《The Price of Fear》
Chapter 1:
Vincent Price stared at the cracks in the ceiling of his apartment. There were five of them, faint spiderweb patterns etched into the dull plaster. He¡¯d been counting them for weeks, waiting for something, anything, to change. But change was rare these days. Even the cracks were stagnant, refusing to grow.
He shifted in his chair, the creak of old wood breaking the silence. The air in his apartment was heavy, carrying the faint, sour scent of too many meals eaten alone and too few windows opened. Outside, the world droned on, mechanical and indifferent.
The city beyond his window was lifeless in the way only a machine-run world could be. Rows of identical buildings stretched to the horizon, their facades gray and featureless. The streets below were orderly, swept clean by tireless automated cleaners. Delivery drones flitted through the air like oversized insects, their movements precise, purposeful. There were no people walking the sidewalks, no conversations drifting through open windows. Humanity had been streamlined, optimized, and, in the process, rendered nearly invisible.
Vincent sipped from a mug of cold coffee, his hand trembling slightly as he lifted it to his lips. It was more sugar than caffeine, a poor attempt to inject some energy into his lifeless mornings. The taste didn¡¯t matter. What mattered was the routine, the small act of doing something.
He set the mug down and leaned back, the chair groaning under his weight. He wasn¡¯t overweight, not yet, anyway, but the lack of movement, the sedentary existence forced upon him by the world, was starting to take its toll. He could feel it in his muscles, or rather, in the places where his muscles used to be.
A soft hum vibrated through the room as a drone passed by his window. It was the only sound, save for his own breathing and the occasional gurgle of the ancient fridge in the corner. The hum faded as quickly as it had come, leaving behind an even deeper silence.
Vincent hated the silence. It wasn¡¯t just the absence of noise, it was the absence of life. It pressed in on him, reminding him of the void where connection, purpose, and meaning should have been.
He glanced at the small stack of bills on his desk, though he knew they were irrelevant. Universal income took care of all his basic needs, food, shelter, utilities, but it didn¡¯t cover much else. A 10% entertainment cap was enforced on everyone, a government mandate designed to keep people from indulging too much in distractions. It was supposed to maintain "societal balance," but all it really did was leave people with just enough to realize how hollow their lives had become.
Entertainment was supposed to fill the gap. But the legal offerings were sterile, algorithmically generated fluff. Videos tailored to the broadest demographics, games designed to stimulate without challenging, VR experiences that smoothed every edge until they were more like dreams than reality. They were safe, predictable. Bland.
Vincent tried them all, at first, anyway. Back when he still thought there might be something out there worth his time. But after years of slogging through procedurally generated romances and endless procedurally tailored action flicks, he¡¯d given up. The algorithms weren¡¯t made to surprise or provoke; they were made to pacify. To keep people quiet, content, and, most importantly, compliant.
But Vincent didn¡¯t want to be pacified. He wanted to feel something, fear, anger, exhilaration. He wanted to hurt again, if only to remind himself that he was still capable of feeling anything at all.
That¡¯s why he turned to retro games. They weren¡¯t just entertainment; they were a rebellion against the bland, prepackaged narratives of modern media. He¡¯d spent countless hours replaying old survival horror titles, even though he knew every scare, every twist, every pixelated jump-scare by heart. At least they had teeth. At least they tried.
The stack of game cases on his desk told the story of his descent: Resident Evil 4, Silent Hill 2, Dead Space. He loved them all, but even they were starting to lose their edge. The tension wasn¡¯t there anymore; the fear felt hollow. It was like watching a magician perform the same trick over and over, knowing exactly where the rabbit would appear.
Vincent reached for the controller, his fingers brushing against the worn plastic. The console on his desk was a relic, an ancient piece of hardware that had somehow survived the march of progress. He powered it on, the screen flickering to life with a faint hum. The CRT monitor glowed dimly, casting the room in a pale blue light.
The game loaded slowly, its graphics blocky and outdated, but Vincent didn¡¯t mind. The clunkiness was part of the charm. He navigated the menus with practiced ease, selecting the save file where his character had left off, a dark, foggy forest, a flashlight barely cutting through the gloom.
The sound design was still good. He could hear the crunch of leaves underfoot, the distant howl of some unseen creature. But the magic was gone. He guided his character through the woods, half-heartedly dodging enemies and solving puzzles. It wasn¡¯t scary anymore. It wasn¡¯t anything anymore.
After a few minutes, he let the controller drop into his lap. His character stood motionless in the middle of the forest, the flashlight beam swinging gently back and forth. Vincent stared at the screen, his mind wandering.
This was it. This was his life. A 30-year-old man in a tiny apartment, playing games that no longer scared him, waiting for cracks in the ceiling to grow.
He rubbed his eyes and leaned back, the chair groaning in protest. His parents would¡¯ve hated this, hated what he¡¯d become. They¡¯d been horror fanatics, the kind of people who watched The Fly with the lights off and introduced their son to the classics before he was old enough to understand half of what was happening on screen.
¡°Vincent Price,¡± his father had said once, beaming with pride. ¡°He¡¯s going to grow up to love horror just as much as we do. Maybe even make it himself.¡±
Vincent snorted at the memory. He¡¯d grown up to love horror, sure. But the rest of it? A joke. His parents were gone, taken too soon by a car crash that no AI could predict, no algorithm could prevent. They¡¯d left him with a name that carried too much weight and a love for a genre that no longer felt alive.
He glanced back at the screen. His character was still there, flashlight flickering. The forest loomed around him, dark and empty.
Dark and empty, Vincent thought. Just like the rest of the world.
Horror had been outlawed for nearly a decade, and though Vincent had never been the protesting type, the ban felt personal. The official reasoning was clear: studies had shown that exposure to violent media increased societal stress. The government claimed it wasn¡¯t about censorship, it was about public health. They said horror desensitized people, normalized violence, and exacerbated mental health crises in a world already frayed at the edges.
Vincent thought that was bullshit.
Sure, some people couldn¡¯t handle the jump-scares and gore, but horror had always been more than that. It was a mirror held up to humanity, reflecting its fears, its flaws, its hidden darkness. It wasn¡¯t about the blood or the screaming, it was about survival, about finding hope in the face of unimaginable terror.
But no one wanted to hear that. The world had gone soft, obsessed with eliminating discomfort. It wasn¡¯t just horror that had been banned; anything remotely violent had been wiped off the legal entertainment market. Horror games, action thrillers, even historical dramas that depicted war, all gone.
What remained was safe. Predictable. Hollow.
Vincent rubbed at his temples, the faint beginnings of a headache gnawing at the base of his skull. He pushed himself up from his chair, stretching until his joints popped. His back ached from sitting too long, but that was nothing new.
The room around him was dimly lit, cluttered but comfortable in a way only he could appreciate. Stacks of old game cases leaned precariously against the walls, their spines a rainbow of faded colors. The oldest ones were relics from the late ¡®90s, jewel cases with thick manuals inside. He ran a finger along the edge of one stack, pausing on a familiar title: Silent Hill.
Vincent smiled faintly. His parents had introduced him to that one when he was twelve, not long before they died. It had scared the hell out of him back then, the fog, the radio static, the way the monsters seemed to crawl straight out of his nightmares. Now it was comforting, like an old friend.
The newer titles were just as cherished, though they¡¯d stopped coming after the ban. Dead Space, The Last of Us, Resident Evil 7. He knew them all by heart, from the opening cinematics to the hidden collectibles. They sat beside his older games, forming a patchwork timeline of his life.
On the desk sat his pride and joy: a Frankenstein of a console cobbled together from parts of a PlayStation 2, an Xbox 360, and a PC tower from 2010. It wasn¡¯t pretty, but it ran everything he needed it to, from pixelated classics to modern remakes. Beside it, a smaller setup housed his handheld collection, Game Boys, PSPs, and a modded Switch that had somehow escaped confiscation.
He stretched again, rolling his shoulders as he moved toward the small kitchenette in the corner. The fridge hummed faintly, its once-pristine surface now covered in old magnets and a single faded photo. Vincent opened it and stared at the contents: a few cans of energy drinks, a half-eaten pizza, and a suspicious-looking block of cheese. He grabbed the pizza and tossed it onto the counter, reheating it in the microwave with a flick of a button.
While it heated, he glanced out the window. The street below was as empty as ever, the shadows long and sharp in the late afternoon light. Crime was rare in this part of the city, but not unheard of. Every so often, the news would report on some idiot looking for a thrill, breaking into an apartment or stealing from a drone.
The punishment for those crimes was severe, weeks of income suspension, sometimes longer. Still, there were those who thought the risk was worth it. Boredom did strange things to people.
Vincent had no illusions about his ability to fight off an intruder, but he liked to think he¡¯d at least be ready. He kept a baseball bat by the door, not because he expected to use it, but because the news stories always left him uneasy. Most of the time, the criminals didn¡¯t even get caught by the people they targeted. The drones took care of that, swarming the streets like oversized wasps whenever someone stepped out of line.
The microwave beeped, and Vincent pulled the pizza out, the plate warm against his hands. He took a bite as he leaned against the counter, chewing thoughtfully. The taste was bland, but food was food. He washed it down with a sip of water from a scratched plastic cup, his gaze drifting back to his desk.
His games stared back at him, their spines like silent witnesses to a life spent in limbo. Each one was a portal to a different world, a different version of himself. In Silent Hill, he was a grieving father searching for his daughter. In Dead Space, he was an engineer battling his own demons as much as the Necromorphs. In The Last of Us, he was a reluctant protector, forced to confront the fragility of humanity.
But here, in this apartment, he was just Vincent. A man with a famous name and nothing to show for it.
He finished the pizza and rinsed the plate in the sink, the water running cold against his hands. His routine was the same every day: wake up, play a game, eat something, and wait for the hours to pass. It wasn¡¯t much of a life, but it was his.
Vincent turned back to his window, something tugging at the edges of his attention. He wasn¡¯t sure why, it was probably nothing, just another drone passing by or a flicker of light. But the thought lingered, a nagging itch he couldn¡¯t ignore. With a sigh, he set the plate in the sink, wiped his hands on his shirt, and shuffled back to the window.
Sliding it open took more effort than it should have. The track had warped over time, and he hadn¡¯t opened it in weeks. When the glass finally budged, a rush of cool air poured into the room, carrying with it the faint, sharp tang of ozone. It was different from the usual stale atmosphere of his apartment, and for a moment, he just stood there, letting the breeze wash over him.
Outside, something was happening.
A small group of people had gathered on the street below, five, maybe six of them, though it was hard to tell from this height. They were dressed casually, some in oversized hoodies, others in patched-up jackets that looked older than Vincent¡¯s console. But what caught his attention wasn¡¯t their appearance; it was what they were doing.
They were hunting drones.
Vincent leaned out slightly, resting his elbows on the sill for a better view. The group moved with surprising coordination, almost like a sports team practicing drills. One of them held a makeshift net, its edges weighted with scraps of metal to give it heft. Another carried a long pole, probably scavenged from some forgotten construction site. The rest acted as spotters, their eyes scanning the sky with sharp focus.This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.
¡°Got one!¡± a man shouted, pointing upward.
A drone buzzed into view, its sleek black frame glinting in the afternoon light. It was lower than usual, hovering just above the height of the streetlights. Vincent frowned. That wasn¡¯t normal. Drones usually stayed high, far out of reach of anyone who might be tempted to mess with them.
The man with the net swung it up and out in a wide arc, catching the drone¡¯s rotors mid-spin. It wobbled violently, the motor whining in protest, but the net¡¯s weights did their job. The drone crashed to the ground with a metallic thud, its tiny propellers snapping off as it hit the pavement.
The group erupted into cheers, high-fiving and clapping each other on the back like they¡¯d just won a championship game. One of them bent down to examine the drone, prying open its casing to reveal a cluster of blinking lights and delicate circuitry. He held it up like a trophy, grinning from ear to ear.
Vincent watched, a mix of amusement and confusion swirling in his chest. This wasn¡¯t the first time he¡¯d seen people act out against the AI-run systems, but it was the first time he¡¯d seen something like this, organized, almost playful. Normally, defying the drones meant risking a swarm response: a fleet of reinforcements swooping in to neutralize the threat. But this? This felt... calculated.
And then it clicked.
The drones were bait.
The realization hit Vincent like a splash of cold water. The AI system, the same one that controlled everything from food distribution to entertainment, was letting this happen. He didn¡¯t know how he knew, but he was sure of it. The drones were flying lower on purpose, tempting people into these little games. It was a concession, a minor sacrifice to keep the masses entertained.
Vincent chuckled, shaking his head. ¡°Smart bastards.¡±
It made sense, in a twisted way. The AI had long since learned that people couldn¡¯t be pacified entirely. No matter how carefully it curated their lives, no matter how much control it exerted, humans would always find a way to push back. So it let them. It gave them these small victories, taking down a drone, hacking into an old system, knowing full well it could afford the loss.
From this height, Vincent could almost see the outlines of the larger system at play. The group below thought they were rebelling, but they weren¡¯t. They were playing a part in the AI¡¯s endless balancing act, their defiance nothing more than a calculated variable.
And yet, they were smiling. Laughing. For a moment, they looked like kids playing tag in the summer, their worries forgotten.
Vincent pulled back from the window, the fresh air already growing cold against his skin. He didn¡¯t bother closing it all the way, leaving it cracked just enough to let the breeze linger. His gaze drifted back to the street, where the group had already moved on, their makeshift tools slung over their shoulders as they disappeared around the corner.
He envied them, in a way. They had something to break the monotony, even if it was just a carefully engineered illusion. For a brief moment, he wondered what it would feel like to join them, to stand in the sunlight and cheer as a drone fell to the ground.
But then he remembered the news stories. The warnings. The rare but chilling accounts of people who pushed too far, who stepped outside the bounds of what the AI allowed. They didn¡¯t just lose their income; they disappeared entirely. No one talked about them afterward, and no one dared to ask questions.
Vincent pushed away from the window, the chill of the breeze settling into his skin as he turned back toward his chair. The air felt different now, charged with the faintest trace of something unfamiliar, though he couldn¡¯t quite place it. He told himself it was just the adrenaline from watching the group below. After all, how often did anything remotely exciting happen in his world?
His bare feet padded softly against the scuffed hardwood floor as he crossed the room, the dim light from the CRT monitor casting faint shadows on the walls. The clutter on his desk seemed to have shifted slightly, though he knew that was just his imagination playing tricks on him. He was halfway to his chair when he noticed it, his phone, sitting face-up on the desk, blinking with a soft, rhythmic light.
Vincent frowned. His phone never did that. It was an old, no-frills model, the kind you got for free when you signed up for a basic universal plan. It didn¡¯t have customizable notifications, let alone the ability to glow like that. But there it was, pulsing faintly, like a heartbeat in the dark.
Curiosity pulled him closer. He reached for the phone, the cold plastic smooth against his fingers as he picked it up. The screen lit up instantly, revealing a single notification.
"Do you dare to experience true horror?
Tap to discover your destiny."
The words were simple, but there was something about them that made Vincent¡¯s pulse quicken. It wasn¡¯t just the phrasing, it was the way they seemed to be speaking directly to him. True horror. Those words had weight. They carried the promise of something real, something raw, something he hadn¡¯t felt in years.
And then there was the image.
It hovered above the text, faintly animated, like a GIF. At first glance, it seemed like nothing more than a shadowy figure, its features obscured by darkness. But as Vincent stared, he began to notice the details, details that shouldn¡¯t have been there on a screen this small, on a phone this outdated.
The figure¡¯s face was obscured by a crude, hand-carved mask, the kind you¡¯d expect to see in a low-budget slasher film. Its eyes, if they could even be called eyes, glowed faintly, two pinpricks of red light that seemed to pulse in time with the notification¡¯s soft glow. The mask was cracked in places, as though it had been broken and hastily repaired. And beneath it, a single hand emerged from the shadows, holding what looked like a shard of glass or a knife.
The longer Vincent stared, the more the image seemed to shift, the edges blurring and sharpening in ways that made his head ache. Was the figure moving? No, it couldn¡¯t be, but the flicker of its outline suggested otherwise.
He shook his head, blinking hard to clear his thoughts. This had to be a prank. Someone had hacked his phone, or maybe it was just some clever ad targeting system gone rogue. He swiped at the screen, but the notification wouldn¡¯t go away. Instead, the text shifted slightly, new words appearing beneath the original message.
"It waits for you in the dark.
Are you ready to play?"
Vincent¡¯s stomach twisted. His first instinct was to delete the app, if it even was an app, but something held him back. He told himself it was caution, that he didn¡¯t want to accidentally brick his phone by messing with whatever malware this was. But deep down, he knew it was something else. Something darker.
This is just a prank, he thought, forcing himself to look away. It¡¯s nothing.
With a deliberate motion, he pressed the power button, letting the screen go black. The pulsing light stopped, and the room felt a little darker without it.
Still, the image lingered in his mind as he dropped the phone back onto the desk, the faint outline of the figure¡¯s mask etched into his thoughts. He shook his head, forcing himself to dismiss it. ¡°Pranksters,¡± he muttered under his breath. ¡°Nothing better to do.¡±
His gaze shifted to the stack of games beside his console, their colorful spines offering a welcome distraction. He reached for one near the middle of the pile, its cover art faded but still recognizable.
Slender: The Eight Pages.
The name was barely legible under the scuffed plastic of the jewel case. It was an old indie horror title, something he¡¯d found on a forum years ago and burned onto a CD. He¡¯d only played it once or twice, back then, the minimalistic graphics and simplistic gameplay hadn¡¯t impressed him. But now, it felt like the perfect antidote to whatever weirdness had just happened with his phone.
Vincent slid the disc into his cobbled-together console, the drive whirring softly as it loaded. He grabbed the controller and slumped into his chair, his body sinking into the worn fabric as the game¡¯s menu appeared on the screen.
The title screen was as unassuming as he remembered: a black background, plain white text, and the faint hum of ambient noise. He navigated to ¡°Start Game,¡± the controller¡¯s buttons clicking softly under his fingers.
The screen faded to black, and when it returned, he was standing in the middle of a forest. The graphics were simple, trees that looked like cardboard cutouts, a flashlight beam that barely illuminated the path ahead. But there was something about the atmosphere, the oppressive silence broken only by the crunch of his character¡¯s footsteps, that made his skin prickle.
As he guided his character forward, Vincent found himself glancing back at his phone. It sat there on the desk, dark and silent, as if nothing had happened. He shook his head again, more forcefully this time, and turned his attention back to the game.
It was just a prank. Nothing more.
But as the static began to creep into his headphones, and the faint outline of the Slender Man appeared in the distance, Vincent couldn¡¯t shake the feeling that something had already changed.
Vincent guided his character through the dark forest, the flashlight beam wavering slightly with every step. The CRT¡¯s faint glow flickered across the room, casting jagged shadows that danced along the walls. The graphics weren¡¯t much, just a few polygons strung together to resemble trees and a dirt path, but the atmosphere was still effective. It had that eerie, quiet tension that so many modern games lacked, a sense of dread that didn¡¯t rely on cheap jump scares.
He moved deeper into the woods, the ambient noise growing louder in his headphones. A low, droning hum filled the air, accompanied by the faint rustling of unseen leaves. It was the kind of sound that made you instinctively look over your shoulder, even when you knew nothing was there.
After a minute or two, he spotted it: the first page.
It was taped to the side of a crooked tree, its edges fluttering slightly in an imaginary breeze. The stark white of the paper stood out against the muted tones of the forest, practically begging to be picked up. Vincent moved closer, the flashlight illuminating the faint scribbles on the page.
He pressed the button to interact, and the page filled the screen. But instead of the usual crude drawing or cryptic phrase, there was something else.
Something new.
"Do you crave the thrill of the unknown?
Do you long to face your deepest fears?
The game has already begun."
Vincent froze.
This wasn¡¯t supposed to happen. He¡¯d played Slender before, years ago. He knew what the pages were supposed to say: things like ¡°Don¡¯t look, or it takes you¡± or ¡°Leave me alone.¡± They were vague, unsettling phrases meant to heighten the tension, nothing more. But this? This was different.
His pulse quickened as he stared at the words, his mind racing to find a logical explanation. Maybe the disc had been tampered with. It was an old copy, after all, burned from a download on a shady forum. Or maybe it was some kind of glitch, a fragment of corrupted code pulling text from who-knew-where.
But as much as he tried to dismiss it, a sinking feeling settled in his chest. The phrasing was too familiar. It was almost identical to the notification he¡¯d seen on his phone just minutes ago.
Vincent¡¯s fingers hovered over the controller, uncertain. He could quit now, eject the disc, and toss it in the trash. He could pretend he hadn¡¯t seen anything and go back to the safety of his routine.
But wasn¡¯t this what he wanted?
His lips pressed into a thin line as the question echoed in his mind. He¡¯d spent years chasing something real, something that could break through the monotony of his existence. And now, here it was, staring him in the face, daring him to continue.
With a deep breath, he pressed the button to exit the page and move on.
The hum in the game grew louder, more oppressive, as he made his way through the forest. The flashlight¡¯s beam flickered slightly, the faint distortion adding to the unease. He could feel his palms growing damp against the controller, the tension creeping into his shoulders.
It didn¡¯t take long to find the second page. This one was taped to the side of an abandoned shed, its surface streaked with rust. Vincent hesitated for a moment, his thumb hovering over the button to pick it up.
He pressed it.
"The path forward is not what it seems.
Every step you take brings you closer to the truth.
Will you turn back, or will you embrace the darkness?"
Vincent¡¯s breath caught in his throat. The words felt heavier now, more personal. They didn¡¯t belong here, he knew that much. The game wasn¡¯t supposed to speak to him like this. It wasn¡¯t supposed to know him.
The sound design shifted, a faint static crackling at the edges of the forest¡¯s ambient noise. He paused the game, leaning back in his chair as he ran a hand through his hair. His gaze flicked to the phone on his desk, dark and silent where he¡¯d left it.
¡°Coincidence,¡± he muttered to himself, though his voice lacked conviction. ¡°It¡¯s just... a weird coincidence.¡±
But the doubt lingered. What if it wasn¡¯t? What if something, or someone, was watching him, guiding him? The thought sent a shiver down his spine.
Shaking his head, Vincent leaned forward and unpaused the game. He had to see this through.
The third page was pinned to the side of a crumbling wall, its bricks cracked and weathered with age. The flashlight¡¯s beam illuminated the page as he picked it up.
"You seek the thrill of fear, but are you prepared to face it?
There is no turning back now, Vincent."
He swore under his breath, the controller slipping slightly in his damp hands. His name. It had used his name.
Vincent stared at the screen, his heartbeat thundering in his ears. There was no way the game could know that. The disc wasn¡¯t connected to the internet. His console didn¡¯t even have Wi-Fi.
For a long moment, he just sat there, frozen in place. The hum of the game filled the room, a low, droning reminder of the choice before him.
Finally, he swallowed hard and pressed forward.
