlocked. Everything was as it should be, and yet...
“Alright,” he muttered, his voice breaking the silence. “Might as well do something productive.”
He moved to the sink, grabbing the stack of dishes and running the water until it turned warm. The routine was comforting, in a way, a small, tangible task that let him focus on something other than the countdown ticking away in the back of his mind. He scrubbed each plate methodically, rinsing and stacking them on the drying rack.
As he worked, his thoughts drifted to horror games. He’d spent so many years immersed in them, dissecting their mechanics, their tropes, their rules. There had to be something he could use here, some practical advice buried in all those hours of gameplay.
One thought stood out above the rest: Silent Hill.
The static.
In the game, the protagonist’s radio would emit bursts of static whenever a monster was nearby. It was a simple mechanic, but it worked. The static became a warning system, a signal that danger was close even when you couldn’t see it.
Vincent glanced over his shoulder, half expecting to see something lurking in the shadows of his apartment. Of course, there was nothing there. The silence pressed in again, thicker now, as if mocking him for the thought.
Still, the idea stuck with him. If something was happening, if this countdown, this isolation, meant what he thought it did, then he needed to be ready. He needed his own version of the static, something to warn him if things started to go sideways.
“Maybe a motion detector,” he mused, rinsing the last plate and setting it aside. “Or... a baby monitor? Something cheap and simple.”
The thought made him laugh, a soft, bitter sound that felt too loud in the stillness of the room. “You’re losing it,” he muttered, drying his hands on a towel. “Talking about monsters like they’re real.”
But the laugh didn’t last. The memory of the message lingered, its words etched into his mind: Do not run. Do not hide. Do not answer when it knocks.
He moved to the pile of laundry next, scooping it up and dumping it into the small washer tucked into the corner of his apartment. The hum of the machine starting up was a welcome break from the silence, though it did little to ease the unease gnawing at the edges of his thoughts.
As he folded what little clean laundry he had left, he mentally reviewed what he knew about survival horror. Inventory management, he thought. Keep supplies close. Don’t waste resources. Not exactly useful advice in real life, but maybe there was something to be said for being prepared. He glanced toward the kitchen, mentally cataloging the contents of his cupboards. A few cans of soup, some pasta, a nearly-empty jar of peanut butter. Not exactly a survivalist’s dream.
He added it to the growing list of things to worry about.
The washer rumbled softly in the background as Vincent leaned against the counter, staring at his phone on the desk. The countdown continued its steady march, the numbers ticking down one second at a time.