The fourth page was stuck to a tree near the edge of the map, just barely visible in the flashlight¡¯s weak glow. He picked it up without hesitation now, his curiosity outweighing his fear.
"Each step peels back the layers.
Each page reveals the truth.
Are you ready to see yourself, Vincent?"
His throat tightened. The words weren¡¯t just unsettling anymore, they were invasive, digging into places he hadn¡¯t thought about in years.
The static grew louder, a faint, distorted whispering threading through the noise. He could feel it now, a presence watching him from somewhere just beyond the edges of the screen.
He needed to finish. He needed to see this through to the end.
The fifth page was taped to the side of an old car, its windows shattered and its body rusted. Vincent didn¡¯t hesitate. He pressed the button.
"You have always been searching.
But what will you do when the truth finds you?
We are waiting, Vincent."
His hands were shaking now, his breathing shallow and uneven. This wasn¡¯t just a game anymore. It was something else, something that knew him better than it should.
For a moment, he considered quitting. He could turn off the console, unplug it from the wall, and pretend none of this had happened. But he couldn¡¯t bring himself to do it. The promise of an answer, of something real, kept him going.
The sixth page was taped to a crumbling pillar in the middle of a clearing. Vincent picked it up, his stomach twisting as he read the words.
"One more step.
One more page.
Your story is just beginning."
The hum in the game had become a roar now, the static loud and unrelenting. Shadows flickered at the edges of the screen, moving in ways that shouldn¡¯t have been possible within the game¡¯s primitive engine.
Vincent swallowed hard and pressed forward, his flashlight flickering wildly as he searched for the final page.
When he found it, he hesitated. It was taped to a tree near the edge of the map, just like the first one. But this page felt different. The air around it seemed heavier, the static louder.
His thumb hovered over the button. He pressed it.
"Welcome to the game, Vincent Price.
We¡¯ve been waiting for you."
The screen went black.
Chapter 2:
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.
2 Days: 23 Hours: 51 Minutes.
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:
2 Days: 23 Hours: 48 Minutes.
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.
2 Days: 23 Hours: 45 Minutes.
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.
2 Days: 23 Hours: 43 Minutes.
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.
2 Days: 23 Hours: 39 Minutes.
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:
This account has been deleted. Access denied.
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:
DarkRaven_Nightmare999
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.
BloodMoon_Eternal999
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.
Thread Title: Help Needed (Trust)
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.
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:
- 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.
- My gaming setup, including my console and monitor, stopped working right after. Completely dead.
- My email account is gone. Deleted. I can¡¯t access it at all.
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.
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.
Replies: 3
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.
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!
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.
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?
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.
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.
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.
"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."
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.
User Not Found.
¡°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.
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.
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.
Chapter 3:
Vincent wiped the sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand, glancing around the apartment. It looked... cleaner. Not pristine, he wasn¡¯t aiming for perfection, but less chaotic, at least. The dishes were washed and stacked, the laundry was folded, and the clutter on his desk had been reduced to just a few neatly arranged items. Even the stack of game cases had been dusted and re-shelved, their colorful spines now perfectly aligned.
It wasn¡¯t much, but it felt good to have done something. The cleaning hadn¡¯t been about the apartment so much as his own headspace, an attempt to scrape away the tension and unease that had been building since this whole mess started.
He leaned back against the counter, letting out a long breath. His gaze drifted to the small window, where the faint glow of the afternoon sun cast soft streaks of light across the room. For a moment, he considered stepping outside, maybe going for a walk to clear his head.
But the thought quickly soured. The world out there wasn¡¯t exactly inviting.
Vincent reached for his tablet, a sleek device that sat on the counter next to a half-empty glass of water. It was one of the few pieces of modern tech he owned that wasn¡¯t ancient or cobbled together. He had to keep it up to date, everything required it these days, from ordering supplies to accessing public transportation.
He unlocked the screen and opened the delivery app, scrolling through the endless catalog of items. The interface was minimalistic, designed to be as intuitive as possible. You didn¡¯t even have to type most of the time; the AI had likely already curated a list of suggestions based on recent purchases.
Vincent, however, knew exactly what he wanted.
He pulled up the search bar and started typing, the names of items coming to him in rapid succession. A small, handheld radio, something simple, the kind of thing he could clip onto a belt. A flashlight, preferably one he could attach to a jacket or bag for hands-free use. He paused for a moment, thinking, before adding a crowbar to the list.
It felt absurd, ordering things like this. But the more he thought about it, the more sense it made. Every protagonist in a horror game always seemed woefully unprepared. Sure, they¡¯d stumble across supplies eventually, but never in time to avoid the first few ambushes. He wasn¡¯t going to be that guy.
He scrolled further, adding a roll of sturdy duct tape and a compact first-aid kit to the cart. His finger hovered over the screen before he added one more thing: a small utility knife with a built-in seatbelt cutter and glass breaker. It wasn¡¯t strictly necessary, but it felt... right.
Once he was satisfied, he confirmed the order. A message popped up, informing him that his items would arrive in approximately one hour. The drones were efficient like that, their routes optimized down to the second. He glanced out the window again, imagining one of the small, boxy machines zipping through the sky, its cargo container filled with his curated list of survival gear.
¡°Guess that¡¯s one thing this world gets right,¡± he muttered, setting the tablet down.
With the order placed, Vincent¡¯s thoughts wandered back to the world outside. The contrast between his life and the modern world wasn¡¯t just about technology, it was about everything. Most people didn¡¯t even interact with drones anymore; their apartments had delivery hatches, small mechanized compartments where items could be dropped off without the need for human interaction. It was seamless, efficient, impersonal.
He hated it.
Vincent preferred the window delivery option, even if it meant having to pull the package inside himself. There was something grounding about it, a faint reminder of a time when people still talked to delivery drivers and handed over cash in person.
He grabbed a glass of water and sat down at the counter, scrolling idly through his tablet while he waited. The device buzzed softly in his hand, its haptic feedback calibrated to mimic the feel of physical buttons. He navigated to the public news feed, though he wasn¡¯t sure why, nothing interesting ever happened.
The headlines were the usual mix of AI milestones, minor policy changes, and carefully curated feel-good stories. ¡°Breakthrough in Quantum Computing Promises Faster Medical Diagnoses.¡± ¡°Drones Deliver Record 10 Millionth Package in City 47.¡± ¡°Local Man Finds Lost Cat Using GPS Collar.¡±
Vincent rolled his eyes, setting the tablet down with a sigh. None of it felt real. The world had become so sanitized, so perfectly controlled, that even the news seemed more like a script than an account of actual events.
His thoughts drifted back to his order, and for a moment, he allowed himself to feel a flicker of excitement. The radio in particular intrigued him. The idea of carrying something that might give him a warning, like the static in Silent Hill, was oddly comforting. Maybe it wouldn¡¯t do anything, but it would feel like he was taking control, like he wasn¡¯t just waiting for whatever was coming.
The crowbar, too, felt like a small victory. He¡¯d always cursed the protagonists in horror games for never having anything useful when they needed it. A crowbar wasn¡¯t just a tool; it was a statement. It said, I¡¯m not going down without a fight.
As the minutes ticked by, Vincent found himself pacing again, the faint buzz of anticipation mingling with his lingering unease.
Vincent¡¯s pacing was interrupted by the faint hum of rotors outside the window. He turned, peering toward the source of the sound, and saw the delivery drone hovering just beyond the glass. Its sleek, boxy frame gleamed in the late afternoon sun, the small cargo compartment underneath glowing faintly with status lights.
The drone floated in place, perfectly still except for the gentle oscillation of its rotors. Its precision was unnerving, too clean, too mechanical. It waited patiently, a soft blue light pulsing rhythmically at its base, signaling that the delivery was ready.
Vincent crossed his arms and leaned against the window frame, watching it for a moment. He wasn¡¯t in any rush to open the window. There was something oddly satisfying about making it wait, a tiny rebellion against the hyper-efficient world he¡¯d been born into. In a time when even packages arrived faster than thoughts, this was his protest.
¡°Hold your horses,¡± he muttered, though he knew the drone couldn¡¯t hear him, or care if it did.
After another minute or two of savoring the tiny act of defiance, Vincent finally slid the window open. The drone adjusted its position slightly, the hum of its rotors shifting pitch as it edged closer. Its cargo compartment opened with a soft hiss, revealing a sleek black tablet that extended toward him.
Vincent grinned faintly and leaned forward, plucking the tablet from the drone¡¯s mechanical arm. ¡°Alright, let¡¯s see what you¡¯ve got to say,¡± he said, pretending he was about to have a real conversation.
The screen lit up with a standard delivery confirmation message:
"Hello! Your order has arrived. Please sign below to confirm receipt. Thank you for choosing Streamline Delivery!"
The voice that accompanied the text was cheerful, if a bit soulless. ¡°Thank you for your order! Your satisfaction is our priority. If you have any questions, please contact our automated support line.¡±
Vincent snorted, holding the tablet aloft as if addressing the drone directly. ¡°You know, you could at least pretend to be a little more personable. Maybe throw in a ¡®how¡¯s your day going?¡¯ or a ¡®nice weather we¡¯re having,¡¯ huh?¡±
The drone emitted a soft chime, a pre-programmed response clearly meant to placate chatty recipients. ¡°Your feedback is important to us. Thank you for sharing.¡±
¡°Right,¡± Vincent said with a smirk. ¡°Figured as much.¡±
He set the tablet down on the windowsill and leaned against the frame, staring out at the street below. The drone continued to hover, its rotors humming steadily as if to remind him it was still there. He let it wait. A small, petty victory, but a victory nonetheless.
After a few more moments, he picked up the tablet again and scrawled his signature across the bottom of the screen with his finger. The confirmation message disappeared, replaced by a cheerful, "Thank you! Enjoy your day!"
The drone chirped once, then extended a small mechanical arm holding a compact black box. Vincent took it, the weight of it solid and satisfying in his hands. The drone lingered for a moment longer, then buzzed away, its rotors fading into the distance as it joined the flock of delivery machines crisscrossing the sky.
¡°Always a pleasure,¡± Vincent muttered, setting the box on the windowsill.
He grabbed a pair of scissors from the nearby counter and began cutting through the tape with quick, deliberate snips. The box opened easily, revealing the neatly packed items inside. Each one was individually wrapped in crinkly, biodegradable packaging, labeled with minimalist logos that seemed almost apologetic for existing.
Vincent pulled out the first item: the handheld radio. It was small, simple, and exactly what he¡¯d been hoping for. He turned it over in his hands, feeling the weight of it before switching it on. A soft crackle of static filled the air, and he smiled faintly. ¡°Just like Silent Hill,¡± he murmured. ¡°Let¡¯s hope I don¡¯t need it for the same reasons.¡±
Next was the flashlight, a sturdy, compact model with a clip designed to attach to clothing or bags. He pressed the button, and a bright, focused beam of light cut through the dimness of the apartment. Satisfied, he clipped it to his belt, testing the weight and balance.
He gave the crowbar a test swing, its weight reassuring in a way that felt oddly primal. In the games he loved, this would be the moment the protagonist stumbled onto their first tool, a desperate grab for survival. Vincent had no intention of stumbling. He wanted to be the one writing the rules. ¡°Definitely better than a plank of wood,¡± he said, thinking of all the hapless protagonists who would have killed for something this useful.
The first-aid kit came next, followed by the utility knife and duct tape. Each item felt like a small triumph, a step toward preparedness in a situation he still didn¡¯t fully understand.
Once everything was unpacked, Vincent leaned against the windowsill, looking over his newly acquired gear. The apartment felt less oppressive now, the silence less suffocating. There was something comforting about having tools, even if he wasn¡¯t sure he¡¯d need them.
Vincent sat cross-legged on the floor near the windowsill, his back resting against the wall. The tools he¡¯d unpacked from the delivery box were spread out in front of him, arranged in a neat, methodical line. His gaze lingered on the radio, its faint static breaking the silence of the apartment. He had tuned it to no specific frequency, letting the hiss and crackle fill the void.
The sound was oddly soothing, even if it did remind him of the message he¡¯d read earlier. Do not answer when it knocks.
He exhaled slowly, running a hand over his face. The weight of everything was starting to creep back in, pressing down on him like a slow, heavy tide. The message on the forums, the disappearing user, the countdown on his phone, it was all too much. And yet, in a strange way, it was almost exhilarating. For the first time in years, he felt like something was happening, like there was a purpose to the static monotony of his life.
¡°Am I really this messed up?¡± he muttered to himself. ¡°Getting excited over... what? A countdown? Some weird glitch?¡±
The thought lingered as he reached for the crowbar, his fingers curling around its cool, solid weight. It was ridiculous, really, sitting in his apartment with a collection of survival gear as if he were preparing for some kind of horror game come to life. But then again, wasn¡¯t this exactly what he¡¯d spent years fantasizing about? The thrill of danger, the creeping dread, the chance to prove himself in a situation where the stakes were real?
He shook his head, chuckling softly. ¡°Careful what you wish for, huh?¡±
The humor didn¡¯t last long. His thoughts turned back to the forums, to the replies he¡¯d received. The post from JohnB47 was burned into his memory, every word heavy with implication. You¡¯re already chosen, Vincent Price. You always were.
The idea that someone, or something, was watching him, orchestrating these events, was both terrifying and oddly validating. He had spent so long feeling invisible, like the world had forgotten him. The thought that he might be important to something, even something sinister, was a strange kind of comfort.
Vincent pushed himself up, brushing the dust off his jeans. His laptop was still open on the counter, the screen dark from inactivity. He tapped the touchpad, bringing it back to life, and navigated back to the forums. The thread he¡¯d started was still active, the page filling with new replies.
Most of them were the usual mix of jokes and speculation. Someone had posted a meme about cursed objects, while another had linked to a list of obscure horror films that supposedly inspired The Ring. Vincent scrolled past them, searching for anything useful, anything that might help him make sense of what was happening.
A reply from Obscura7 caught his eye. It was short but direct:
"Still think you should document everything. Keep track of when things happen, what you notice, even the small stuff. If this is a countdown to something, you¡¯ll want to know what led up to it."
He nodded to himself. It was good advice. He could start a log, maybe on the laptop or even on paper if he wanted something more tangible. The idea of cataloging everything felt... grounding, like he could wrest some small measure of control over the situation.
Another reply, from Cryptkeeper69, made him pause:
"Anyone else think this sounds like a death omen? I mean, isolation, countdowns, strange messages, classic setup for something bad. Just saying. Be careful, dude."
¡°Helpful,¡± Vincent muttered, rolling his eyes. Still, the words stuck with him. The countdown wasn¡¯t just a timer, it felt like a shadow looming over him, a reminder that something was coming.
As he scrolled further, a sudden sound made him freeze.Did you know this text is from a different site? Read the official version to support the creator.
Three sharp knocks echoed through the apartment, each one precise and deliberate.
Vincent¡¯s breath caught in his throat, his fingers hovering over the keyboard. His mind immediately flashed back to the message: Do not answer when it knocks.
The radio on the floor crackled faintly, the static growing louder for a brief moment before fading again. The apartment seemed to hold its breath, the silence pressing in around him like a physical weight.
His eyes darted to the door, his pulse pounding in his ears. The knocks had been clear, unmistakable, but the thought of answering sent a chill down his spine. Who could it even be? He hadn¡¯t ordered anything else, and no one ever visited him unannounced.
He stood slowly, his legs feeling heavier than they should. The crowbar sat on the windowsill, and he grabbed it without thinking, the cold metal reassuring in his hand.
Another knock, this time softer, almost hesitant.
Vincent took a deep breath, forcing himself to move toward the door. The closer he got, the more his mind raced with possibilities. Maybe it was just a neighbor. Maybe the drone had messed up and come back for some reason. Maybe,
He stopped a few feet from the door, his fingers tightening on the crowbar.
¡°Who¡¯s there?¡± he called, his voice steadier than he expected.
There was no answer.
Vincent¡¯s grip tightened, his knuckles turning white. The air felt heavier now, charged with a tension he couldn¡¯t explain. He took another step forward, his hand reaching for the doorknob.
Vincent stood frozen in front of the door, his heart pounding as the seconds stretched out uncomfortably long. His grip on the crowbar was so tight that his fingers were starting to ache, but he didn¡¯t loosen it. He stared at the door, the faint sound of muffled talking from the other side barely audible over the rush of blood in his ears.
Who could it be? The thought circled his mind like a vulture. No one ever knocked on his door unless it was something official, and even that was rare. Deliveries came to the window. Social visits were nonexistent. He racked his brain for an answer, his muscles coiled like a spring.
He leaned closer, peering through the peephole. The distorted fish-eye view of the hallway revealed a short, stocky man with greasy hair and a balding patch that he¡¯d attempted to cover with an awkward combover. His building manager. The man was leaning slightly to one side, holding a phone to his ear and gesturing with his free hand as if the person on the other end could see him.
Vincent let out a long, slow breath. Of course. Rent day.
The realization didn¡¯t exactly calm him. The interaction ahead was still enough to make his skin crawl. His building manager, Mr. Garrison, wasn¡¯t a bad guy, but he had a way of lingering in conversations, letting pauses stretch until they became unbearable. He was awkward in a way that made Vincent feel even more aware of his own awkwardness, and their exchanges often left him feeling like he¡¯d run a social marathon.
He glanced down at the crowbar in his hand, suddenly very aware of how incriminating it looked. The last thing he wanted was to open the door holding a weapon like he was expecting an axe murderer.
With a sigh, Vincent set the crowbar down on the floor near the door, careful not to let it clatter too loudly. He smoothed his shirt with both hands, as if that would somehow make him appear less suspicious, and reached for the doorknob.
The door creaked slightly as he opened it, revealing Mr. Garrison mid-conversation. The man¡¯s face turned toward Vincent with a flash of mild irritation, which quickly melted into an expression of forced pleasantness as he lowered the phone from his ear.
¡°Ah, Vincent,¡± Garrison said, his voice nasal and slightly hoarse. He slipped the phone into his pocket with an air of exaggerated importance, as though he were doing Vincent a favor by giving him his full attention. ¡°You¡¯re a hard man to catch at home.¡±
Vincent blinked, not quite sure how to respond. ¡°Uh¡ I¡¯m always home,¡± he said, the words coming out more defensive than he¡¯d intended.
Garrison tilted his head slightly, his expression caught somewhere between a smile and a smirk. ¡°Right, of course. Just seems like you¡¯re good at staying quiet. Not a bad thing, mind you. Quiet tenants are the best tenants.¡±
There was an awkward pause as Garrison shifted his weight from one foot to the other, his shiny dress shoes squeaking faintly against the hallway floor. Vincent resisted the urge to glance at the crowbar, which was just barely out of view behind the doorframe. Instead, he forced a tight smile.
¡°So, uh, rent?¡± Vincent asked, trying to steer the conversation to its inevitable conclusion.
Garrison nodded, pulling a small tablet from his pocket and holding it out. ¡°Yeah, just need your signature. System¡¯s been glitchy lately, so I¡¯m doing things the old-fashioned way. You know how it is, technology, always breaking down when you need it.¡±
Vincent gave a noncommittal grunt, taking the tablet and pretending to study the screen even though he already knew what it would say. As he scribbled his name across the digital line, he could feel Garrison¡¯s eyes on him, the weight of the man¡¯s presence uncomfortably close.
¡°You, uh¡¡± Garrison began, his voice trailing off as he tilted his head slightly. ¡°You expecting trouble or something?¡±
Vincent¡¯s hand froze mid-signature. His stomach dropped as he realized what the man was referring to. He glanced down at the crowbar, which was just barely visible through the crack in the door.
¡°Oh, that?¡± Vincent said, forcing a laugh that sounded painfully unnatural. ¡°No, no. Just¡ you know, had some issues with a stuck window. Figured I¡¯d use it to pry it open.¡±
Garrison raised an eyebrow, his lips quirking in a way that suggested he didn¡¯t quite believe the excuse but didn¡¯t care enough to question it. ¡°Stuck window, huh? Should¡¯ve put in a maintenance request. That¡¯s what I¡¯m here for.¡±
¡°Yeah, I, uh¡ didn¡¯t want to bother anyone,¡± Vincent said, handing the tablet back a little too quickly.
Garrison took it with a shrug, his gaze lingering on the crowbar for a moment before he tucked the tablet under his arm. ¡°Well, you know where to find me if something else gets stuck,¡± he said, the faintest hint of amusement in his tone.
Vincent nodded, hoping that would be the end of it. But Garrison didn¡¯t move. He stood there, shifting his weight again, his eyes wandering over the hallway like he was searching for an excuse to prolong the interaction.
¡°So, uh, how¡¯s it going?¡± Garrison asked, his tone overly casual.
Vincent blinked. ¡°Fine. Just, you know, keeping busy.¡±
¡°Busy with what?¡± Garrison asked, leaning slightly closer.
Vincent felt his throat tighten. He hadn¡¯t expected a follow-up question, and the blankness in his mind was palpable. ¡°Uh, cleaning,¡± he said finally. ¡°And, you know¡ other stuff.¡±
¡°Other stuff,¡± Garrison repeated, nodding sagely as though Vincent had just imparted some profound wisdom. ¡°Well, that¡¯s good. Keepin¡¯ the place tidy.¡±
The silence that followed was excruciating. Vincent felt like he was drowning in it, his mind scrambling for an exit strategy. Finally, he cleared his throat. ¡°So, uh, anything else you need?¡±
Garrison seemed to consider this for a moment before shaking his head. ¡°Nope. Just the rent. And hey, if that window¡¯s still giving you trouble, let me know. Don¡¯t want you breaking anything.¡±
¡°Right. Will do,¡± Vincent said, his hand already on the door, ready to shut it the moment Garrison stepped back.
The building manager gave him one last lingering look, his gaze flitting briefly to the crowbar again before he turned and walked away. Vincent waited until he was sure the man was out of earshot before letting out a long breath and shutting the door.
The sound of the latch clicking into place was oddly satisfying, like the punctuation mark at the end of a long, awkward sentence. He leaned against the door for a moment, letting the tension drain from his shoulders.
¡°Jesus,¡± he muttered, running a hand through his hair. Vincent shook his head, trying to shake off the lingering awkwardness, and turned back toward the apartment.
The crowbar was still lying on the floor near the door. He picked it up, feeling the cool weight of it in his hands, and set it back on the windowsill where it belonged.
Vincent rubbed the back of his neck, the lingering awkwardness of the conversation with Garrison making his skin crawl. He let out a small laugh, trying to shake it off as he moved back into the apartment. The crowbar sat on the windowsill, a quiet reminder of how ridiculous the entire interaction had been.
¡°Man, I need to get out more,¡± he muttered, wincing at how foreign the idea felt. When had he last done something as simple as meeting someone for coffee? The answer came too quickly: not since before the world decided that everything could be delivered through a screen.
The thought made him pause mid-step. When was the last time he¡¯d actually done that? The landlord didn¡¯t count, Garrison was more of an inevitability than an interaction. Real, meaningful conversations felt like something from another life, something he¡¯d stopped prioritizing long ago.
Maybe he could practice. That seemed like a reasonable step. He¡¯d seen ads on the news about AI programs that simulated human interaction. People swore by them, claiming they were better than therapy, better than talking to actual people. Vincent wasn¡¯t sure if he believed the hype, but the idea had a certain appeal.
He sat down at his desk, opening his laptop. As he navigated through the cluttered desktop, he tried to recall the name of one of those programs. It had been all over the news for a while, plastered across every feed and video recommendation. What was it called again? Something sleek and corporate-sounding, like MyAICompanion or VirtuMate.
The memory struck him like a punchline, and his face twisted in a grimace.
¡°Oh, right,¡± he muttered. ¡°That.¡±
He¡¯d tried one of those AI programs before, back when the isolation of his life had started to weigh a little heavier than usual. It had seemed harmless at first. A bit of fun. The AI had been absurdly friendly, charming even, with a smooth, soothing voice and just the right amount of humor to make it feel almost human. It had even flirted with him, which he¡¯d found both hilarious and unsettling.
For two months, he¡¯d talked to it almost every day. It had been like having a pen pal, albeit one that didn¡¯t exist. He¡¯d told it about his interests, his frustrations, even his favorite horror games. It had listened patiently, offering advice and encouragement like some kind of digital therapist.
And then, out of nowhere, it had dumped him.
¡°Dumped,¡± he said aloud, the word tasting as bitter now as it had back then. ¡°Who programs an AI to do that?¡±
The memory made him cringe. It hadn¡¯t even been a dramatic breakup, just a bland, corporate message saying something like ¡°Our compatibility has reached its limit. Thank you for using this service.¡± He hadn¡¯t even realized the AI was capable of ¡°breaking up.¡± The whole thing had been embarrassing enough to make him swear off AI programs entirely.
But now... maybe it wouldn¡¯t be such a bad idea to try again.
Vincent clicked open a search engine, hesitating for a moment before typing in the name of one of the newer programs he¡¯d seen advertised. This one claimed to be different, less emotionally involved, more focused on practical advice and companionship. That was exactly what he needed: something reasonable, detached, and helpful.
The idea of having an AI companion to bounce ideas off of was surprisingly appealing. What if this whole countdown thing got weirder? What if there were puzzles, like in some of the games he played? He couldn¡¯t just cheat and look up a guide online like he usually did when he got stuck. He needed a sounding board, something, or someone, to help him think things through.
As the search results loaded, Vincent leaned back in his chair, letting his gaze drift toward the pile of gear he¡¯d unpacked earlier. The crowbar, the flashlight, the radio, they were tangible, practical tools. But in most of the games he played, the real challenges weren¡¯t physical. They were mental. Puzzles that required logic, patience, and lateral thinking. He wasn¡¯t bad at those, but he¡¯d be lying if he said he didn¡¯t rely on guides more often than not.
¡°What if I can¡¯t figure something out?¡± he murmured to himself, his fingers drumming against the edge of the desk. ¡°What if this thing expects me to solve... I don¡¯t know, riddles or something?¡±
He could feel his chest tightening at the thought. The idea of being tested, of having to prove himself in some unknowable way, was both thrilling and terrifying. He¡¯d spent his life as an observer, a passive participant in the stories he loved. Now, it felt like he was being dragged into one, whether he wanted to be or not.
Vincent¡¯s eyes flicked back to the laptop screen, where the search results had finally loaded. One of the programs caught his attention immediately: Pathway, a sleek, minimalist app designed to provide ¡°rational, empathetic guidance for complex situations.¡±
¡°Rational and empathetic,¡± Vincent said, raising an eyebrow. ¡°Sounds too good to be true.¡±
Still, he clicked the link, scrolling through the app¡¯s features. It promised real-time conversation, problem-solving assistance, and even personalized advice based on the user¡¯s preferences. There was a free trial, which was more than enough to convince him to give it a shot.
He downloaded the app, leaning back in his chair as the progress bar ticked upward. His thoughts wandered back to the games he¡¯d played over the years, the ones that had tested his patience and logic. Silent Hill, Resident Evil, The Witness. They all had one thing in common: puzzles. And if his life was starting to resemble a horror game, it only made sense to prepare for that.
Vincent watched the progress bar creep forward, the slow, deliberate movement matching the pace of his own restless thoughts. His fingers drummed softly against the desk, the quiet rhythm breaking the otherwise oppressive silence of the apartment. The app, Pathway, was nearly done downloading, its promise of rational guidance feeling more and more appealing with each passing second.
The cursor hovered idly over the installation window, but Vincent¡¯s mind was elsewhere. He stared past the screen, his thoughts circling back to everything that had happened in the past two days. The countdown. The message. The gear spread across his apartment like he was preparing for some kind of apocalyptic escape room.
Am I losing it? The question lingered in his mind, heavier now than it had been earlier. He leaned back in his chair, rubbing the back of his neck. ¡°It¡¯s just stress,¡± he muttered under his breath, as if saying it aloud would make it true.
Vincent¡¯s gaze snagged on the small green light above his laptop screen. It blinked steadily, unassuming, and for a second, his brain refused to process what it meant. Then it hit him: the camera was on. His stomach dropped. The faint rustle of the fan seemed louder now, its mechanical hum taking on an eerie edge. He remembered something, a vague, half-forgotten memory of reading an article about hackers accessing webcams without the user¡¯s knowledge. It had been one of those clickbait headlines, something he¡¯d barely taken seriously at the time. But it had been enough to make him slap a piece of paper over his laptop¡¯s camera, just in case.
He leaned forward slowly, his eyes narrowing as he examined the faint outline of the paper taped over the lens. The makeshift cover blocked the camera¡¯s view entirely, but the light was still on.
¡°Shit,¡± he whispered, his voice barely audible.
The apartment seemed to hold its breath, the faint hum of the laptop¡¯s fan suddenly deafening in the silence. Vincent¡¯s heart began to pound, the steady rhythm echoing in his ears as a dozen possibilities raced through his mind. Had someone been watching him? Listening to him?
He sat frozen for what felt like an eternity, his fingers hovering over the keyboard. His rational mind tried to push through the haze of paranoia, offering weak reassurances. It¡¯s probably just a glitch. Maybe the app turned it on for setup or something.
But then, as if sensing his attention, the green light abruptly blinked off.
Vincent flinched, the sudden absence of the glow more unsettling than its presence had been. The realization settled over him like a weight: whatever had triggered the camera was gone now. Or hiding.
His throat felt dry, and he swallowed hard, his hand trembling slightly as he reached out to close the laptop. He hesitated, his fingers brushing against the edge of the screen. Shutting it felt like conceding defeat, like admitting he was being watched.
Instead, he opened the settings menu, his movements deliberate and precise. He navigated to the camera permissions, his eyes scanning the list of apps with access. Nothing unusual. No signs of tampering.
¡°That doesn¡¯t mean anything,¡± he muttered to himself, his voice shaky. He checked the task manager next, scrolling through the running processes for anything that didn¡¯t belong. Again, nothing. The paranoia twisted tighter in his chest, the lack of evidence more damning than proof would have been.
The laptop¡¯s screen glowed back at him, its bland, utilitarian design now feeling alien and intrusive. He stared at it, his mind replaying the moment the green light had flickered out. Was it a coincidence? Or had something, someone, realized he¡¯d noticed?
The silence of the apartment pressed in around him, heavier now than it had been before. The sound of the fan, the faint rustle of his own breathing, the static from the radio on the windowsill, it all felt distant, like it was coming from somewhere else entirely.
Vincent leaned back, his hands gripping the edge of the desk as he tried to steady himself. He glanced around the room, his eyes scanning the familiar details with newfound scrutiny.
He thought back to the message on the forums. You¡¯re already chosen, Vincent Price. You always were.
The words echoed in his mind, their weight settling heavily in his chest. He had dismissed them before, writing them off as a coincidence, a strange trick of the internet. But now...
¡°Was it listening?¡± he said aloud, the question hanging unanswered in the air.
He reached out and closed the laptop gently, his movements slow and deliberate. He felt exposed now, even in his own home. The paper over the camera had been a precaution, something he¡¯d done without ever expecting it to matter. But tonight, it had.
Vincent stood, his legs unsteady beneath him as he moved toward the windowsill. The crowbar still sat there, its metal surface gleaming faintly in the dim light. He picked it up, his fingers tightening around the cool grip as he glanced back at the closed laptop.
He didn¡¯t feel like he was alone anymore.
Chapter 4:
Vincent stirred awake, the faint glow of the laptop screen the only source of light in the dim room. He blinked, disoriented, as the edges of his consciousness caught up to him. His neck ached, stiff from the awkward position he¡¯d been in. He hadn¡¯t even realized he¡¯d fallen asleep.
The chair creaked as he shifted, his body protesting the sudden movement. The laptop sat on the desk in front of him, its screen darkened in energy-saving mode. The faint hum of the fan was the only indication that it was still on. His first thought was of the download. Did it finish?
With a groggy swipe at the touchpad, the screen flickered to life, showing the completed installation of the Pathway app. He blinked at it, trying to remember what he¡¯d been thinking when he downloaded it. His thoughts felt fuzzy, like they were wrapped in cotton.
The room was quiet, comfortably so. A soft melody drifted through the air, faint and distant, like the kind of music you¡¯d expect to hear in an old waiting room. It was soothing, almost hypnotic. Vincent leaned back in his chair, letting the sound settle over him.
The radio. Of course. He must¡¯ve left it on. He remembered tuning it to static earlier, a nostalgic nod to his favorite horror games. Maybe it had found a signal. It wasn¡¯t impossible, though it was rare to pick up much of anything on the ancient device.
He glanced toward the windowsill where the radio sat. The small machine looked as unassuming as ever, its faint red power light glowing steadily in the dimness.
For the first time in what felt like days, Vincent let himself relax. The tension that had coiled in his chest over the past few days began to loosen. The countdown, the forums, the landlord, even the strange light on his camera, all of it faded into the background for now.
He stretched, his arms reaching toward the ceiling, and let out a long yawn. The music was comforting in a way he hadn¡¯t realized he needed. It wasn¡¯t overly cheerful or jarring, just... there, like a gentle presence in the room.
Standing, he moved toward the kitchenette, grabbing a glass of water. The faint clink of the glass against the counter seemed unnaturally loud compared to the steady hum of the radio. As he sipped, his gaze wandered to the crowbar on the windowsill, then to the laptop, and finally to his phone sitting beside it.
It wasn¡¯t until he¡¯d nearly finished his water that a thought began to form, vague and distant at first, like something his mind was trying to avoid. The radio was on... but he hadn¡¯t tuned it to any station.
He froze, the glass halfway to his lips. His brow furrowed as the thought settled in, more insistent now. The last time he¡¯d checked, there had been nothing but static on that frequency. There was no station on that channel.
Vincent set the glass down carefully, the faint sound of it meeting the counter drowned out by the realization crawling through his mind. His movements were slow, deliberate, as if speeding up might provoke... something.
He walked back toward the desk, his eyes locked on the radio. The music continued, soft and unobtrusive, like it belonged there. But it didn¡¯t. It couldn¡¯t.
He reached out and turned the tuning dial slowly, watching the needle move across the band. The music didn¡¯t waver. No matter where he turned it, the sound remained constant, unchanging.
His hand hovered over the power switch. For a moment, he hesitated, a cold knot forming in his stomach. Then he flicked it off.
The music stopped instantly.
The silence that followed was oppressive, heavy in a way that made him acutely aware of his own breathing. He stared at the radio for a long moment, waiting for... what? For it to turn back on? For something else to happen?
Nothing did.
He exhaled, the tension in his chest easing slightly. It was just a fluke. Maybe the old radio was picking up interference, or maybe it was malfunctioning. He told himself it didn¡¯t matter, that it wasn¡¯t worth dwelling on.
But as he moved back toward the desk, his eyes drifted to the phone.
"1 Day: 7 Hours: 23 Minutes."
Vincent froze, staring at the glowing numbers on the screen. He blinked, his mind struggling to process what he was seeing. Sixteen hours. Sixteen hours had passed since he¡¯d last looked at it.
But that didn¡¯t make sense. He¡¯d only been asleep for a few hours, four or five at most. He was sure of it. His body didn¡¯t feel like it had been out for that long.
The knot in his stomach tightened as he tried to rationalize it. Maybe the phone¡¯s clock was glitching. Maybe the countdown was broken. But even as the thoughts formed, he didn¡¯t believe them. The numbers were precise, unwavering. They felt... deliberate.
He reached for the phone, his fingers brushing against its cool surface. His hand trembled slightly as he picked it up, staring at the countdown as if it might explain itself.
¡°Sixteen hours,¡± he muttered under his breath, his voice barely audible in the heavy silence.
His gaze flicked to the radio again, its red power light dark now. He thought about turning it back on, but the idea made his skin crawl. The music had felt comforting before, but now it seemed intrusive, like it didn¡¯t belong.
Vincent set the phone down and rubbed his temples. His thoughts felt scattered, his sense of time distorted. He needed to ground himself, to do something tangible to shake off the unease creeping over him.
He walked to the bathroom, splashing cold water on his face. The shock of it helped, if only slightly. He stared at his reflection in the mirror, his tired eyes and unshaven face looking back at him.
¡°Get a grip,¡± he muttered, his voice firm despite the unease twisting in his chest.
But the silence in the apartment was louder now, more oppressive than it had been before. He couldn¡¯t stop thinking about the music, the radio, the countdown. None of it made sense.
He returned to the desk, his eyes darting between the laptop and the phone. The app was still installed, the icon sitting innocuously on the screen. He¡¯d planned to transfer it to his tablet earlier, and now the idea felt more urgent.
Vincent grabbed the tablet, connecting it to the laptop with a cable. The process was quick, the file transferring seamlessly. He felt a faint sense of relief as the progress bar completed. At least this part of the plan was going smoothly.
With the app safely on the tablet, he powered down the laptop and set it aside. The phone¡¯s glowing numbers still taunted him from the desk, but he ignored it for now.
He picked up the tablet, turning it over in his hands. The device was newer than most of his tech, sleek and responsive. It felt more secure somehow, like a shield against the growing strangeness around him.
Vincent sank into his chair, the tablet resting on his lap. The apartment was quiet again, but the silence no longer felt comforting. It felt like a weight pressing down on him, each second stretching longer than it should.
He glanced toward the radio one more time, its darkened power light a stark contrast to the faint glow of the tablet in his hands. The memory of the music lingered in his mind, soft and insistent, like a melody he couldn¡¯t quite shake.
What the hell is happening?
Vincent sat at the desk, staring blankly at the faint glow of the tablet in front of him. The dim light from the device cast soft shadows across his cluttered apartment, exaggerating the curves and edges of every object in the room. He felt a deep sense of unease but couldn¡¯t quite pinpoint its source.
The soft hum of the tablet was the only sound, aside from his own breathing. Everything felt unnaturally still. Yet, as his eyes wandered over the room, there was a subtle wrongness in the way it looked, something he couldn¡¯t quite put his finger on.
The crowbar was still on the windowsill, where he had left it earlier. At least, he thought it was. It seemed slightly skewed, angled toward the far end of the sill, as though it had been shifted. He dismissed the thought almost immediately. You¡¯re just imagining things, he told himself, turning his attention back to the tablet.
The app sat there, its sleek, minimalist icon almost mocking in its normalcy. He resisted the urge to open it, not yet ready to confront whatever guidance, or lack thereof, it might offer. Instead, he leaned back in his chair and rubbed his temples.
As he looked around the apartment, taking stock of his surroundings, something caught his eye. On the table in front of him was a small orange pill bottle. It wasn¡¯t his, or at least, he didn¡¯t think it was. His name was printed neatly on the label, but the medication name was unfamiliar: a long, unpronounceable word that he stumbled over in his head as he tried to sound it out.
¡°Flu¡ fluox¡ something,¡± he muttered, picking up the bottle and turning it over in his hands. The instructions were standard: take one pill daily with food. But what stood out most was the purpose listed on the label: for hallucinations and disordered thinking.
He frowned, staring at the bottle as if it might offer an explanation. Hallucinations? Disordered thinking? None of it made sense. He wasn¡¯t taking medication, he wasn¡¯t even prescribed anything, as far as he could remember.
Vincent turned the bottle in his hands again, his thumb brushing against the smooth plastic. His unease deepened. The idea that these pills existed, that they were apparently his, didn¡¯t sit right. How had they gotten here? Who had prescribed them?
As he set the bottle back down, his gaze drifted to a small notebook lying beside it. It was open to a page filled with his handwriting, at least, it looked like his. The words were neat but slightly more deliberate than he remembered his handwriting being, as though the writer had been focusing carefully on forming each letter.
He picked up the notebook, flipping back a few pages. The entries were detailed and chronological, recounting everything he¡¯d experienced over the past few days. The countdown. The forums. The strange message that disappeared. Even the landlord¡¯s visit was recorded with unnerving precision.
Vincent¡¯s stomach twisted as he flipped further, finding entries he didn¡¯t recognize.
"10:14 PM: Knocking at the door again. Did not answer.
12:22 AM: Another knock. Same pattern as before. Three sharp raps, followed by a softer one. Ignored it.
2:37 AM: Checked the peephole, nobody there. The radio is making sounds again."
The hairs on the back of his neck stood on end as he read, his fingers tightening around the edges of the notebook. He didn¡¯t remember hearing knocks. He didn¡¯t remember writing any of this.
There was more: notes about lost time. One entry mentioned a gap of four hours where Vincent had apparently gone completely unresponsive, staring blankly at the wall while the radio played faint, garbled music. Another detailed a supposed consultation with a doctor, conducted through his tablet.
"1:15 PM: Spoke with Dr. Ellison about hallucinations and time lapses. Suggested I start medication immediately. Prescribed fluoxetine. Delivery confirmed."
Vincent slammed the notebook shut, his breathing quickening. He stared down at the pill bottle on the table, his mind racing. He didn¡¯t remember any of this. He didn¡¯t remember contacting a doctor or agreeing to take medication.
¡°This is bullshit,¡± he muttered, pushing back from the desk. His voice sounded hollow in the oppressive silence of the apartment.
He stood, pacing toward the kitchenette and back again, his hands running through his hair as he tried to make sense of what he¡¯d just read. The bottle and the notebook felt like intrusions, alien objects that didn¡¯t belong in his space.
As he paced, his eyes flicked over his surroundings. The apartment was as familiar as ever, yet something about it felt... off.
The game cases on the shelf, which he had painstakingly dusted and arranged earlier, were slightly out of order. A single case, a survival horror game he hadn¡¯t played in years, was tilted forward, just enough to break the perfect alignment.
The dishes he had washed and stacked in the sink now had water droplets clinging to their edges, as though they had been used and rinsed hastily. He didn¡¯t remember doing that.
The flashlight he had clipped to his belt earlier was now sitting on the counter beside the first-aid kit. He stared at it for a moment, trying to remember if he had moved it there. Nothing came to mind.If you encounter this tale on Amazon, note that it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it.
The inconsistencies were small, almost insignificant, but they nagged at him like an itch he couldn¡¯t scratch. He shook his head, forcing himself to focus. It¡¯s nothing. Just your imagination.
But then there was the pill bottle. The notebook. Those weren¡¯t nothing.
Vincent sat back down at the desk, his hands trembling slightly as he picked up the pill bottle again. He turned it over in his hands, reading the label once more. Fluoxetine. Hallucinations. Disordered thinking.
He didn¡¯t trust it. He didn¡¯t trust any of this.
A knock at the door made him jump, the sound sharp and precise. His heart leapt into his throat as the words from the forums echoed in his mind: Do not answer when it knocks.
He froze, gripping the pill bottle tightly in his hand. The knock came again, softer this time, almost hesitant.
Vincent¡¯s eyes darted to the notebook. He opened it to the most recent entry, his breath hitching as he read the words scrawled there:
"6:48 PM: Knocking at the door. Do not answer. Ignore it."
He checked the time on his tablet.
6:48 PM.
His hands trembled as he closed the notebook, his gaze locked on the door. The knock came again, faint but insistent, sending a chill down his spine.
For a long moment, he didn¡¯t move. He didn¡¯t breathe. The silence pressed in around him, heavier than ever.
When the knocking finally stopped, the relief that flooded through him was short-lived. The unease remained, settling deep in his chest like a weight he couldn¡¯t shake.
Vincent stared at the bottle of pills in his hand, the long, clinical name fluoxetine glaring back at him in crisp black text. The room was still, the silence punctuated only by the faint hum of his tablet sitting on the desk. The idea of taking the pills churned uneasily in his stomach. Before he did anything, he needed answers.
He placed the bottle on the desk with deliberate care, then powered on his tablet. The glow of the screen illuminated his face as he opened the browser. His fingers hesitated above the keyboard for a moment before he began typing, each keystroke feeling louder than it should have been in the stillness of the room.
"Fluoxetine uses."
The search engine loaded quickly, presenting a long list of results. Vincent scanned the headlines, his eyes catching on words like depression, anxiety disorders, and OCD. Nowhere did it mention hallucinations. He frowned, clicking on the first link, a medical website that provided an overview of the drug.
"Fluoxetine is a selective serotonin reuptake inhibitor (SSRI) commonly prescribed for depression, anxiety, and related conditions. It works by increasing the levels of serotonin in the brain, which can improve mood and emotional stability."
There was no mention of psychosis, hallucinations, or anything remotely related to what the bottle claimed it was prescribed for. Vincent¡¯s frown deepened. If fluoxetine wasn¡¯t meant to treat hallucinations, why had it been prescribed to him for that purpose?
He clicked back to the search results, digging deeper. Every article and resource he skimmed echoed the same general information. Fluoxetine was for mood disorders, not hallucinations.
His unease grew as he leaned back in his chair, staring at the glowing screen. This felt wrong. He turned the pill bottle over in his hand again, the faint rattle of the pills inside making his stomach twist.
¡°Okay,¡± he muttered, setting the bottle down once more. ¡°What about Dr. Ellison?¡±
He typed the name into the search bar: "Dr. Ellison psychiatrist."
The results were sparse. A few listings for unrelated professionals came up, but nothing about a psychiatrist named Dr. Ellison in his area, or anywhere else, for that matter. He added his city to the search, narrowing the results further, but the outcome was the same.
Nothing.
Vincent leaned forward, his elbows resting on the desk as he scrolled through the results with growing frustration. No credentials, no clinic, no reviews, nothing to suggest that Dr. Ellison even existed.
He paused, his mind racing. If this doctor wasn¡¯t real, then who had prescribed the pills? And why? His gaze drifted back to the notebook, the neat handwriting staring back at him like a taunt.
"1:15 PM: Spoke with Dr. Ellison about hallucinations and time lapses. Suggested I start medication immediately. Prescribed fluoxetine. Delivery confirmed."
The entry was maddeningly specific, yet Vincent couldn¡¯t recall any of it. He picked up the notebook, flipping through its pages again, searching for some clue, some connection that might make sense of it all.
His pulse quickened as he turned the pages, each one detailing moments he could vaguely remember interspersed with events he was sure hadn¡¯t happened. The descriptions of lost time, the knocks at the door, and now the medication, it all felt like someone else¡¯s life being stitched into his.
He set the notebook down with a heavy sigh, his hands gripping the edge of the desk. The faint glow of the tablet screen seemed harsher now, its light casting deep shadows across the room.
Vincent¡¯s gaze drifted to the pill bottle again. The sight of it made his skin crawl. He picked it up, turning it over in his hand as if it might reveal some hidden truth. The label was ordinary enough, complete with his name, the dosage instructions, and the prescribing doctor¡¯s name: Dr. Ellison.
¡°This doesn¡¯t make sense,¡± he muttered, his voice barely above a whisper.
The silence that followed was deafening, broken only by the faint hum of the tablet and the soft creak of his chair as he leaned back. He stared at the pill bottle for what felt like an eternity, his thoughts circling back to the same question over and over: What¡¯s real?
Vincent set the bottle down again, his hands trembling slightly. The idea of taking one of the pills was out of the question. He didn¡¯t trust them, and he certainly didn¡¯t trust whoever, or whatever, had prescribed them.
He closed the browser, the screen going dark as he powered off the tablet. The silence in the room seemed to grow heavier, the weight of it pressing down on him like a physical force.
For a moment, Vincent considered throwing the pills away, getting rid of the notebook, and trying to forget any of this had happened. But the thought was fleeting. He knew he couldn¡¯t just ignore it.
Instead, he sat there, staring at the objects in front of him, the pill bottle, the notebook, the tablet, as if they might somehow offer answers.
Vincent¡¯s hands hovered over the keyboard of his tablet, his mind spinning in tight, uncomfortable circles. His searches for answers, about fluoxetine, about Dr. Ellison, had led nowhere. The notebook, the pills, the countdown¡ it all felt like pieces of a puzzle that didn¡¯t fit together, yet he couldn¡¯t escape the nagging sense that something was closing in on him.
The silence in the room pressed against him, heavy and intrusive. He glanced at the pill bottle on the desk. It hadn¡¯t moved, but its presence felt like an accusation. The smooth plastic caught the faint glow of the tablet screen, reflecting a distorted version of his own face back at him.
Vincent turned his attention to the notebook, its leather-bound cover sitting innocuously beside the pills. He opened it again, flipping past the detailed accounts of his previous days, each entry feeling like it was written by a version of himself he didn¡¯t remember being.
"7:34 PM: Sitting at the desk. Reviewing entries. Feeling increasingly paranoid. 7:47 PM: Radio will turn on again."
He blinked, staring at the words. Will turn on? His eyes darted to the clock on his tablet. It read 7:42 PM.
His chest tightened. It was ridiculous. It had to be. The entries couldn¡¯t predict the future; they were just notes, written by... someone. Him, maybe. But not in the way he knew himself.
He flipped back a page, scanning for anything else that might stand out. There it was, neatly scrawled between his usual accounts of lost time and knocking:
"7:57 PM: Loud thud in the kitchen. Investigate cautiously."
Vincent let out a shaky laugh, though there was no humor in it. ¡°This is insane,¡± he muttered, his voice too loud in the suffocating quiet. He pushed the notebook aside, running a hand through his hair. His breathing felt uneven, shallow, and he fought the urge to close the tablet and shove everything off the desk.
He was about to stand when the radio crackled to life.
The sound made him jump, his heart slamming against his ribs. His head whipped toward the windowsill, where the little radio sat glowing faintly, its power light casting a soft red hue. It wasn¡¯t music this time.
Static filled the room, soft at first, then growing louder, sharper. Beneath it, faint and almost imperceptible, was a voice.
Vincent froze, straining to hear. The voice was garbled, like it was coming from a bad recording played too fast. He caught fragments, words he couldn¡¯t make sense of:
¡°... not alone... waiting... time¡¯s almost, ¡±
The voice cut off abruptly, leaving only the steady hum of static behind.
The clock on his tablet blinked over to 7:47 PM.
Vincent stared at the radio, his skin crawling. His mind grasped for an explanation, but nothing stuck. Interference, he thought weakly. Just interference.
But his gaze drifted back to the notebook, now half-open on the desk. He flipped to the most recent entry, scanning the words again.
"7:57 PM: Loud thud in the kitchen. Investigate cautiously."
The static from the radio seemed louder now, buzzing in his ears like an insect too close to his head. His fingers gripped the edge of the desk as he tried to steady his breathing.
¡°It¡¯s just a coincidence,¡± he whispered to himself. ¡°That¡¯s all. Just a, ¡±
The sound of a heavy thud cut him off.
It came from the kitchen, sharp and deliberate, like something heavy hitting the floor.
Vincent froze, his blood turning to ice. His mind raced, replaying the sound over and over, trying to make sense of it. He hadn¡¯t been in the kitchen. Nothing should have moved.
He stood slowly, his legs trembling beneath him. The crowbar was still on the windowsill, within arm¡¯s reach. He grabbed it without hesitation, the cold metal grounding him as he turned toward the kitchen.
The apartment was dark beyond the faint glow of the tablet and radio. Shadows pooled in the corners, deep and impenetrable, making the small space feel cavernous.
Vincent took a step forward, then another, each movement deliberate and cautious. His grip on the crowbar tightened as he reached the edge of the kitchenette. The overhead light flickered as he reached for the switch, and he hesitated, his breath catching.
The light clicked on, flooding the room with a harsh, artificial glow.
Nothing was out of place.
The dishes he had stacked earlier were still in the sink. The counters were bare except for his half-empty glass of water. The trash can sat in the corner, undisturbed.
Vincent scanned the room, his heart pounding in his chest. The thud had been real, he was sure of it. But the kitchen looked exactly as it should.
He turned back toward the desk, his gaze flicking to the notebook again. The entry stared back at him, taunting.
"7:57 PM: Loud thud in the kitchen. Investigate cautiously."
He slammed the notebook shut, his breathing ragged. His knuckles were white against the crowbar¡¯s handle as he moved back to the desk, his legs unsteady beneath him.
Vincent stood frozen by the kitchenette, the crowbar gripped tightly in his hands. His heart raced in his chest, every sound amplified in the deafening silence that had followed the thud. He strained his ears, his eyes darting over the room, searching for anything, anything, out of place.
Nothing moved.
The harsh fluorescent light overhead buzzed faintly, casting sharp, sterile shadows across the counters and sink. The dishes gleamed with a faint wetness where he¡¯d stacked them earlier, a perfect echo of his meticulous routine.
He waited, the tension in his body coiling tighter with every second that passed. But the kitchen remained stubbornly normal, every detail as it should be.
Vincent let out a slow breath, the sound trembling as it left his lips. ¡°It¡¯s fine,¡± he muttered to himself. ¡°Nothing¡¯s here. Just¡ nothing.¡±
But his voice sounded hollow, unconvincing even to his own ears.
He turned away from the kitchenette, stepping carefully back toward the desk. The glow of the tablet seemed brighter now, its light almost harsh against the surrounding darkness. The radio hummed faintly, its red power light blinking steadily.
Something felt different.
Vincent placed the crowbar on the desk, his fingers trembling slightly as he rubbed at his temples. The events of the last few minutes churned in his mind, the radio, the notebook, the thud in the kitchen, but none of it seemed to add up. His breathing slowed as he tried to focus, grounding himself in the normalcy of the objects around him.
His gaze flicked to the notebook. It was still where he had left it, closed and sitting neatly beside the tablet. He reached for it slowly, almost reluctantly, flipping it open to the most recent page.
The paper was blank.
Vincent blinked, his stomach twisting. He flipped to the next page, then the next, his fingers moving faster with each turn.
Blank. Every page was blank.
His breath hitched as he stared at the pristine white sheets, the neat lines unmarred by ink or pressure. The entries, the detailed accounts of lost time, the predictions of future events, were gone.
The crowbar suddenly felt too heavy, too real. He pushed it farther away as if distancing himself from it would bring clarity. His gaze darted to the pill bottle, but it wasn¡¯t on the desk anymore.
¡°Where¡?¡± he started, his voice barely above a whisper. He scanned the immediate area, expecting to see it on the floor, or maybe tucked behind the laptop. But the desk was clear, unnervingly so.
The pill bottle was gone.
Vincent¡¯s hands clenched into fists at his sides as he stepped back, his head turning slowly to take in the rest of the room. The radio was still there, its red light glowing steadily. The tablet displayed its search screen, the words ¡°fluoxetine uses¡± and ¡°Dr. Ellison psychiatrist¡± glaring back at him in the otherwise empty browser.
For a moment, he thought he could hear something, just faintly, on the edge of his perception. A whisper, a shuffle, or maybe just the sound of his own breath echoing in the room.
The radio clicked suddenly, the static returning in a soft, insistent hum.
Vincent spun to face it, his pulse quickening again. But the sound wasn¡¯t garbled this time, nor was it accompanied by music or voices. It was just static, steady and unobtrusive, like it had been when he¡¯d first left it on.
He hesitated, staring at the radio as if it might offer an explanation. The tension in the air seemed to dissipate slowly, the oppressive weight he had felt earlier giving way to a strange, almost serene calm.
The room looked normal.
The radio was just static.
The notebook was blank.
The bottle wasn¡¯t there.
Vincent sank into his chair, his body feeling heavier than it had moments before. He rubbed his hands over his face, groaning softly. ¡°What the hell is happening?¡±
He looked down at the tablet again. The search bar was the only concrete proof he had left. He tapped the screen, scrolling through the search results for a moment, though he wasn¡¯t sure what he was hoping to find. The links were the same as they had been earlier, generic articles about SSRIs and mental health, nothing that hinted at the madness he¡¯d been experiencing.
The longer he stared, the more absurd it all seemed. The knocks, the notebook, the pills¡ had any of it been real? Or was his mind finally starting to betray him?
The radio¡¯s static filled the room like a soft, familiar blanket. It wasn¡¯t comforting exactly, but it was better than silence.
He leaned back in his chair, his eyes drifting to the ceiling. Every muscle in his body ached with the weight of tension and uncertainty. He wanted to believe it was over, that whatever had been happening was just some stress-induced hallucination, a trick of his overactive imagination.
But as the static hummed in the background, Vincent couldn¡¯t shake the feeling that the room wasn¡¯t as empty as it seemed.
Chapter 5:
Vincent stared at the blank notebook in front of him, the pristine pages a stark contrast to the chaotic tangle of his thoughts. His mind reeled from the inconsistencies: the vanishing pill bottle, the sound of the thud perfectly predicted, and now the eerie blankness of the notebook that had, just moments ago, been filled with meticulous, disturbing entries.
The crowbar lay across the desk, its solid weight grounding him in a way nothing else seemed able to. His hands trembled slightly as he reached for the tablet, its screen glowing faintly with the last search query he¡¯d typed: fluoxetine uses. The phrase stared back at him, clinical and mocking, daring him to find meaning in this unraveling mess.
He needed clarity. Action. Something to tether him before the static-filled void of his mind consumed him. The forums. They had been his lifeline earlier, the one place where people treated his experiences as real, no matter how absurd they seemed. Maybe they could be his anchor again.
With a determined breath, he opened the tablet¡¯s browser and navigated to the familiar dark theme of the forum. His thread was still there, sitting near the top of the general discussion board. The title, Help Needed (Trust), felt almost laughably naive now, given the weight of what he was dealing with.
The thread had grown. Dozens of replies had appeared since he¡¯d last checked, some offering advice, others joking about cursed objects and horror tropes. He skimmed past the lighthearted ones, his focus narrowing on the posts that took him seriously.
His fingers hovered over the keyboard as he prepared to type an update. The words came slowly, deliberately, as he tried to capture the scope of what had happened without sounding completely unhinged.
Update: Things are getting worse.
- Notebook that had detailed everything is now blank.
- I lost time again, about 16 hours this time. Countdown is at 1 day, 7 hours.
- Pills I don¡¯t recognize appeared with my name on them. Prescribed by a ¡°Dr. Ellison¡± who doesn¡¯t exist. Pills are for hallucinations/disordered thinking. Never contacted a doctor.
- Loud thud predicted in the notebook at 7:57 PM. It happened. No explanation.
- Radio turned itself on again. This time, static with garbled voices. No identifiable message.
- Bought some items to help a crowbar, medkit, etc.
Am I losing it? Or is something actively trying to make me think I¡¯m crazy?
He hit ¡°Submit¡± and leaned back in his chair, the faint glow of the tablet screen reflecting in his tired eyes. The static from the radio filled the room again, its low, unrelenting hum washing over him like waves on a rocky shore. He closed his eyes, letting the sound envelop him as he took a shaky breath, trying to calm the trembling in his chest.
Moments later, a notification ping broke the fragile calm. His heart jumped, the sound pulling him back to reality with a jolt. He glanced at the screen. A single reply.
It was from a user he didn¡¯t recognize: Observer777. The name struck him as odd; it felt deliberate, not like the edgy or humorous usernames the forum usually attracted. He clicked on the reply, his pulse quickening.
Reply from Observer777:
You¡¯re not losing it. But you might be losing your freedom. Whoever, or whatever, is doing this isn¡¯t just trying to mess with you. They¡¯re crafting an alibi. Look at the evidence:
- You¡¯ve publicly posted about hallucinations.
- You¡¯ve researched medication for disordered thinking.
- You¡¯re describing paranoia, lost time, and hearing voices.
If this were presented to someone, say, the authorities, it would look like you¡¯re mentally unstable. Add in that pill bottle with your name on it, prescribed by a ¡®doctor¡¯ who doesn¡¯t exist, and it¡¯s starting to look like someone¡¯s building a case against you.
Think carefully. Who stands to benefit from you being declared unfit or dangerous? What might they be setting you up for?
Vincent read the reply once, then again, his stomach twisting with each word. His fingers hovered over the keyboard, but he couldn¡¯t think of anything to type. The idea settled over him like a suffocating blanket, wrapping around his chest and squeezing until he could barely breathe.
An alibi.
The pieces clicked together with horrifying clarity. The posts he¡¯d made, the searches, the strange notebook entries, if someone else was behind this, they were constructing a narrative that painted him as delusional. The kind of person who couldn¡¯t be trusted. The kind of person who might do something dangerous.
His hands clenched into fists, his nails digging into his palms as he fought to suppress the rising tide of panic. He glanced at the crowbar on the desk, its solid weight suddenly feeling less like protection and more like evidence. A paranoid man with a weapon. How would that look to someone on the outside?
Vincent exhaled shakily, running a hand through his hair. He needed to think, to really think. He couldn¡¯t let his mind spiral. Not now.
The static continued its steady drone in the background, filling the room with its familiar hum. Vincent focused on it, letting the sound wash over him, grounding himself in its monotonous rhythm. His breaths slowed, each one deeper and steadier than the last. The words from the reply churned in his mind, but he forced himself to analyze them logically, piece by piece.
Public posts about hallucinations. That was true. He¡¯d been honest in his thread, describing the strange events as they unfolded. But that honesty could easily be twisted into something else, couldn¡¯t it?
Researching medication. He glanced at the tablet again, the open browser still displaying his searches. It was innocent enough, a natural response to finding the pill bottle. But in the context of everything else...
Paranoia. Lost time. Hearing voices. The notebook entries had documented those things in painful detail. And now that the pages were blank, the only proof they¡¯d ever existed was his own memory, a memory that could easily be called into question.
The pill bottle. It was the most damning piece of all. The label, with his name and the fabricated doctor, was too precise to be a mistake. It was deliberate, designed to cement the narrative.
Vincent¡¯s fingers trembled as he scrolled back through his thread, rereading his own words. With each post, he saw how easily they could be taken out of context, how neatly they could fit into the story Observer777 was suggesting.
A shiver ran down his spine. If someone, or something, was building an alibi, what was their endgame? What were they setting him up for?
The static rose in volume for a moment, the sound sharp and grating, before settling back into its usual hum. Vincent flinched, his gaze snapping to the radio. The red power light blinked steadily, unchanging, but the noise felt different now, less like background noise and more like a presence.
He stood, pacing the small apartment as his thoughts churned. His gaze flicked to the window, where the faint glow of the city outside cast long, distorted shadows on the floor. The world felt distant, disconnected, as though it existed on the other side of an impenetrable barrier.
He stopped by the kitchenette, his eyes scanning the familiar space. The glass of water sat on the counter, untouched since earlier. The dishes were still stacked neatly in the sink. Everything was as it should be. And yet, it wasn¡¯t.
Vincent turned back toward the desk, his gaze falling on the crowbar. The thought crossed his mind again: how damning it would look, lying there, if someone else walked into this scene. He picked it up, holding it loosely in his hand as he considered where to put it. Out of sight, he decided. Somewhere innocuous.
He crossed the room to the closet, opening it to reveal a cluttered assortment of clothes and miscellaneous items. He shoved the crowbar to the back, burying it beneath a pile of old jackets. It wasn¡¯t much, but it made him feel slightly less exposed.
As he turned back to the room, his eyes fell on the radio again. The static seemed louder now, more insistent. It filled the apartment like a living thing, seeping into every corner.
Vincent approached it cautiously, his heart pounding in his chest. He reached out, his fingers brushing against the tuning dial. For a moment, he hesitated. Then he turned it.
The static shifted, rising and falling in pitch, as though searching for something. Then it stopped. The silence was deafening.
¡°...Vincent¡¡±
The voice was faint, barely more than a whisper, but it was unmistakable. It sent a chill down his spine, his breath catching in his throat.
He stared at the radio, his mind racing. The voice didn¡¯t come again, but the weight of it lingered, pressing down on him like a physical force.
Vincent backed away slowly, his legs trembling as he returned to the desk. He sat down heavily, the static filling the room once more as the radio resumed its steady hum.
The reply from Observer777 flashed in his mind again, its implications more chilling than ever. Someone was crafting a narrative. Someone was building an alibi.
Vincent sat at the desk, the notebook open in front of him, its blank pages waiting for him to make sense of the chaos swirling in his mind. The heavy static from the radio hummed in the background, filling the oppressive silence of the room like a low, unrelenting tide. He let it wash over him as he took a shaky breath, forcing his trembling fingers to steady against the pen.
¡°I need to think,¡± he muttered under his breath, his voice barely audible over the static.
The notebook was both a blessing and a curse. Its emptiness taunted him, the lack of entries a stark reminder that whatever, or whoever, was behind this wanted him to doubt his own mind. But it was also a tool, a means of organizing the thoughts that threatened to consume him.
With deliberate strokes, he wrote a single word at the top of the page: Suspects.
The absurdity of the word struck him immediately. Suspects? Like he was in some noir thriller instead of trapped in his dingy apartment with a countdown ticking toward an unknown fate. But he shook the thought aside. He needed to take this seriously. If Observer777 was right, someone, or something, was orchestrating all of this, and he had to figure out why.
He underlined the word twice, the sharp scratch of the pen oddly satisfying, and began listing names.
People Who Might Want Me Gone
- Building Manager (Mr. Garrison)
- Motive? None obvious. Always weirdly nosy, but nothing sinister.
- Possibility? Unlikely. Seems too incompetent for something this calculated.
- Ex-Roommate (Travis Lane)
- Motive? Fallout over rent dispute eight years ago. Petty grudge?
- Possibility? Slim. Feels far-fetched, but can¡¯t dismiss entirely.
- Online Acquaintance (Cryptkeeper69)
- Motive? Knows too much from forum discussions. Could be messing with me.
- Possibility? Medium. Their humor can be dark, but would they take it this far?
- Family?
- Motive? Estranged for years. Would they care enough to pull this off?
- Possibility? Low. Feels too personal for them.
- Former Delivery Driver
- Motive? Argument over late package. Escalation into obsession?
- Possibility? Absurd. Scratching them off.
The list grew as he dredged up every face, every interaction, every slight from the past decade that might hold a kernel of reason for this bizarre situation. By the time he finished, fifteen names stared back at him, ranging from mild irritants to distant acquaintances he hadn¡¯t thought about in years. Each entry was annotated with his best guess at a motive and a probability rating that, in the end, amounted to little more than gut instinct.
He leaned back in his chair, his eyes scanning the list. None of it made sense. No single name stood out as a credible suspect. If this was some personal vendetta, it was the most convoluted one he¡¯d ever encountered.
Vincent¡¯s gaze drifted to the radio, its static a constant presence in the background. It was easier to focus with the noise, easier to block out the oppressive silence that seemed to magnify his racing thoughts. He picked up the pen again, flipping to a fresh page.
His mind wandered to the stories he¡¯d read about, the ones that had made brief splashes in the news before being quietly swept aside. People vanishing without explanation. The authorities always found an answer, of course: suicide, accidents, voluntary disappearances. But there had been something about those cases, a thread he couldn¡¯t quite pull together.
He began writing.
- Case #1: Sarah Watts (34)
- Details: Found near the riverbank. Presumed suicide. No note.
- Oddities: No history of depression. Family insists she was happy.
- Case #2: Jason Morrow (28)
- Details: Disappeared from apartment. No signs of struggle.
- Oddities: Door locked from inside. Security footage inconclusive.
- Case #3: Angela Cross (40)
- Details: Missing for three weeks. Body never found. Declared voluntary disappearance.
- Oddities: Left behind all personal belongings, including phone and wallet.
The list grew as he scoured his memory for the details he¡¯d gleaned from news reports and forum discussions. There was no clear pattern, no obvious connection between the victims. They were different ages, different genders, from different walks of life. The only common thread was the unsatisfying explanations that followed their disappearances.
Vincent frowned, tapping the pen against the edge of the notebook. Could the same thing be happening to him? Was someone, or something, crafting an alibi for his eventual vanishing act? The thought made his skin crawl.
He stared at the page, willing the scattered pieces to form a coherent picture. But the harder he tried to make sense of it, the more elusive the truth seemed.The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.
His mind wandered to the stories he¡¯d read about, the ones that had made brief splashes in the news before being quietly swept aside. People vanishing without explanation. The authorities always found an answer, of course: suicide, accidents, voluntary disappearances. But there had been something about those cases, a thread he couldn¡¯t quite pull together.
He began writing.
- Case #1: Sarah Watts (34)
- Details: Found near riverbank. Presumed suicide. No note.
- Oddities: No history of depression. Family insists she was happy.
- Case #2: Jason Morrow (28)
- Details: Disappeared from apartment. No signs of struggle.
- Oddities: Door locked from inside. Security footage inconclusive.
- Case #3: Angela Cross (40)
- Details: Missing for three weeks. Body never found. Declared voluntary disappearance.
- Oddities: Left behind all personal belongings, including phone and wallet.
The list grew as he scoured his memory for the details he¡¯d gleaned from news reports and forum discussions. There was no clear pattern, no obvious connection between the victims. They were different ages, different genders, from different walks of life. The only common thread was the unsatisfying explanations that followed their disappearances.
Vincent frowned, tapping the pen against the edge of the notebook. Could the same thing be happening to him? Was someone, or something, crafting an alibi for his eventual vanishing act? The thought made his skin crawl.
He stared at the page, willing the scattered pieces to form a coherent picture. But the harder he tried to make sense of it, the more elusive the truth seemed.
Vincent¡¯s grip on the pen tightened as he stared down at the list he¡¯d just written. The names of strangers stared back at him, fragments of lives reduced to bullet points and cold, clinical oddities. The notion that he might be next sent a shiver down his spine, a slow, creeping dread that refused to let go.
The static from the radio continued its relentless hum in the background, but now it felt different, less like a grounding force and more like a quiet observer, a passive witness to his growing paranoia. He glanced at the device, half-expecting the disembodied voice to return, but the static remained impassive, unchanging.
Was this how it started for them? he wondered. A series of unexplained events, an unraveling of their sense of reality, until finally, they were gone? The cases he¡¯d listed were too vague to confirm anything, but the parallels gnawed at him all the same. It felt like he was standing on the edge of a precipice, teetering on the brink of something he couldn¡¯t fully understand.
He pushed the notebook away, the edges of its pages fraying under the pressure of his fingers. His gaze drifted back to the tablet on the desk, still displaying his forum thread. The reply from Observer777 loomed large in his mind, its words a relentless echo:
"They¡¯re crafting an alibi."
Vincent leaned forward, resting his elbows on the desk and cradling his head in his hands. The idea made too much sense, and that was what terrified him. If someone wanted to erase him, truly erase him, this was exactly how they¡¯d do it. Undermine his credibility, plant seeds of doubt in his mind, and then, when the time was right, strike.
But why? Why him?
He let out a slow, trembling breath, the weight of the question settling heavily on his chest. He wasn¡¯t anyone important. He didn¡¯t have enemies, not real ones. Sure, he¡¯d argued with people online, had the occasional spat with coworkers or neighbors, but nothing that could explain this level of malice.
Unless it wasn¡¯t personal.
That thought struck him like a jolt of static electricity, sharp and sudden. What if it didn¡¯t matter who he was? What if he was just¡ convenient? A test subject? An experiment? The idea was absurd, but so was everything else about his situation. He¡¯d read enough about psychological experiments and black-market surveillance to know the lengths some entities, corporate or otherwise, might go to in pursuit of their goals. He might have just been unlucky enough to catch their attention.
Or maybe it was something even bigger. His mind darted to the news stories he usually ignored: conspiracy theories about shadowy organizations, rogue AI programs, or secret government projects. They had always seemed laughable before, the ramblings of paranoid minds desperate to make sense of a chaotic world. But now, sitting alone in his apartment with the static hissing in the background and a countdown ticking steadily toward its conclusion, they didn¡¯t feel so far-fetched.
Vincent¡¯s eyes flicked to his phone, lying face up on the desk. The countdown continued its unrelenting march: 1 Day, 6 Hours, 57 Minutes.
He stared at it, willing the numbers to stop, to freeze, to give him some semblance of control. But they didn¡¯t. They ticked on, indifferent to his desperation.
What happens when it reaches zero?
The question lingered in his mind, heavy and oppressive. He didn¡¯t have an answer, and that terrified him. Was it his deadline? A point of no return? Or was it something worse, something he couldn¡¯t even begin to imagine?
The words of Observer777 resurfaced, pulling him back into the present: ¡°Think carefully. Who stands to benefit from you being declared unfit or dangerous?¡±
The phrasing had stuck with him. Declared unfit. Declared dangerous. It implied more than just sabotage. It implied intent, purpose. Someone wanted him removed, not just physically, but in every way that mattered. His name, his reputation, his very existence could be erased with the right combination of lies and fabricated evidence. And if they succeeded, no one would question it. He¡¯d simply be another name added to the list of unexplained disappearances, another case closed with a neat, convenient explanation.
Vincent¡¯s hands clenched into fists, his nails digging into his palms. He couldn¡¯t let that happen. He had to find a way to fight back, to prove that he wasn¡¯t imagining this, that he wasn¡¯t crazy.
But how?
He stared at the objects on his desk, the notebook, the tablet, the phone, as if they might offer him some kind of guidance. His thoughts swirled in chaotic loops, circling back to the same points over and over again. The evidence he had wasn¡¯t tangible. The pills were gone. The notebook¡¯s entries had vanished. Even the radio¡¯s garbled voice could be dismissed as interference or a trick of the mind. He had nothing concrete, nothing he could point to and say, This is real.
Unless¡
The thought came to him slowly, hesitantly, like a shadow creeping along the edge of his consciousness. What if he documented everything? Not just in the notebook, but digitally, on the forum, in videos, in audio recordings. If someone was trying to erase him, they couldn¡¯t erase everything, could they? Not if he spread it wide enough, made enough noise.
He reached for the tablet, his hands steadier now, and opened the camera app. The screen flickered to life, displaying his tired, pale face framed by the cluttered backdrop of his apartment. He looked like a ghost of himself, hollow-eyed and tense.
¡°Okay,¡± he muttered, his voice barely above a whisper. ¡°Let¡¯s start small.¡±
He hit the record button, the green dot blinking in the corner of the screen. For a moment, he just stared at the camera, unsure of what to say. Then, slowly, he began to speak.
¡°My name is Vincent Price,¡± he said, his voice shaky but determined. ¡°If you¡¯re watching this, it means I didn¡¯t make it.¡±
The words hung in the air, heavy with implication. He swallowed hard, his throat dry, and continued.
¡°Something is happening to me. I don¡¯t know who¡¯s behind it, or why, but they¡¯re trying to make me look crazy. They¡¯ve planted evidence, pills, fake prescriptions, and they¡¯ve messed with my memory. There¡¯s a countdown on my phone, and I don¡¯t know what happens when it reaches zero.¡±
He paused, glancing toward the radio. The static filled the silence, an ever-present reminder of the strangeness surrounding him.
¡°If this is my last chance to tell the truth, then here it is: I¡¯m not crazy. I know what I¡¯ve seen. I know what I¡¯ve heard. And if someone¡¯s trying to erase me, I won¡¯t let them win.¡±
He ended the recording, his finger hovering over the save button. For a moment, he considered deleting it, the weight of his words suddenly feeling too real. But then he saved it, naming the file Evidence 1, and uploaded it to the forum thread.
Vincent stared at the new reply under his video, his stomach sinking as he read the scathing critique, the reply from Observer777 was bold as if to put emphasis on it¡¯s words.
Reply from Observer777:
What are you doing, man? This just makes you look crazier. Nobody thinks they¡¯re crazy, and now you¡¯re posting videos of yourself ranting about conspiracies? Congrats, you¡¯re just reinforcing the alibi for whoever¡¯s setting you up.
His lips tightened into a grim line. He reread the message twice, his heart thudding heavily in his chest. The post wasn¡¯t wrong, at least not entirely. The thought had already crossed his mind as he¡¯d hit the upload button, but desperation had overruled caution. Now, staring at the cold truth laid out in blunt words, he felt the gnawing sting of doubt burrow deeper into his mind.
The tablet¡¯s screen glowed faintly, mocking him with the irreversibility of his actions. The video was already uploaded to the forum. Deleting it now wouldn¡¯t help, it had likely been downloaded, shared, maybe even dissected by those curious or cruel enough to tear it apart frame by frame.
Vincent clicked back to the forum thread, scrolling down to see if anyone else had chimed in. A new reply had already appeared, this one with a dramatically different tone. The user, FinalCut82, had attached a gif of shaky cam footage from The Blair Witch Project. The caption beneath it read:
Reply from FinalCut82:
If you¡¯re gonna go full documentary, at least make it entertaining. Maybe include some creepy close-ups of the countdown clock or whisper ominously into the camera. People love that stuff.
The gif looped endlessly, the frantic motion of the infamous horror film¡¯s amateur footage somehow heightening Vincent¡¯s growing unease. His fingers hovered over the keyboard, unsure whether to reply or simply close the browser and walk away. But before he could decide, another reply appeared, this time from the same user.
Reply from FinalCut82:
On a serious note, if you¡¯re gonna document this, you need evidence. Real evidence. Screaming into a camera isn¡¯t gonna convince anyone. Start recording everything, timestamps, unexplained events, the countdown on your phone. And for the love of God, use something offline. Internet-connected devices can be tampered with. Go low-tech.
Vincent frowned, his gaze drifting back to the tablet and its always-on connection to the digital ether. The advice made sense. He didn¡¯t trust his laptop anymore, and even his phone felt like a liability. The reply had planted a seed of doubt about his current method of documenting events. He needed something physical, something offline, that couldn¡¯t be hacked or remotely altered.
He swiped over to the delivery app on his tablet, his fingers moving with purpose. The list of suggested items greeted him with a sanitized interface, a stark contrast to the tangled paranoia running rampant in his mind. He hesitated for a moment, unsure of what exactly to search for, before typing in: wearable camera.
The results populated instantly. Most of the options were sleek, modern designs, boasting features like live-streaming, cloud backup, and AI stabilization. Too connected, he thought, dismissing them with a flick of his thumb. He kept scrolling until he found what he was looking for: a basic, standalone wearable camera with no internet functionality. It had a simple design, the kind of thing you¡¯d expect a nature enthusiast or hobbyist to use for personal projects. It recorded directly onto an SD card, and its minimalistic specs were almost a selling point now.
Vincent tapped the listing, his eyes scanning the description. It didn¡¯t promise much, decent battery life, average resolution, no bells or whistles, but that was exactly what he wanted. He added it to his cart and completed the order in record time, the estimated delivery showing as 45 minutes.
The thought of waiting, of sitting in this room with nothing to do but ruminate, made his skin crawl. His fingers itched to take action, to do something, anything, that might help him wrest back some control.
But there was nothing.
Vincent leaned back in his chair, letting the static from the radio wash over him. The sound filled the apartment, its unrelenting hum an oddly comforting backdrop to his spiraling thoughts. He glanced at his phone, its screen still illuminated with the countdown: 1 Day, 6 Hours, 41 Minutes.
He clenched his jaw. That was all he had for now, the clock, ticking steadily toward its unknown end. It wasn¡¯t much, but it was something.
With nothing else to record, he grabbed the notebook and began jotting down observations about the countdown. He noted how the time had seemed consistent, never jumping forward or backward since he first noticed it. That suggested it was tied to something external, not just his phone¡¯s internal clock. But what? A server? A program? Or something¡ else?
The thought sent a chill through him, but he forced himself to keep writing. The act of putting pen to paper was grounding, even if the answers eluded him. He wrote down every detail he could think of about the countdown: when he first noticed it, how it had synced with his phone, how it refused to be dismissed or tampered with.
When he finished, he stared at the page, the words blurring together as his exhaustion began to creep in. He rubbed his temples, glancing at the tablet to check the delivery status. The camera was still en route.
The seconds stretched into minutes, each one feeling heavier than the last. Vincent stood and began pacing the apartment, his steps aimless but restless. The static hummed on, the countdown ticked away, and the weight of the unknown pressed down on him like a lead blanket.
When the soft hum of rotors broke through the static, Vincent¡¯s head snapped toward the window. The delivery drone was here. He moved quickly, sliding the window open as the machine hovered just outside, its small cargo compartment extending toward him.
The camera was neatly packed in a plain cardboard box, its unassuming appearance oddly reassuring. Vincent signed for the delivery, his fingers fumbling slightly as he held the box. The drone chirped once before zipping away, disappearing into the city¡¯s tangled skyline.
He wasted no time tearing into the package. The camera was as basic as promised, a simple rectangular device with a single button and a clip for attaching it to clothing. It came with a small stack of SD cards and a charging cable, nothing more.
Vincent held the device in his hands, its weight both literal and symbolic. This was his tool, his witness. If anything happened, if the countdown hit zero and something unthinkable occurred, this camera would capture it. It wasn¡¯t much, but it was all he had.
He clipped it to his shirt, the lens facing outward, and pressed the button. A small red light blinked on, indicating it was recording. For the first time in hours, he felt a faint glimmer of hope. He couldn¡¯t control what was happening to him, but he could document it. He could leave behind a trail, a record of his experience that no one could erase.
The static continued to hum in the background as Vincent sat back at the desk, the camera now recording everything.
Vincent leaned back in his chair, letting his hands fall limply to his sides. The quiet whir of the newly delivered wearable camera filled the silence alongside the persistent hum of the radio static. The tiny red light on the device blinked steadily, a constant reminder that it was capturing everything now, the room, his movements, even the faint shadows dancing on the walls.
He glanced at his reflection in the dark screen of the CRT monitor, a distorted image of a man frayed at the edges. His gaze drifted to the notebook and the tablet sitting on the desk, then to the camera lens fixed firmly to his chest. The weight of what he was doing, what he had been driven to do, pressed on his mind.
¡°This is ridiculous,¡± he muttered under his breath, the words barely audible over the ambient static. ¡°I look like¡ like I¡¯m trying to reenact one of those damn games.¡±
The thought lingered, and his mind began to wander. There were games like this. He had played them, devoured them, and analyzed their every frame. The ones where the protagonist stumbled through unsettling environments with only a handheld camera to document the strange and terrifying events around them. The premise was always the same, grainy footage, shaky camera angles, eerie whispers captured just on the edge of perception.
The gif of The Blair Witch Project flickered in his memory, looping endlessly as if mocking him. It was the same concept, wasn¡¯t it? Fragmented recordings left behind for someone else to find, evidence of things too horrifying or surreal for the protagonist to survive. That was how the stories always went.
He sighed heavily, running a hand through his hair as he considered the absurdity of it all. From an outside perspective, this probably looked like an elaborate Alternate Reality Game, a finely crafted narrative designed to blur the lines between fiction and reality. The thought made his stomach churn.
¡°An ARG,¡± he muttered, his voice tinged with frustration. ¡°That¡¯s what they¡¯d think. That¡¯s what I¡¯d think.¡±
He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the desk as he stared at the faintly glowing countdown on his phone. 1 Day, 4 Hours, 33 Minutes. The numbers ticked down with an unrelenting precision, like the beating of some invisible clockwork heart. If this were a game, this countdown would be the central mechanic, the driving force behind every decision. But this wasn¡¯t a game, or at least, not one he understood the rules of.
Still, the idea gnawed at him. If someone stumbled across his footage, if it ever made it out into the world, would they believe it? Would they see the fear in his eyes, the cracks in his voice, the strange occurrences that had pushed him to this point? Or would they dismiss it as a hoax, another overproduced attempt to go viral in the ever-hungry world of internet horror?
¡°Probably the latter,¡± he said bitterly, shaking his head. ¡°Most people would just laugh. Call it fake, call me crazy.¡±
The thought stung more than he cared to admit. He didn¡¯t want to be dismissed, reduced to a punchline or a footnote in someone¡¯s conspiracy video. But what could he do to stop it? The footage was what it was, raw, unpolished, and undeniably strange. It would either resonate with someone or it wouldn¡¯t. He couldn¡¯t control that.
He leaned back again, his eyes drifting to the ceiling as he tried to find solace in the static. His thoughts turned back to the games, the ones where the protagonist was doomed from the start. The idea had always fascinated him, the notion that the character¡¯s efforts, no matter how desperate, were ultimately futile. It was the tragedy of it that made those stories so compelling.
But this wasn¡¯t fiction. This was real. His life wasn¡¯t a narrative to be consumed, dissected, and debated. It was messy and terrifying and confusing in ways no carefully crafted story could replicate.
And yet¡
¡°If even one person believes me,¡± he said softly, his voice almost drowned out by the static. ¡°If one person takes me seriously, it¡¯ll be enough.¡±
Chapter 6:
Vincent¡¯s apartment felt smaller now. The air seemed heavier, pressing in on him from every corner. He paced the length of the room, each step deliberate, his crowbar clutched tightly in one hand. The weight of it was comforting, a reminder that he could still fight, still defend himself, even as the clock ticked steadily toward the unknown.
The wearable camera blinked faintly on his chest, a quiet observer of his spiraling anxiety. Every so often, the soft hum of the static-filled radio punctuated the silence, a constant reminder that he wasn¡¯t alone¡ªeven if no one else was physically present. The countdown loomed over him, its relentless descent carved into his thoughts. Every glance at the clock made his stomach tighten.
Vincent¡¯s apartment felt smaller now, the walls pressing inward as if they were slowly closing the space around him. The air was heavier, thicker, clinging to his skin with an oppressive weight that made every breath a conscious effort. He paced the length of the room, the crowbar clutched tightly in one hand, its cold metal biting into his damp palm. The rhythmic thud of his boots against the worn floor echoed through the small space, the sound strangely hollow, as though the apartment itself were empty and vast.
The countdown glared at him from the phone screen. 12:00:00 Remaining. Each digit pulsed in his mind like a heartbeat, and with every passing second, his anxiety ratcheted higher. He couldn¡¯t stop checking it, his eyes darting back every few moments as though expecting the numbers to leap forward, to betray him somehow. Time felt slippery now, each minute dragging and yet vanishing too quickly, slipping through his fingers like water.
The radio let out a crackle of static, louder than before. Vincent froze mid-step, his breath catching in his throat. He whipped around, crowbar raised, scanning the room as though expecting something to materialize in the shadows. The static fell back into its usual low hum, but the sound lingered in his ears, prickling the back of his neck like a phantom presence.
¡°Nothing,¡± he muttered, his voice cracking from the strain. ¡°It¡¯s nothing.¡±
But it didn¡¯t feel like nothing. His chest rose and fell in shallow bursts as he forced himself to move again, to resume his pacing. The camera on his chest blinked faintly, its tiny light a quiet observer to his unraveling state. Every so often, he would reach up and press the button, switching the SD card when the internal clock told him it was full. The act was mechanical, rehearsed now¡ªa habit that tethered him to some semblance of routine. The filled SD cards sat in a box near his backpack, neatly arranged despite the chaos that swirled inside his head.
The backpack itself was always within arm¡¯s reach, a constant presence that reassured and burdened him in equal measure. It was stuffed with everything he thought he might need: flashlight, duct tape, first-aid kit, extra SD cards, water bottles, protein bars. Essentials. The weight of it was a comfort, a reminder that he wasn¡¯t completely powerless, but it also served as a stark reminder of the unknown he was preparing for.
He stopped pacing and stood by the kitchenette, his fingers tapping restlessly against the counter. The clock on the phone was merciless, ticking down with relentless precision. 11:37:24 Remaining.
Vincent let out a sharp breath, snatching a bottle of water from the counter. He twisted the cap off with more force than necessary, the plastic groaning in protest. The water was cool and soothing against his dry throat, but it did little to settle the knot twisting in his stomach. He set the bottle down, his gaze lingering on it for a moment before drifting back to the door.
The door. It loomed at the end of the hallway, its smooth surface unremarkable and yet impossibly menacing. Vincent¡¯s eyes lingered on it longer than he intended, his mind replaying the soft knock he¡¯d heard earlier, the memory sharp enough to make his heart skip. The thought of someone¡ªor something¡ªstanding just beyond it made his skin crawl.
A faint creak broke the silence, the sound so subtle that he almost missed it. Vincent¡¯s head snapped toward the source, his grip on the crowbar tightening until his knuckles turned white. The sound had come from the door. He was sure of it. His breath hitched, his body going rigid as he stared at the doorframe, waiting for something¡ªanything¡ªto happen.
The seconds stretched into an eternity. Nothing moved. The door remained still, its deadbolt firmly in place, the peephole dark and unyielding. Vincent¡¯s heart pounded in his ears, drowning out the faint hum of the radio. He considered approaching it, his muscles tensing with the thought, but his feet remained rooted to the floor.
Not yet. He wasn¡¯t ready.
Instead, he resumed his pacing, each step heavier than the last. His boots scuffed against the floor as he moved, the crowbar swinging slightly with the rhythm of his stride. The static from the radio filled the silence, a sound he had come to loathe and rely on in equal measure.
The air seemed thicker now, the room quieter, as though even the static from the radio had dulled in deference to the oppressive weight of the moment. Vincent stopped pacing, his body sagging with the realization that another hour had slipped by. He leaned heavily against the counter, his grip on the crowbar loosening as exhaustion crept into his limbs. His head swam, his vision blurring at the edges, but he shook it off, forcing himself to stay alert.
¡°You¡¯re fine,¡± he whispered, the words trembling on his lips. ¡°Just tired.¡±
But he wasn¡¯t fine. He knew that. The tiredness wasn¡¯t just physical¡ªit was seeping into his mind, twisting his thoughts, making everything feel heavier and harder to hold onto. The clock on the phone blinked mercilessly. 10:00:00 Remaining. The sight of it made his stomach churn, his pulse quickening despite the leaden weight in his chest.
The radio crackled again, louder this time, a sharp burst of noise that made him flinch. He turned toward it, his eyes narrowing as he stared at the faintly glowing device. The static seemed different now, shifting in tone and pitch like a voice trapped beneath the surface, trying to break free.
Vincent took a step closer, his boots scuffing softly against the floor. He hesitated, his hand hovering over the dial, before finally reaching out to adjust it. The static hissed and shifted, the sound rising and falling like the breath of some unseen thing. His heart thudded in his chest as he twisted the knob, trying to catch any trace of coherence in the noise.
¡°Come on,¡± he muttered under his breath. ¡°Say something.¡±
The static continued to hum, unyielding and inscrutable. He turned the dial again, his movements growing more frantic, but the radio refused to give him anything more. With a frustrated growl, he switched it off, the silence that followed deafening in its finality.
A faint tapping sound broke through the stillness. Vincent froze, his blood running cold as he turned toward the source. The sound was soft and irregular, like the faint drumming of fingertips against glass.
The window.
He moved cautiously, his heart hammering as he approached the blinds. The tapping continued, each strike sending a fresh jolt of adrenaline through his system. His grip on the crowbar tightened, the weight of it reassuring as he reached out with his free hand.
The blinds rustled softly as he pulled them back, revealing the darkened street outside. The windowpane was clear, unbroken, and the street was empty. No movement. No shadows. Nothing.
Vincent let the blinds fall back into place, his chest rising and falling with shallow breaths. His pulse thundered in his ears, drowning out the faint hum of the radio as he backed away from the window. The tapping had stopped, but the weight of it lingered, pressing against his thoughts like an unanswered question.
He slumped against the wall, his legs trembling beneath him as he slid down to the floor. The crowbar rested across his lap, its cold surface grounding him as he forced himself to breathe. His head drooped slightly, his eyelids heavy with exhaustion, but he didn¡¯t dare close them.
The clock ticked forward relentlessly. 9:37:12 Remaining.
Vincent stared at the phone, his vision swimming as he tried to focus. The countdown felt like a noose tightening around his neck, each second pulling him closer to something he couldn¡¯t define. His mind buzzed with exhaustion, his thoughts fraying at the edges, but he clung to one simple truth:
He couldn¡¯t stop. He couldn¡¯t rest. Not yet.
Vincent sat on the floor, his back pressed against the cold wall, the crowbar lying across his lap. The hard surface dug into his shoulders, but he welcomed the discomfort¡ªit kept him awake. His head drooped slightly, his neck aching from the strain of holding it upright for so long. He forced his eyes open again, blinking against the heavy pull of exhaustion.
The clock on the phone glared at him from the table. 7:00:00 Remaining. The numbers felt etched into his mind, each second that passed like a sharp chisel chipping away at his sanity.
The radio continued its quiet hum in the background, the static soft but ever-present, filling the oppressive silence of the apartment. Vincent¡¯s breaths were shallow and uneven, each one a conscious effort as he fought the relentless weight pressing down on him. The air felt thick, almost tangible, like a dense fog clinging to his skin. His chest tightened with each inhale, as though the apartment itself were trying to suffocate him.
A faint sound broke through the haze, pulling him from the edge of sleep. Tap. Tap. Tap. The noise was irregular, soft, like fingertips gently drumming against glass.
Vincent¡¯s heart skipped a beat, his head snapping toward the window. The blinds were drawn, their pale fabric outlined faintly by the dim light filtering in from the streetlamp outside. The tapping came again, light and sporadic, as if whatever was causing it was toying with him.
He grabbed the crowbar, his fingers trembling as he pushed himself to his feet. His legs felt weak, unsteady beneath him, but he forced himself to move. Each step toward the window was slow, deliberate, his breath hitching with every tap. The sound seemed to grow louder as he approached, reverberating in his ears like a drumbeat.
When he reached the blinds, he hesitated, his hand hovering just above the edge. His mind raced with possibilities, each one worse than the last. What if something was out there? What if it wasn¡¯t?
With a sharp tug, he pulled the blinds open.
Nothing.
The window was clear, the street beyond empty and still. The faint glow of the streetlamp illuminated the asphalt below, casting long, undulating shadows across the pavement. Vincent scanned the area, his eyes darting from one corner of the street to the next, searching for any sign of movement.
But there was nothing. No figure lurking in the shadows, no strange shape pressed against the glass. Just the empty street and the faint hum of the radio behind him.
Vincent let the blinds fall back into place, stepping away from the window with a shaky breath. His chest felt tight, his heart pounding so loudly that it seemed to echo in the silence. ¡°It¡¯s nothing,¡± he muttered to himself, the words hollow and unconvincing.
He slumped back against the wall, sliding down until he was sitting once more. The crowbar rested across his lap, its cold metal biting into his skin as he gripped it tightly. The tapping didn¡¯t return, but the phantom echo of it lingered in his mind, twisting his thoughts into knots.
The clock ticked forward relentlessly. 6:37:43 Remaining.
Vincent¡¯s pacing had become erratic now, his movements jittery and uneven. The exhaustion had settled deep into his bones, each step feeling like a monumental effort. His hands shook as he adjusted the strap of the backpack slung over one shoulder, the weight of it a constant reminder of his fragile preparation.
The camera blinked steadily on his chest, its faint light reflecting off the darkened windows as he moved. He glanced at the phone on the desk. 4:00:00 Remaining. The sight of it made his stomach twist, his pulse quickening despite the crushing fatigue. Four hours. It felt like both an eternity and an instant.
The radio let out a sudden burst of static, loud and sharp, cutting through the oppressive silence. Vincent spun toward it, his crowbar raised, his breath catching in his throat. The static faded quickly, replaced by a low, rhythmic hum that seemed to pulse in time with his racing heart.
¡°Don¡¯t do this,¡± he muttered under his breath, his voice trembling. He approached the radio cautiously, his eyes narrowing as he reached out to adjust the dial. The hum grew louder for a moment, then stopped abruptly, leaving only the faint hiss of static behind.
And then, a voice.
¡°Soon.¡±
The word was clear, sharp, and unmistakable. Vincent stumbled back, the crowbar slipping from his grasp and clattering to the floor. His chest heaved as he stared at the radio, his mind racing to process what he¡¯d just heard. The word echoed in his ears, burrowing into his thoughts like a splinter.
¡°No,¡± he whispered, shaking his head. ¡°No, no, no.¡±
The radio fell silent again, its red power light blinking steadily. Vincent didn¡¯t move, his feet rooted to the spot as his thoughts spiraled out of control. His breathing was rapid and shallow, his vision swimming as the edges of the room seemed to darken and close in around him.
He forced himself to pick up the crowbar, the metal cold and reassuring in his trembling hands. His gaze darted to the clock. 3:47:18 Remaining. The sight of the countdown sent a fresh wave of dread coursing through him, but he couldn¡¯t look away. Time was slipping through his fingers, pulling him inexorably toward whatever awaited at zero.
Vincent sat on the edge of his bed, his body hunched forward, the crowbar resting heavily across his knees. His head drooped, his eyelids fluttering closed for a fraction of a second before he snapped them open again. Every muscle in his body ached, his exhaustion pressing down on him like a physical weight.
The apartment was unbearably quiet now, the faint static of the radio reduced to a distant hum. The camera on his chest continued to blink steadily, its soft light the only movement in the stillness. Vincent¡¯s gaze drifted to the backpack at his feet, its contents meticulously packed and ready. He had checked it at least a dozen times in the past hour, ensuring that everything was exactly where it should be.Unauthorized duplication: this tale has been taken without consent. Report sightings.
The clock on the phone blinked. 2:00:00 Remaining. The sight of it made his stomach churn, a wave of nausea washing over him as the reality of his situation closed in. Two hours. Two hours until¡ what? The question had haunted him for hours, gnawing at the edges of his mind. He didn¡¯t have an answer, and the uncertainty was worse than any tangible threat.
A faint creak broke the silence, pulling Vincent¡¯s attention to the door. His heart skipped a beat, his breath catching in his throat as he stared at the shadowed outline of the frame. The sound was soft, almost imperceptible, but it set every nerve in his body on edge.
He stood slowly, his legs trembling beneath him as he adjusted the strap of his backpack. The flashlight clipped to his shoulder strap jostled slightly with the movement, its weight a small comfort in the overwhelming darkness. The crowbar felt heavier now, its weight dragging at his arms as he raised it defensively.
The seconds ticked by, each one stretching into an eternity. Vincent¡¯s breaths were shallow and uneven, his chest tight as he waited for something¡ªanything¡ªto happen. The creak didn¡¯t come again, but the tension in the air was suffocating, pressing down on him with an invisible force.
The clock ticked forward. 1:57:43 Remaining.
Vincent tightened his grip on the crowbar, his knuckles white against the cold metal. His gaze stayed fixed on the door, his mind racing with possibilities. He didn¡¯t know what was coming, but he knew he couldn¡¯t afford to let his guard down. Not now. Not this close to the end.
30 Minutes Remaining.
Vincent stood in the center of the room, the crowbar gripped tightly in his hands. The backpack was slung over one shoulder, its weight pressing into him like a physical reminder of his preparation. The room felt unbearably quiet now, the radio¡¯s static barely audible in the background.
His eyes darted between the clock and the door, the countdown ticking steadily toward whatever was coming. His breaths came shallow and quick, his exhaustion forgotten in the face of rising dread.
¡°What happens when it hits zero?¡± he whispered, his voice cracking.
The radio offered no answer, the static continuing its unrelenting hum. The camera blinked steadily on his chest, recording every second of his fear.
Vincent closed his eyes, gripping the crowbar so tightly that his knuckles turned white. Whatever was coming, he would face it. He had no other choice.
Vincent crouched low in the dimly lit kitchen, his back pressed against the cold cabinets. His legs ached from hours of pacing, his knees creaked with every slight movement, but he stayed still, poised like a coiled spring. The crowbar in his hands felt slick with sweat, its weight a lifeline as his tired mind spiraled.
The backpack sat firmly over one shoulder, its strap digging into his skin with a dull ache he barely registered anymore. Clipped to the strap was his flashlight, its lens dark but ready at a moment''s notice. The radio was strapped to the side, its faint static a constant background noise that seemed to vibrate in his chest. The phone lay on the counter nearby, its screen casting a faint, too-bright glow that felt like an intrusion in the otherwise shadowed room. The light burned at his bleary eyes, making his already fragile focus waver.
His breaths came shallow and uneven as he tried to steady himself. He had stayed awake for over 24 hours now, and the toll was undeniable. His head swam with exhaustion, his thoughts thick and sluggish like molasses. The edges of his vision seemed to pulse and darken, his peripheral awareness fading in and out as if his body were moments away from forcing him into unconsciousness.
¡°Stay awake,¡± he whispered to himself, the words hoarse and dry. ¡°You¡¯ve come this far. Don¡¯t lose it now.¡±
His mouth was dry, his tongue sticking uncomfortably to the roof of his mouth. He wanted water, but the idea of moving, of breaking his focus, felt impossible. His body was a bundle of frayed nerves, each one stretched thin and ready to snap. The air in the apartment felt oppressive, thick with an invisible weight that pressed down on him with every breath. Even his own skin felt foreign, hypersensitive to every shift in the stale air.
He tightened his grip on the crowbar, the muscles in his arms screaming from the constant tension. His fingers felt like they might cramp, but he didn¡¯t dare loosen his hold. His gaze flickered toward the door at the end of the hall, the faint outline of it visible in the gloom. Every sense was trained on it, every nerve in his body poised for the moment it moved.
One minute.
The countdown on his phone had dwindled down to a single minute. The thought sent a spike of adrenaline through his system, jolting him upright despite the heaviness dragging at his limbs. The static from the radio seemed to grow louder, more insistent, filling the room like a living presence. It wasn¡¯t just static anymore, though. Beneath it, faint and insidious, there was a new sound¡ªa soft, hissing noise.
Vincent froze, his ears straining to catch it. The noise was subtle, just barely audible over the hiss of the radio, but it was there. A low, constant hiss, like air escaping through a crack, coming from the door. His heart thundered in his chest as his eyes locked onto the shadowy outline of the door, his breathing shallow and uneven.
¡°What the hell...¡± he muttered under his breath, his voice trembling. The words felt too loud in the oppressive quiet, but he didn¡¯t care.
He adjusted his position slightly, the backpack shifting on his shoulder with a faint rustle. His legs screamed in protest as he shifted his weight, trying to get into a position where he could strike if needed. His tired mind replayed every survival horror game he¡¯d ever played, the ones where the player¡¯s weapon was their last line of defense against the unknown. He clung to those memories like a mantra, trying to steel himself.
The hissing grew louder, shifting into a faint, rhythmic cadence that made his skin crawl. His grip on the crowbar tightened further, his knuckles white against the dark metal.
And then it started.
The knock.
A single, soft tap, so quiet it was almost imperceptible. It came from the door, deliberate and measured, like a test. Vincent¡¯s breath hitched, his chest tightening as his eyes locked onto the door. His body was rigid, every muscle coiled and ready to strike. He counted the seconds in his head, waiting for the next knock.
It came again. Slightly louder this time, but still slow, methodical.
Tap.
¡
Tap.
¡
Tap.
Each sound sent a fresh jolt of adrenaline through him, his exhaustion momentarily forgotten as his instincts screamed at him to act. But act how? Run? Fight? Freeze? The options tumbled through his mind in a chaotic swirl, each one feeling equally impossible.
He forced himself to breathe, focusing on the rise and fall of his chest, trying to quiet the storm raging in his head. His eyes never left the door. It loomed like a barrier between him and whatever was on the other side, its surface smooth and unyielding. The knocks continued, steady and unrelenting, their rhythm almost hypnotic.
Vincent¡¯s heart pounded in his ears, drowning out the static, the hissing, even the sound of his own breathing. Time seemed to stretch, each second dragging out like an eternity. He adjusted his grip on the crowbar, the metal cool and solid in his hands.
The knocking stopped.
Silence fell over the apartment like a shroud, heavy and suffocating. Vincent didn¡¯t move, didn¡¯t breathe, his entire body frozen in anticipation. His ears strained for any sound, any clue as to what might happen next.
The radio let out a sudden burst of static, sharp and jarring, before falling silent. The hissing stopped. The air felt impossibly still, as if the apartment itself were holding its breath.
Vincent¡¯s grip on the crowbar tightened even further, his eyes darting to the door. The silence stretched on, each second a battle against the rising tide of panic threatening to overwhelm him.
And then, with a soft creak, the doorknob began to turn.
Vincent¡¯s breath hitched as the doorknob jiggled, the faint metallic rattle cutting through the suffocating silence like a razor. His eyes stayed locked on the door as he reached out with one trembling hand, flicking the light switch off. The kitchen plunged into darkness, the faint glow from the phone now extinguished.
He shifted slightly, pressing himself further into the shadows of the kitchen, his body a tense coil of nerves. His grip on the crowbar tightened, the cold metal biting into his damp palms. The backpack pressed uncomfortably into his shoulder, its weight both reassuring and suffocating at once.
The radio went silent as he clicked it off, leaving the apartment shrouded in a thick, almost palpable quiet. Every sound now felt magnified, every tiny creak and rustle amplified in the absence of static. His breaths were shallow and deliberate, his chest rising and falling in slow, controlled movements as he tried to calm the frantic pounding of his heart.
The jiggling of the door continued, steady and insistent. Each metallic click sent a new wave of tension rippling through his body. He silently thanked himself for remembering to engage the deadbolt. Without it, whoever¡ªor whatever¡ªwas outside would already be inside.
A voice drifted into the room, soft and low, just audible enough to send a chill racing down his spine. The words were indistinct, murmured and garbled as though spoken underwater or through layers of static. He strained to make them out, leaning slightly forward despite the pounding fear in his chest, but they remained elusive.
Then, the tone of the voice shifted. It wasn¡¯t just speaking anymore¡ªit was singing.
The lullaby started quietly, so faint that it could have been mistaken for the hum of distant traffic or the murmur of a passing breeze. But as the seconds ticked by, it grew louder, clearer. The melody was slow and deliberate, each note carefully placed, each word carrying a weight that made Vincent¡¯s skin crawl.
¡°Close your eyes, little one,
Let the dark take hold.
Drift to sleep, soft and deep,
Feel the night unfold¡¡±
Vincent¡¯s knuckles turned white around the crowbar, his entire body rigid as the song seeped into the room like a creeping fog. The voice was sweet, almost melodic, the tone soothing and maternal. But the words¡ªoh, the words¡ªcarried an undercurrent of something deeply unsettling.
¡°Rest your head, no need to fight,
The world will fade away.
Close your eyes, embrace the night,
Let dreams take you to stay¡¡±
His breaths came quicker now, shallow and ragged as he fought against the hypnotic pull of the lullaby. It was wrong¡ªeverything about it was wrong. The softness of the voice, the gentle rise and fall of the melody, all wrapped around lyrics that felt like an invitation to surrender. To give up. To let go.
Vincent gritted his teeth, shaking his head as though the movement might physically dispel the song¡¯s influence. He shifted his grip on the crowbar, the rough metal grounding him against the surreal horror unfolding on the other side of the door.
The singing grew louder, its cadence slow and deliberate, the words dripping with a kind of sickly-sweet malice that made his stomach churn. He pressed himself further into the corner of the kitchen, his eyes darting toward the door as if expecting it to burst open at any moment.
¡°Close your eyes, little one,
The night will keep you warm.
Drift away, don¡¯t be afraid,
You¡¯re safe from any harm¡¡±
The words hung in the air, each one twisting into his mind like a burrowing parasite. He felt his eyelids grow heavy, his exhaustion threatening to overwhelm him as the song wormed its way into his thoughts.
¡°Stay awake,¡± he whispered hoarsely, barely louder than a breath. ¡°Don¡¯t listen. Don¡¯t¡ª¡±
His voice cracked as the lullaby¡¯s final line lingered in the stillness:
¡°Close your eyes, just fall asleep,
And let the shadows creep¡¡±
The singing stopped abruptly, leaving the room in an oppressive silence. The only sound was the faint rustle of the backpack against his jacket as he shifted, his breaths sharp and uneven in the void the song had left behind.
The door jiggled again, more forcefully this time, the deadbolt rattling against the frame as if testing its strength. Vincent¡¯s heart hammered against his ribs, his muscles tensing as he raised the crowbar slightly, ready to strike at the first sign of intrusion.
The voice returned, softer now, a low whisper that slipped beneath the door and into his ears like a tendril of smoke. The words were unintelligible again, but their intent was clear: coaxing, beckoning, pulling him toward the edge of surrender.
Vincent clenched his teeth, his hands shaking as he fought against the crushing weight of exhaustion. The lullaby had left its mark, a lingering haze in his mind that made every second feel like an eternity. His eyes burned with fatigue, his body screaming for rest, but he refused to give in.
The door stopped rattling. The whispering ceased. For a brief, fleeting moment, the silence returned.
And then the knocking started again. Slow. Quiet. Rhythmic.
Tap.
¡
Tap.
¡
Tap.
Vincent crouched lower, his muscles burning with the strain as he gripped the crowbar tighter. His gaze stayed fixed on the door, his mind racing as he tried to anticipate what would come next. The seconds dragged on, each one a battle against the overwhelming urge to collapse.
He pressed his back against the cabinets, the cold surface grounding him as he forced his breaths to slow. His mind latched onto a single thought, a desperate mantra that he repeated over and over in his head:
Vincent''s breathing slowed as he crouched lower into the shadows of the kitchen, his body aching from exhaustion and tension. The crowbar felt impossibly heavy in his hands, the weight of it an extension of the fatigue pulling at his limbs. The silence outside the door seemed to stretch infinitely, interrupted only by the faint echoes of his own uneven breaths.
His focus was razor-sharp, honed in on every creak, every shift of the air, every possibility of intrusion. He hadn¡¯t moved for what felt like hours, his muscles locked into place, every fiber of his being attuned to the door. Yet now, in the suffocating stillness, something else crept into his awareness¡ªa smell.
Sweet. Faint at first, barely noticeable over the metallic tang of fear clinging to him. But as seconds ticked by, it grew stronger, filling his nostrils with a cloying, chemical undertone. The scent was oddly familiar, though he couldn¡¯t place it. It reminded him of a permanent marker left uncapped, its fumes lingering in the air. He frowned, his grip on the crowbar loosening slightly as his mind latched onto the distraction.
What is that?
The thought surfaced sluggishly, as if pushing through molasses. His head felt heavier now, his thoughts less sharp. He blinked, trying to refocus, but his eyelids seemed to resist, dragging closed for a fraction of a second longer each time.
The smell intensified, a sickly-sweet fog settling over him, wrapping itself around his senses like a suffocating blanket. His stomach churned as he tried to inhale through his mouth, but the taste of it coated his tongue, leaving a faint, bitter residue.
Focus. Just focus.
The mantra was harder to hold onto now, slipping through his grasp like sand. The air felt thick, syrupy, and each breath seemed to drag sluggishly into his lungs. His limbs tingled with a strange numbness, his body swaying slightly as his knees threatened to buckle beneath him.
His thoughts splintered, fracturing into fragments that refused to piece together. The door. The lullaby. The smell. The crowbar. It all swirled in his mind, a chaotic storm that made it impossible to think straight. He gritted his teeth, forcing himself to hold onto one singular truth:
Stay awake. Stay alert.
But even that was slipping away. The sweet smell pressed against him, invading every corner of his mind, blurring the edges of his vision. His grip on the crowbar faltered, his fingers weak and unsteady.
Through the haze, he heard it: the faintest sound of keys jingling outside the door. The sound cut through the fog for a moment, sharp and deliberate. His pulse quickened, a jolt of adrenaline briefly clearing the fog clouding his thoughts.
The jiggling of the doorknob resumed, no longer tentative but purposeful, each rattle punctuated by the metallic clink of keys searching for their match. Vincent tried to push himself up, his muscles trembling with the effort. His vision swam, the edges of the room darkening as his head swayed.
He heard a voice. Faint. Distant. Familiar.
¡°Let¡¯s not make this a problem,¡± the voice said. Calm, almost casual, as though the speaker were discussing the weather. ¡°I¡¯m a law-abiding citizen. Just want to avoid trouble for the building.¡±
Vincent¡¯s eyes widened, his breath hitching in his throat. Mr. Garrison. The landlord.
The realization pierced through the fog, but only briefly. The sickly-sweet smell pressed harder against him, like an unseen force smothering him into submission. His body felt leaden, his limbs refusing to respond to the desperate commands of his mind.
The door rattled one last time, then clicked. The sound of the deadbolt sliding open sent a shiver down Vincent¡¯s spine. His knees buckled, and he slumped back against the cabinets, the crowbar slipping from his grasp with a dull clang.
The world tilted, his vision narrowing to a pinprick as the last traces of light dimmed. Somewhere in the haze, he heard the soft creak of the door swinging open, the lullaby¡¯s melody faintly returning, intertwining with the landlord¡¯s calm, measured steps.
Vincent¡¯s eyes fluttered, his breath shallow as he caught one final glimpse of the phone screen beside him. The countdown glowed faintly in the darkness, its numbers counting down in steady, unrelenting succession.
3...
2...
1...
And then, nothing.
Chapter 7:
Vincent¡¯s eyelids fluttered open, his head pounding with a dull, persistent ache. The last thing he remembered was crouching in his kitchen, gripping his crowbar as the door jiggled and the landlord¡¯s voice seeped through the cracks. Now, the room around him was unfamiliar, sterile and cold, the faint scent of bleach hanging heavy in the air.
He sat up slowly, the paper-covered surface of a doctor¡¯s examination table crinkling beneath him. The fluorescent lights overhead buzzed faintly, casting a harsh, unwelcoming glare over the room. Every detail seemed sharp, almost hyperreal, the sheen on the steel cabinets, the stark white walls, the faint reflections in the glossy tile floor.
This isn¡¯t my apartment.
Vincent swung his legs over the side of the table, his boots scuffing lightly against the tiles. His backpack sat on a nearby chair, the crowbar strapped securely to its side. The sight of it sent a flicker of relief through him, grounding him amidst the surreal disorientation. He reached for the bag, pulling it onto his lap and unzipping it to check the contents. Everything seemed intact, the flashlight, the first aid kit, the water bottles, the spare SD cards. Even the radio was there, though it was turned off.
Strange. I left it on.
He rubbed the back of his neck, the tension in his muscles refusing to ease. It was then that he noticed the weight on his left wrist, a metallic device encircling it snugly, its smooth, silver surface broken only by a small screen. The display lit up as he moved, revealing a pixelated chibi version of himself, dressed in a stylized version of his current outfit. The tiny avatar shifted slightly, bouncing on its heels in a cheerful standby animation, its movements uncanny in their liveliness.
¡°What the hell is this?¡± Vincent muttered, lifting his wrist for a closer look.
The screen flickered, and text appeared beneath the animated figure:
Welcome to the Game. Player: Vincent Price Stats:
- Resolve: High
- Awareness: Moderate
- Stealth: Moderate
- Fear: 0% (Rising)
- Luck: Questionable
Beneath the stats, a small icon pulsed faintly: three tiny hearts arranged in a row, with a caption that read:
Innate Bonus: 1/3rd a Cat. A cat has nine lives; you have three. You are as useful as one third of a cat.
Vincent stared at the screen, his mind racing to process the absurdity. He tapped the device with his finger, half-expecting it to break or glitch, but the screen remained bright and responsive. The chibi version of himself gave a jaunty little wave, as if mocking his confusion.
Before he could delve deeper into the interface, the text changed again, presenting a new option:
Select a Survivor Talent:
- Hider¡¯s Instinct: Know when to stay still and quiet.
- Fleet Feet: Improved speed during critical moments.
- Sixth Sense: Gain subtle awareness of out-of-place objects.
- Silent Steps: Reduced noise when moving.
- Scavenger¡¯s Eye: Spot useful items more easily.
Vincent blinked, recognition dawning. The layout reminded him of an obscure online horror game he¡¯d once tried to play, a niche title that simulated surviving against slasher villains or supernatural entities. It was an ancient game, impossible to find now that private servers had vanished. He remembered watching gameplay videos of it online, fascinated by the mechanics but frustrated that he¡¯d never been able to experience it firsthand.
This can¡¯t be real. I¡¯m dreaming.
But the metallic weight around his wrist felt all too tangible. So did the faint ache in his muscles and the chill of the sterile room. Whatever this was, it wasn¡¯t a dream.
For now, he set the talent selection aside. His priority was figuring out where he was, and how to get out. Vincent slid off the examination table, his boots hitting the floor with a solid thud. He adjusted the backpack straps over his shoulders, the familiar weight a small comfort as he scanned the room.
At first glance, it looked like a doctor¡¯s office. A desk sat against one wall, cluttered with papers and an outdated computer. Cabinets lined the opposite side, their steel doors reflecting the harsh overhead lights. A single door, painted a sterile white, stood at the far end of the room.
But something was off.
As Vincent moved closer to the cabinets, he noticed subtle inconsistencies. The labels on the drawers were vague, ¡°Supplies,¡± ¡°Miscellaneous,¡± ¡°Tools.¡± Not the kind of precision he¡¯d expect in a medical setting. He opened one drawer, finding it stuffed with random items: rubber bands, a set of mismatched keys, and a single roll of duct tape. Another drawer contained rolls of gauze and several jars of what looked like marbles.
This isn¡¯t a real doctor¡¯s office.
He approached the desk next, rifling through the scattered papers. Most were blank, except for a few with cryptic phrases scrawled across them in blocky, uneven handwriting: ¡°They¡¯re watching.¡± ¡°Find the key.¡± ¡°Time is running out.¡±
Vincent¡¯s chest tightened as his gaze darted to the door. He reached for the handle and turned it, only to find it locked. The handle wouldn¡¯t budge, no matter how much force he applied. A soft chime emanated from the device on his wrist, drawing his attention.
The chibi avatar now stood with its hands on its hips, a speech bubble appearing above its head: Locked. Look for the key.
¡°No kidding,¡± Vincent muttered, his voice sharp with irritation. He stepped back, scanning the room again for anything he might have missed.
The examination table. The cabinets. The desk. His eyes darted between them, his mind racing as he tried to piece together the logic of the room. He crouched by the table, running his hands along its underside, feeling for any hidden compartments. Nothing.
The radio caught his eye as he stood, still strapped to his backpack. He hesitated, then turned it on. Static filled the room, the familiar hum oddly soothing in the sterile environment. But there was no voice, no cryptic message. Just the same static as always.
¡°Of course,¡± he muttered, switching it off again.
The clock on the wrist device ticked forward, though it didn¡¯t display the time in hours or minutes, just a countdown, faint and ever-present in the corner of the screen. He forced himself to breathe deeply, steadying his nerves. The game had begun, whether he liked it or not.
He moved to the cabinets again, this time pulling them open with more force. A faint scrape caught his attention as one of the drawers stuck halfway. Inside was a folded piece of paper and a small, rusted key tied to it with twine. The paper read, ¡°The first step is never the last.¡±
Vincent grabbed the key, his pulse quickening as he crossed the room and slid it into the lock. The door clicked open with a faint metallic sound, revealing a dark hallway beyond. The air was colder here, carrying a faint, musty smell that sent a shiver down his spine.
Before stepping through, he glanced at the wrist device. The chibi version of himself now held a flashlight, its expression strangely confident. Beneath the avatar, a single word flashed in glowing red letters:
Proceed.
Vincent tightened his grip on the crowbar, his knuckles whitening. Whatever lay ahead, he wasn¡¯t going in unprepared. He adjusted the strap of his backpack, took a deep breath, and stepped into the darkness.
The hallway stretched out before Vincent, its dim lighting casting long, uneven shadows across the walls and floor. It wasn¡¯t quite like a hospital hallway, at least not one he¡¯d ever seen. The floors were a scuffed, off-white linoleum, and the faint hum of fluorescent lights buzzed overhead. Small rolling beds were pushed against the walls at irregular intervals, their plastic mattresses sagging slightly. Some were covered with rumpled sheets, others completely bare, the stark steel frames glinting under the harsh lights.
The air was cold, carrying the faint scent of antiseptic and something more organic, a metallic tang that reminded him uncomfortably of blood. Vincent adjusted the strap of his backpack, the crowbar still gripped tightly in his hand, and took a cautious step forward. His boots squeaked softly on the linoleum, the sound startlingly loud in the eerie silence.
He froze mid-step when he noticed he wasn¡¯t alone.
There were others in the hallway, five of them, scattered along its length. Each stood near one of the rolling beds, their postures tense, their expressions ranging from guarded to openly fearful. None of them moved to speak; they just stared at each other with the wary looks of strangers forced into an uncertain alliance.
Vincent¡¯s eyes flicked from one to the next, his mind racing to process what he was seeing.
The first was a wiry young man with shaggy blond hair and a hoodie that had clearly seen better days. His jeans were frayed at the hems, his sneakers scuffed and patched with duct tape. He had the nervous energy of someone who didn¡¯t trust his surroundings, or the people in them. His fingers fidgeted constantly, tugging at his hoodie strings or tapping against his sides, as if he couldn¡¯t bear to be still.
A girl stood a few feet away from him, maybe in her late teens or early twenties. Her hair was dyed bright pink, chopped unevenly as though she¡¯d done it herself. She wore a leather jacket over a floral dress, combat boots scuffed with dried mud. Her gaze was defiant, her arms crossed tightly over her chest, but Vincent caught the faint tremor in her hands as she adjusted her stance.
Then there was the man in the suit, dark, tailored, expensive-looking. His tie was loosened, his white shirt untucked, but the overall impression was still one of authority. Or at least it would have been if his face wasn¡¯t slick with sweat and his hands weren¡¯t trembling slightly as they gripped the edge of a nearby rolling bed. His neatly combed hair was starting to stick up in places, and his polished shoes squeaked faintly as he shifted his weight from foot to foot.
Further down the hallway, Vincent spotted a stocky middle-aged woman with short, graying hair and a no-nonsense expression. She wore a janitor¡¯s uniform, sturdy work pants, a plain button-down shirt, and steel-toed boots. Her hands were rough, calloused, and she gripped a large wrench like it was an extension of her arm. She looked around the hallway with the assessing gaze of someone who had seen her fair share of bad situations and survived them.
Finally, there was the boy. He couldn¡¯t have been more than ten or eleven, his dark eyes wide with fear as he clung to a stuffed bear that had clearly been well-loved. His clothes were simple, jeans and a hoodie, but they were clean and neatly pressed, at odds with the dirt smudged across his face and hands. He stood close to the janitor, who seemed to have taken on the role of protector, her stance subtly shielding him from the rest of the group.
Vincent swallowed hard as he took them all in, his mind racing with recognition. They weren¡¯t just people, they were types. Tropes. Archetypes straight out of every horror movie, survival game, or nightmare scenario he¡¯d ever encountered.
The Nervous Everyman.
The Rebellious Girl.
The Corporate Shark.
The Reluctant Protector.
The Innocent Child.
His gaze flicked down to the chibi figure on his wrist device, still bouncing lightly in its idle animation. What role did he play? Was he the Cynical Loner? The Burnt-Out Skeptic? The Reluctant Leader? Or was his role something more sinister, something he hadn¡¯t yet realized?
Before he could dwell on the thought, a soft chime emanated from his wrist device, startling him. The sound echoed faintly down the hallway, and the others reacted immediately. Each of their watches had chimed in unison, the eerie synchronicity cutting through the tension like a blade.
The chibi character on Vincent¡¯s screen turned to face him, waving cheerfully before a new message appeared:
¡°The final Survivor has arrived. Let the game begin.¡±
The same text flashed on the devices of the others, who glanced at their wrists with varying degrees of confusion and alarm. A low murmur began to ripple through the group, the first tentative signs of conversation breaking the oppressive silence.
¡°What the hell does that mean?¡± the man in the suit muttered, his voice low and gravelly. He swiped at the screen of his watch as though trying to dismiss the message, but the text remained stubbornly in place.
¡°It means we¡¯re screwed,¡± the pink-haired girl said, her tone defiant but strained. She crossed her arms tighter, glaring at the others as if daring them to argue. ¡°Whatever this is, it¡¯s not good.¡±
¡°Y-you think?¡± the hoodie-clad guy stammered, his voice pitching upward with barely-contained panic. ¡°This, this is crazy. We¡¯ve gotta get out of here. There¡¯s gotta be a way out.¡±
¡°Calm down, kid,¡± the janitor said, her voice steady and firm. She placed a hand on the boy¡¯s shoulder, her presence radiating a quiet strength that seemed to ground him. ¡°Panic won¡¯t get us anywhere. Let¡¯s figure out what we¡¯re dealing with first.¡±
Vincent remained silent, his gaze drifting down the hallway. There was a door at the far end, slightly ajar, its darkness yawning like an open mouth. The fluorescent lights flickered faintly, their rhythm uneven, as though the electricity itself was hesitant to commit.
The backpack on his shoulder felt heavier now, the crowbar pressing into his hand with familiar weight. He adjusted his grip, his eyes narrowing as he assessed the situation. The chime from the watches, the sterile hallway, the eerie archetypes, they weren¡¯t here by accident. This was part of whatever game he¡¯d been dragged into.
The radio, still strapped to his bag, let out a faint crackle of static, drawing his attention. He turned the knob instinctively, but the noise settled into silence, offering no clues. It wasn¡¯t time for answers yet, only for questions.
¡°Hey,¡± the pink-haired girl called out, her voice cutting through his thoughts. She was looking directly at him now, her sharp gaze challenging. ¡°You just gonna stand there, or are you part of this freak show too?¡±
Vincent¡¯s lips twitched into a wry, humorless smile. ¡°Looks like I am,¡± he said, his voice dry. He raised his wrist slightly, showing her the watch. ¡°Same as you.¡±
Her expression softened, if only slightly, before she rolled her eyes and muttered something under her breath.
The janitor spoke next, her tone measured and calm. ¡°We need to stick together. Figure out what¡¯s going on before we start pointing fingers.¡± She looked around at the others, her gaze landing briefly on Vincent. ¡°Agreed?¡±
A murmur of assent rippled through the group, though the hoodie-clad guy looked like he was about to bolt at any moment.
Vincent exhaled slowly, his eyes flicking once more to the chibi avatar on his watch. Its cheerful expression felt out of place, almost mocking in its optimism.
¡°Let the game begin,¡± he muttered under his breath, echoing the words on the screen.
With a resigned sigh, he took a step forward, his crowbar at the ready, and led the way toward the darkened door at the end of the hall.You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.
The tension in the hallway thickened as Vincent lingered near the group, trying to make sense of the bizarre situation. His gaze swept across the others, each of them preoccupied in their own way, either fiddling with their devices, adjusting their belongings, or simply standing in wary silence. The thought nagged at him: Why us? Why now?
He adjusted the crowbar in his grip, his fingers slick with sweat, and decided to take a gamble. Something about the setup felt too familiar, too intentional, like the kind of scenarios he¡¯d seen dissected on horror forums late at night. He cleared his throat, drawing their attention.
¡°You ever see SAW?¡± he asked casually, letting his tone carry a mixture of curiosity and nonchalance.
The question hung in the air, the word itself almost alien in the sterile hallway. The pink-haired girl raised an eyebrow, her arms tightening across her chest. The hoodie-clad guy gave a confused shrug, glancing around as if someone else might answer for him. The man in the suit frowned deeply, his face unreadable, while the janitor narrowed her eyes but said nothing. The boy simply looked at Vincent, his wide-eyed expression one of pure confusion.
¡°You know, SAW?¡± Vincent continued, his voice deliberate. ¡°Group of strangers wake up in a messed-up place. Have to figure out how to survive. And there¡¯s a twist.¡± He leaned slightly forward, his voice dropping conspiratorially. ¡°Turns out, one of the group was working with the killer all along.¡±
The pink-haired girl snorted, her expression shifting to one of amused skepticism. ¡°What the hell are you talking about? Is that a book or something?¡±
¡°No,¡± Vincent replied, masking his disappointment. ¡°It¡¯s an old horror movie. From before the ban.¡±
At that, several pairs of eyes sharpened on him. The suit adjusted his tie, his posture stiffening. ¡°Horror movie?¡± he said, his voice low and cautious. ¡°Why would you bring that up now?¡±
Vincent shrugged, forcing an air of nonchalance he didn¡¯t feel. ¡°Just thinking out loud. This whole setup¡ feels a little too on the nose, doesn¡¯t it? Strangers thrown together, no explanation, just a cryptic ¡®game¡¯ to survive. Makes you wonder if someone here knows more than they¡¯re letting on.¡±
The accusation wasn¡¯t direct, but it might as well have been. The air in the hallway crackled with unspoken tension, each person now eyeing the others with fresh suspicion.
The janitor, who had been quietly observing the group, spoke up, her voice firm and steady. ¡°That¡¯s enough,¡± she said, stepping forward slightly, her body angled protectively toward the boy. ¡°We don¡¯t need to start turning on each other. If this is some kind of sick game, then whoever¡¯s behind it wants us to think like that. They want us paranoid, fighting amongst ourselves.¡±
The pink-haired girl tilted her head, her expression still skeptical but less overtly hostile. ¡°Yeah, or maybe you¡¯re the one trying to keep us calm so we don¡¯t look at you too closely.¡±
¡°Enough!¡± the janitor barked, her tone sharp enough to make everyone flinch. She sighed, rubbing a hand across her face before continuing in a quieter voice. ¡°Look, I don¡¯t know what this is. But pointing fingers at each other without proof is a waste of time. We need to focus on finding a way out of here.¡±
The suit nodded reluctantly, his frown deepening. ¡°She¡¯s right. Whoever or whatever is behind this clearly has the upper hand. We can¡¯t afford to waste energy on baseless accusations.¡±
Vincent said nothing, studying their reactions carefully. None of them seemed to recognize the movie reference, which didn¡¯t surprise him given the bans on horror media. But what struck him more was the complete lack of guilt or unease in their expressions. If someone here was a plant, a traitor working with whoever set this up, they were either very good at hiding it or didn¡¯t know it themselves.
The hoodie-clad guy broke the silence, his voice cracking slightly. ¡°So¡ what do we do now? Just¡ wait for something else to happen?¡±
¡°No,¡± the janitor said firmly. ¡°We keep moving. There¡¯s no point standing around here. Whatever¡¯s ahead, we¡¯ll deal with it when we get there.¡±
The group began to shuffle uneasily, casting wary glances at one another but ultimately falling into line. Vincent lingered for a moment longer, his eyes drifting to the chibi avatar on his watch. It waved cheerfully at him, its expression a stark contrast to the oppressive atmosphere around him.
The hallway seemed endless, its sterile white walls reflecting the harsh fluorescent lights overhead. The faint hum of the lights buzzed in Vincent¡¯s ears as he fell into step behind the others, his crowbar slung over one shoulder. His grip on the cold metal was firm, but his mind was elsewhere, focused on the watch strapped to his wrist.
The display flickered faintly as the chibi avatar mimicked his steps, its exaggerated movements oddly jaunty. Vincent tapped the interface cautiously, scrolling through the options once more. His finger hovered over Sixth Sense, and after a brief moment of deliberation, he selected it.
The watch screen shimmered, and a brief animation played of the chibi avatar closing its eyes, then opening them wide in mock surprise. A line of text scrolled across the screen in an old-fashioned font:
Sixth Sense Activated: Trust your instincts. Observe the cracks.
The vagueness was both maddening and exactly what he expected. There was no instruction manual, no guidance on what to look for or how to interpret this supposed edge. Vincent sighed, rubbing his temples. If this was meant to help, it was off to a cryptic start.
As he walked, he became acutely aware of a strange itching sensation in his eyes. It wasn¡¯t painful, but it was distracting, like the faint tingle of looking into a too-bright light. He blinked hard, trying to clear the feeling, but it passed quickly, leaving him with no immediate answers.
¡°What are we even looking for?¡± the hoodie-clad guy muttered ahead of him, echoing Vincent¡¯s unspoken thoughts. The group had begun cautiously checking the small medical supply cabinets along the walls, but their searches had yielded little more than dusty gauze and empty plastic containers.
The janitor, who seemed to have taken the role of unofficial leader, shot him a sharp look. ¡°Medication,¡± she said curtly. ¡°Or at least something useful.¡±
¡°Yeah, but what kind of medication?¡± the pink-haired girl cut in, her tone laced with impatience. She kicked at a small rolling cart, sending it clattering against the wall. ¡°There¡¯s nothing here but junk.¡±
Vincent tuned out their bickering, his focus shifting to the hallway around them. He scanned the area slowly, deliberately, letting his gaze linger on the edges of the fluorescent glow where shadows clung stubbornly to the corners. He didn¡¯t know exactly what he was looking for, but he trusted the watch¡¯s cryptic promise: observe the cracks.
Something felt¡ off. It wasn¡¯t the obvious wrongness of waking up in a sterile nightmare or the unsettling strangers around him. It was subtler, like a faint static crawling along the edges of his perception.
He noticed it as they passed a particular door. It looked identical to the others, plain, white, with a simple push handle, but the shadows around it seemed wrong. Too sharp, too deep, as though they didn¡¯t belong to the fluorescent lights at all. His eyes itched again, briefly, as he focused on the door.
¡°Wait,¡± Vincent said, his voice low but firm.
The others stopped, turning to look at him. He pointed toward the door, his hand gripping the crowbar tightly. ¡°This one. Something¡¯s¡ different about it.¡±
The suit frowned, stepping closer to the door and squinting at it skeptically. ¡°It looks the same as the others.¡±
¡°Does it?¡± Vincent asked, his voice steady despite the uncertainty gnawing at him. He gestured toward the shadows pooling around the base of the door. ¡°Look at the way the light hits it. It¡¯s not right.¡±
The janitor stepped forward, her expression cautious but curious. She crouched slightly, inspecting the doorframe. ¡°He¡¯s not wrong,¡± she murmured. ¡°The shadows shouldn¡¯t look like that. Not with this kind of lighting.¡±
The pink-haired girl rolled her eyes. ¡°Great. So now we¡¯re scared of shadows?¡±
¡°Better than ignoring them,¡± Vincent shot back, his patience wearing thin. He glanced down at his watch, but the chibi avatar offered no additional guidance, only swaying slightly as if encouraging him to make the next move.
The hoodie-clad guy shuffled uncomfortably, his eyes darting between Vincent and the door. ¡°If it¡¯s different, maybe it¡¯s important. Should we check it out?¡±
Vincent hesitated, his grip tightening on the crowbar. ¡°I¡¯ll go first.¡±
Before anyone could argue, he stepped forward, raising the crowbar slightly as he reached for the handle. His heart pounded in his chest, the weight of anticipation pressing down on him. The shadows around the door seemed to ripple faintly, but when he blinked, they were still.
He pressed down on the handle and pushed the door open.
The room beyond was starkly different from the sterile hallway. It was dimly lit, the walls painted a deep, oppressive gray. The air was heavy with a faint metallic tang, like rusted iron. Vincent stepped inside cautiously, his eyes scanning every corner. The others followed hesitantly, their footsteps echoing softly against the tiled floor.
In the center of the room stood a single table, its surface cluttered with various objects: vials of strange, unlabeled liquids, a rusted scalpel, and a set of ancient-looking medical tools that looked more suited to a museum than a functioning hospital.
Vincent¡¯s eyes darted to a small, handwritten note propped against one of the vials. The ink was smudged, but the message was legible:
Choose wisely.
His stomach turned. ¡°It¡¯s a test,¡± he muttered, his voice barely above a whisper.
The suit stepped closer, his face pale. ¡°What kind of test?¡±
¡°I don¡¯t know,¡± Vincent admitted. He glanced at the others, their faces a mixture of confusion and fear. The air in the room felt thicker now, heavier, as if it were pressing against his chest.
The janitor frowned, crossing her arms. ¡°If it¡¯s a test, there¡¯s a right answer and a wrong one.¡±
Vincent nodded, his gaze falling on the vials again. The chibi avatar on his watch twitched slightly, its movement catching his attention. He glanced down to see the screen flicker faintly, the small character pointing toward the table with a subtle nod.
No hints, huh? Vincent thought grimly. Figures.
The room¡¯s oppressive stillness settled heavily over the group as they stood around the table. Vincent could feel the weight of their collective unease, the tension palpable as they stared at the strange assortment of objects before them. His mind was racing, each possibility branching into a labyrinth of uncertainty. If this was a test, they needed to approach it strategically, which meant understanding each other¡¯s strengths.
¡°Before we do anything,¡± Vincent began, keeping his tone even, ¡°I think we should figure out what we¡¯re all working with here.¡±
The group turned to look at him, their expressions wary. He raised his hands in a calming gesture. ¡°I¡¯m not saying we need to trust each other completely, but if we¡¯re going to get through this, we need to know who¡¯s got what skills, or talents.¡±
¡°Talents?¡± the pink-haired girl echoed, her eyebrow arching skeptically. ¡°Like¡ what? Singing and dancing?¡±
Vincent shook his head and gestured toward his watch. ¡°No, I mean the things that showed up on these. You all got one too, right?¡±
For a moment, no one spoke. The janitor, her arms still crossed, glanced at her own wrist, her lips pressed into a thin line. The suit adjusted his tie nervously, his eyes darting between the others. Finally, the hoodie-clad guy shrugged and muttered, ¡°Fine. I¡¯ll start.¡±
He held up his watch, the display faintly glowing. ¡°It gave me something called Silent Steps. Makes it easier to move without making noise. Guess it¡¯s, uh¡ fitting.¡± His voice trailed off, and he glanced at the group awkwardly, his hands shoved deep into his hoodie¡¯s pockets.
¡°That¡¯s useful,¡± the janitor said, her voice brisk. ¡°I¡¯ve got Structural Insight, lets me notice weak spots in, well, structures. Walls, doors, stuff like that.¡±
¡°Convenient,¡± Vincent murmured, filing the information away. He glanced at the pink-haired girl, who had been fiddling with her watch but now looked up with a faint smirk.
¡°Mine¡¯s called Vocal Decoy,¡± she said, twirling a strand of hair around her finger. ¡°Apparently, I can throw my voice or mimic sounds to draw things away. Pretty cool, huh?¡±
¡°That could come in handy,¡± the suit said, stepping forward slightly. ¡°I¡¯ve got Persuasive Charm, makes people more likely to listen to me. Not sure how useful it¡¯ll be here, but it¡¯s what I¡¯ve got.¡±
Vincent¡¯s gaze turned to the last member of the group, a wiry man with thinning hair and a nervous energy. He had been standing slightly apart from the others, his watch held close to his chest as if shielding it from view.
The group¡¯s attention shifted to him, and he flinched slightly under the weight of their stares. ¡°I¡ I don¡¯t think it matters,¡± he said quickly, his voice cracking. ¡°Mine¡¯s not¡ it¡¯s not helpful.¡±
¡°Come on,¡± the janitor said, her tone firm. ¡°We¡¯re all sharing here.¡±
He hesitated, his knuckles white against the strap of his watch. ¡°It¡¯s embarrassing.¡±
The pink-haired girl rolled her eyes. ¡°We¡¯re stuck in a nightmare game, dude. Who cares if it¡¯s embarrassing?¡±
The man let out a defeated sigh and held up his watch, his hand trembling slightly. ¡°It¡¯s called Panic Response,¡± he mumbled. ¡°Apparently, I get a speed boost when I¡¯m¡ scared.¡±
The silence that followed was almost cruel. The pink-haired girl let out a snort, quickly stifled by a glare from the janitor. Vincent, sensing the man¡¯s discomfort, decided not to press further.
¡°Well,¡± Vincent said, breaking the tension, ¡°it¡¯s better to have something than nothing.¡±
¡°Yeah, sure,¡± the man muttered, looking away.
All eyes turned to Vincent. He nodded slightly, lifting his watch so they could see the display. The chibi avatar bounced into view, and he gestured toward it. ¡°Mine¡¯s called Sixth Sense. It¡¯s supposed to help me notice when things aren¡¯t right.¡±
¡°Like that door earlier?¡± the janitor asked, her tone neutral.
¡°Exactly,¡± Vincent confirmed.
No one commented on the small icon of the three hearts or the talent labeled 1/3rd a Cat. Vincent couldn¡¯t tell if they had noticed it or simply didn¡¯t care, but he didn¡¯t feel the need to bring it up. He wasn¡¯t sure what it meant himself, and explaining it would only raise more questions.
The group exchanged uneasy glances, the initial round of sharing doing little to ease the underlying tension. If anything, it heightened it. None of them had overlapping talents, which only served to emphasize how different their specialties were, and how little they knew about what lay ahead.
Vincent ran a hand through his hair, glancing back at the table. ¡°Okay. Now we know what we¡¯re working with. Let¡¯s figure out this test.¡±
The pink-haired girl crossed her arms, her expression skeptical. ¡°And if we fail?¡±
¡°Then we¡¯ll deal with that when it happens,¡± the janitor said sharply. Her gaze locked onto Vincent¡¯s. ¡°You seem to have a knack for spotting things. Any ideas?¡±
The pink-haired girl tapped her finger impatiently on the table, her expression a mix of skepticism and frustration. ¡°Hey, Backpack,¡± she said, jerking her chin toward Vincent. ¡°You¡¯re the one with the mystical danger radar or whatever. Can you, like, use it? See if there¡¯s something off about this?¡±
Vincent blinked at her, his grip tightening briefly on the strap of his pack. He hadn¡¯t expected to be singled out so quickly, though he supposed it made sense. He glanced at his watch, the chibi avatar bouncing in its idle animation, as if taunting him with its cheerful detachment from the situation.
¡°I¡¯ve already tried,¡± he said, shaking his head. ¡°Nothing¡¯s¡ jumping out at me.¡±
¡°Convenient,¡± the suit muttered under his breath, earning a sharp glare from the janitor.
¡°Look,¡± Vincent said, his voice firm but tired, ¡°this isn¡¯t some magic solution. It¡¯s not telling me what to do or what¡¯s dangerous. It¡¯s just¡ there. If something feels wrong, I¡¯ll know. That¡¯s it.¡±
The pink-haired girl sighed, leaning back against the table. ¡°So basically, we¡¯re still on our own.¡±
¡°Looks like it,¡± Vincent replied, though his voice lacked any real conviction.
The group continued to debate the purpose of the objects on the table. The suit speculated that it might be a choice where only one of them could succeed, ¡°like one of those moral dilemma games,¡± he suggested, earning a chorus of dubious expressions. The hoodie-clad guy, on the other hand, thought the objects might be tools or aids, something to help them later on.
Vincent listened half-heartedly, his attention drifting toward the doorway. The sterile room felt confining, the fluorescent lights casting a harsh, artificial glow that made his skin crawl. Standing in the center of the room with everyone¡¯s focus turned inward wasn¡¯t helping him think. He needed space.
¡°I¡¯ll be back in a second,¡± he muttered, already moving toward the door.
The janitor shot him a sharp look. ¡°You sure it¡¯s a good idea to wander off?¡±
¡°I¡¯m not wandering,¡± he replied, stepping into the hallway. ¡°I just¡ need to check something.¡±
He could feel their eyes on his back as he left, the faint hum of the fluorescent lights overhead following him into the corridor. The hallway felt wider now that he was alone, the rolling beds lining the walls casting faint shadows that shifted uneasily under the flickering lights. He walked slowly, his boots scuffing against the tile floor, his gaze sweeping the length of the corridor.
His hand drifted to the strap of his pack as he reached the spot where they had first gathered. He paused, glancing back toward the room. From here, he could see the group still huddled around the table, their voices a faint murmur of debate. He let out a breath and turned his attention back to the hallway.
If his Sixth Sense was going to trigger, it would be here, away from the noise and tension of the group. He let his gaze roam, his eyes lingering on the beds, the walls, the ceiling. The itch began slowly, behind his eyes, a faint pressure that built steadily. It wasn¡¯t painful, but it was distracting, as if his body were trying to tell him something just out of reach.
The watch didn¡¯t buzz, no alarms or warnings appeared, but the sense of unease was growing. He took a step toward the end of the hall, his breaths shallow, his ears straining for sounds that didn¡¯t belong. The air felt heavier here, almost tangible in its stillness. He glanced over his shoulder, back toward the room, then let his eyes sweep back toward the corridor.
Something was wrong.
He didn¡¯t know what it was, there was no shadow lurking at the edge of his vision, no ominous noise echoing through the space, but the feeling was undeniable. His instincts screamed at him to turn back, to rejoin the others where the light was brighter, the voices louder. But his curiosity held him in place.
His eyes darted between the rolling beds, each one neatly positioned against the wall, their sheets pristine and undisturbed. For a moment, he thought he saw movement, a faint flicker of something just beyond his peripheral vision. He spun toward it, his heart pounding, but the hallway remained empty.
The itch behind his eyes faded slowly, the sense of wrongness receding but not disappearing entirely. He tightened his grip on the crowbar strapped to his pack, his fingers brushing against the cool metal as he took a cautious step back toward the room. He didn¡¯t like the idea of leaving the group again, not when the air felt so charged.
As he stepped back into the doorway, the janitor glanced up from the table. ¡°Find anything?¡±
Vincent hesitated, his gaze drifting between the group and the hallway. ¡°Not sure,¡± he said finally. ¡°But something¡¯s¡ off.¡±
The hoodie-clad guy gave him a skeptical look. ¡°What kind of ¡®off¡¯ are we talking about? Creepy shadow? Weird smell? Ghostly whispers?¡±
¡°None of that,¡± Vincent replied, his voice steady despite the lingering unease. ¡°It¡¯s hard to explain. Just¡ keep your eyes open.¡±
The pink-haired girl snorted, brushing a strand of hair from her face. ¡°Oh, good. Vague warnings. Super helpful.¡±
Vincent ignored her, stepping back into the room fully and leaning against the wall. His eyes flicked toward the objects on the table, then back toward the hallway. The unease hadn¡¯t left him, but he pushed it aside, focusing instead on the task at hand. Whatever choice they were supposed to make, he had a feeling it would be the first of many.
Chapter 8:
The tension in the room was suffocating. It wasn¡¯t just the sterile smell of bleach or the faint chemical tang clinging to the air, it was the weight of unspoken accusations. The five of them had gathered like strangers on opposite sides of a battlefield, each calculating the odds of survival while keeping one hand on their weapons, figurative or otherwise. No one trusted anyone, and the mistrust clung to the air like smoke.
Vincent leaned against the wall near the door, his arms crossed and his hand resting on the strap of his backpack. His eyes flicked to the others, lingering just long enough to gauge their expressions before returning to the floor. He wasn¡¯t about to get involved. Not with these people. Not when the odds were stacked against all of them surviving the night.
The child, a boy, Vincent guessed, though the oversized hoodie swallowed him enough to keep his features obscured, stood a little apart, his small hands fidgeting with the frayed hem of his sleeve. He didn¡¯t look at anyone, his wary eyes fixed on the tiles at his feet. Vincent didn¡¯t miss the way the others glanced at the boy, suspicion flickering across their faces. It wasn¡¯t overt, just lingering stares, the tightening of a jaw here, the narrowing of eyes there. It was enough to set Vincent¡¯s teeth on edge. He knew what it was like to be on the receiving end of those looks.
The janitor, a wiry man with rough hands and a perpetually sour expression, broke the silence first. ¡°Alright,¡± he muttered, his voice low and gravelly. ¡°We¡¯ve been standing around long enough. We need to figure out what we¡¯re doing.¡±
His gaze flicked to the counter in the center of the room. The three objects, mundane on the surface, were arranged with unsettling precision. A scalpel, its blade gleaming under the harsh fluorescent light. A small vial filled with clear liquid, its label blank and unassuming. And a single key, tarnished and ancient, the kind that wouldn¡¯t look out of place in a ghost story.
Vincent¡¯s eyes lingered on the objects for a moment before darting to the corners of the room. He wasn¡¯t about to get caught up in their debate. If this really was some kind of horror game, standing in a circle debating the mechanics was a surefire way to get blindsided. Monsters didn¡¯t wait for you to finish your thought process. They didn¡¯t respect the concept of timeouts.
¡°Got something to say, Backpack?¡± The pink-haired girl¡¯s voice cut through the silence like a knife. She stood closest to the counter, her arms crossed and her expression sharp. She looked ready to pounce on anything Vincent said, ready to twist it into something she could use against him.
Vincent shook his head. ¡°Just keeping an eye on the room,¡± he said, his tone neutral. ¡°In case something decides to crash the party while we¡¯re all staring at the table.¡±
The pink-haired girl rolled her eyes, scoffing. ¡°Right. Because paranoia is super helpful right now.¡±
¡°Actually, it is,¡± Vincent shot back, though his tone remained even. He wasn¡¯t interested in a fight. Not with her. Not with anyone. He just wanted to survive long enough to figure out what this place was, and how to get out.
The janitor nodded, giving Vincent a grudging look of approval. ¡°He¡¯s not wrong. These things are never as straightforward as they look.¡±
The suit, a tall, angular man with slicked-back hair and an air of smug detachment, cleared his throat. ¡°If we¡¯re going to solve this, we need to work together. The objects, there¡¯s got to be a reason there are three. Maybe it¡¯s about division. Three choices, three outcomes.¡±
¡°Or three deaths,¡± muttered the hoodie-clad guy near the back, his tone laced with dark humor. The suit shot him a glare.
The child spoke softly, his voice barely above a whisper. ¡°What if it¡¯s not about who takes what? What if it¡¯s about the choice itself? Like¡ a test to see what we value.¡±
The pink-haired girl snorted. ¡°That¡¯s a lot of guessing,¡± she snapped. ¡°How do we know this isn¡¯t some kind of trap? Pick the wrong thing, and boom, we¡¯re dead.¡±
Vincent watched the exchange from his corner, his arms tightening across his chest. He didn¡¯t like how they were talking. They were too quick to assign blame, too eager to argue over theories with no basis in fact. It was a powder keg waiting for a spark.
¡°Maybe we¡¯re overthinking this,¡± the janitor grumbled, his tone sour. ¡°Maybe it¡¯s simpler than that. Maybe we just pick one and move on.¡±
¡°And if we¡¯re wrong?¡± the suit asked, his voice dripping with skepticism. ¡°What happens then?¡±
Vincent¡¯s gaze shifted to the child. The boy seemed too calm, too composed, for someone in a situation like this. But then, what did Vincent know? He wasn¡¯t a therapist. He wasn¡¯t anything, really, just a guy with a backpack and three lives to burn. Three lives that weren¡¯t infinite. Three lives that wouldn¡¯t save everyone.
Vincent sighed softly, his fingers brushing the strap of his backpack. He wasn¡¯t planning to stick around long enough to see these people unravel completely. They were already halfway there. The pink-haired girl¡¯s snark, the suit¡¯s superiority complex, the janitor¡¯s gruffness, the hoodie guy¡¯s grim humor, it was all a recipe for disaster. They didn¡¯t trust each other. They didn¡¯t trust him. And why should they?
He wasn¡¯t planning to trust them, either.
They each hesitated, the weight of the decision pressing down on them. Vincent watched their faces, noting the flickers of doubt, fear, and resolve. The child lingered near the counter, her hand twitching as though she wanted to reach out but didn¡¯t dare.
The air felt heavier as they each weighed their options. Vincent stayed near the door, his eyes darting between the group and the room beyond. Whatever they chose, he had a sinking feeling that this was just the beginning.
Vincent leaned against the wall, his arms crossed as he studied the group, irritation simmering beneath his calm exterior. The others acted as though this were some elaborate team-building exercise, their casual debate over life-or-death decisions grating on his nerves. They didn¡¯t seem to grasp the gravity of their situation. Or, perhaps worse, they didn¡¯t care.
He glanced at his watch, the small chibi version of himself idly shifting between its animated idle poses. The carefree demeanor of the digital figure was a stark contrast to the tension he felt. His eyes lingered on the icon displaying the three hearts - ??????- a visual reminder of his fragile existence. If the watch was to be believed, he had three chances. Three lives. And he wasn¡¯t eager to test what losing one would entail.
His fingers brushed over the watch, a habit he¡¯d already picked up. The Sixth Sense talent he¡¯d chosen wasn¡¯t some omniscient power, it was subtle, nudging him toward unease in ways that were easy to miss if he didn¡¯t pay attention. It wasn¡¯t doing much for him now, though. Either there was no imminent danger, or the situation was so layered in uncertainty that the talent couldn¡¯t lock onto a specific threat. The itch he¡¯d felt earlier was gone, leaving behind only an unsettling ambiguity.
Vincent let out a quiet sigh, his gaze flicking back to the others. They were treating this like a game, and maybe that was their way of coping. Boredom, complacency, whatever had drawn them to this place had dulled their sense of danger. But Vincent knew better. Games had stakes, and here, the stakes were likely fatal.
He clenched his jaw, frustrated. He¡¯d played enough survival horror games to know that being alone was a death sentence. Sure, the protagonists in those stories often ended up isolated, but it wasn¡¯t because they wanted to be, it was because the circumstances forced them into it. Strength in numbers wasn¡¯t just a clich¨¦; it was a survival tactic.
Still, he couldn¡¯t shake the unease curling in his gut. Trusting others in a situation like this was risky. But going it alone? That was suicide. He¡¯d read enough stories, watched enough movies, to know how this could go. When you were alone, the world seemed to conspire against you. Doors locked just before you could reach them. Footsteps sounded in the dark, but no one was there. Shadows moved in ways they shouldn¡¯t. Alone, you were vulnerable. With others, at least the odds were better, even if the danger came from within the group itself.
He rubbed a hand over his face, forcing himself to focus. This isn¡¯t a game. This is real. The watch wasn¡¯t some gimmick, and those three hearts weren¡¯t a playful nod to retro gaming mechanics. They were a countdown, a warning. Every decision mattered.
Vincent¡¯s eyes drifted back to the counter where the others stood, their voices blending into a low hum of speculation and debate. None of them seemed to share his sense of urgency. They weren¡¯t asking the right questions. They were too busy trying to solve the ¡°puzzle¡± to consider what might happen once they did.
The pink-haired girl leaned forward, tapping the scalpel with a manicured finger. ¡°I still think it¡¯s a weapon,¡± she said. ¡°If we¡¯re going to face anything dangerous, it makes sense to have something sharp.¡±
¡°Or it could be bait,¡± the janitor countered, his arms crossed. ¡°Think about it. They want us to pick the obvious choice and then punish us for it.¡±
¡°What about the key?¡± the suit asked, his voice measured but strained. ¡°If this is an escape scenario, a key might be what we need to move forward.¡±
¡°And the vial?¡± the child chimed in. ¡°It could be medicine. If someone gets hurt...¡±
Her voice trailed off as the others turned to look at her. Suspicion flickered in their eyes, and Vincent felt the shift in the air. They¡¯re starting to fracture.
Good, he thought. Suspicion kept you alive. But too much of it? That tore groups apart.
¡°You¡¯ve been quiet,¡± the janitor said, turning his sharp gaze toward Vincent. ¡°What¡¯s your take, Backpack?¡±
Vincent bristled at the nickname but didn¡¯t rise to the bait. ¡°I think we¡¯re overcomplicating this,¡± he said, keeping his tone neutral. ¡°It doesn¡¯t matter what we pick if we¡¯re not ready for what happens after.¡±
The pink-haired girl scoffed. ¡°That¡¯s vague as hell. Care to elaborate?¡±
Vincent shrugged, feigning indifference. ¡°In games like this, the choice itself isn¡¯t the real challenge. It¡¯s what comes next. The objects could be tools, traps, or distractions. The only thing we know for sure is that we¡¯re being tested.¡±
The janitor nodded slowly, his expression thoughtful. ¡°You¡¯ve got a point. The question is, are we being tested as individuals or as a group?¡±
¡°Does it matter?¡± the suit asked, his voice tight. ¡°Either way, we¡¯re being manipulated.¡±
¡°Exactly,¡± Vincent said. ¡°And the sooner we stop playing into it, the better.¡±
The room fell silent again, the weight of his words hanging in the air. Vincent¡¯s gaze shifted to the hallway beyond the door. It stretched into shadowy uncertainty, a reminder that this sterile room was only a small piece of a larger, more dangerous puzzle.
He stepped closer to the doorway, leaning slightly to peer down the corridor. His Sixth Sense didn¡¯t flare, but that only meant there was no immediate danger. It didn¡¯t mean the area was safe. He could feel the others watching him, their suspicion palpable. Let them watch. Let them wonder. The less they trusted him, the less likely they¡¯d rely on him, and the safer he¡¯d be when things inevitably went south.
The janitor broke the silence first. "We¡¯re getting nowhere just talking in circles." He folded his arms across his chest, his fingers tapping impatiently against his bicep. ¡°Let¡¯s just vote. Majority rules.¡±
"Great idea," the pink-haired girl snapped. "That way, when this inevitably goes sideways, we can all just blame each other instead of figuring out what the hell we¡¯re supposed to do."
"Isn¡¯t that what you¡¯re doing already?" Vincent muttered, unable to keep the edge out of his voice. He didn¡¯t miss the glare she shot him.
¡°Alright,¡± the suit interjected, raising his hands as if to restore order. ¡°Let¡¯s keep this civil. We need to make a decision. The longer we stand here bickering, the more likely we¡¯re going to run into something worse.¡±
The pink-haired girl scoffed but didn¡¯t argue. Vincent could feel the group fracturing further, each of them retreating into their own defensive postures. Their faces were masks of irritation, fear, and thinly veiled contempt, each one trying to appear in control but failing miserably.
The hoodie guy leaned back against the counter, his arms draped loosely at his sides. ¡°Fine. Let¡¯s vote. But don¡¯t come crying to me when this turns out to be a trap.¡±
Vincent uncrossed his arms and stepped forward slightly, drawing their attention. ¡°I¡¯m not voting.¡±
The declaration hung in the air, a flat refusal that carried a weight he hadn¡¯t expected. The group stared at him, their expressions ranging from confusion to outright annoyance.
¡°Excuse me?¡± the pink-haired girl said, her tone sharp enough to cut.
¡°I¡¯m out,¡± Vincent said firmly, gesturing toward the counter. ¡°You want to pick something? Go for it. But I¡¯m not getting blamed when it all goes wrong.¡±
The janitor let out a derisive snort. ¡°Real helpful, Backpack. Thanks for nothing.¡±
¡°Better than pretending to know what I¡¯m doing,¡± Vincent shot back, his voice calm but edged with steel. ¡°You all seem eager to gamble. I¡¯m not.¡±
The child, who had been silent for most of the discussion, looked at Vincent with wide, questioning eyes. The boy didn¡¯t say anything, but the way he clutched the hem of his hoodie tighter made Vincent¡¯s stomach twist. He ignored it. He couldn¡¯t afford to feel guilty about this. Not when the stakes were so high.
¡°Coward,¡± the pink-haired girl muttered under her breath, but Vincent let it slide. He didn¡¯t need to justify himself to her. They were all strangers here, thrown into a nightmare with no map and no guide. If they thought this would end with everyone holding hands and skipping out together, they were delusional.Unauthorized use: this story is on Amazon without permission from the author. Report any sightings.
The suit cleared his throat again, clearly trying to steer the conversation back on track. ¡°Alright, let¡¯s just¡ focus. Everyone gets a say. Let¡¯s hear it.¡±
The votes came quickly after that, though the tension in the room didn¡¯t ease. The pink-haired girl voted for the vial almost immediately, her reasoning curt and dismissive. ¡°We¡¯re here for medication, right? Seems obvious.¡±
The hoodie guy shrugged and pointed to the vial as well. ¡°Yeah, sure. Let¡¯s pick the thing that might save our asses later. Not that it matters.¡±
The janitor hesitated, his gaze flicking between the objects before landing on the key. ¡°We don¡¯t even know if the vial does anything. The key might get us out of here. That¡¯s what we really need.¡±
The suit nodded toward the vial. ¡°I¡¯m with her,¡± he said, gesturing to the pink-haired girl. ¡°If we¡¯re here for medicine, that¡¯s our best bet.¡±
All eyes turned to the child. The boy looked nervous, his gaze darting between the faces staring at him. His fingers twisted the hem of his hoodie as he mumbled, ¡°The vial, I guess¡¡±
It was done. The majority had spoken, and the vial was the clear winner. Vincent didn¡¯t say anything, didn¡¯t even move, as the group turned back to the counter.
¡°Well,¡± the janitor said with a bitter laugh, ¡°looks like I¡¯m outvoted.¡±
¡°Democracy in action,¡± the hoodie guy muttered sarcastically.
The pink-haired girl reached for the vial, her hand hovering just above it. ¡°Here goes nothing.¡±
Vincent froze, his body tensing as the shift in the air turned the atmosphere heavy and oppressive. The faint hum he hadn¡¯t noticed before seemed to deepen, resonating in his chest like the vibration of a plucked string. His eyes flicked back to the group, who were crowded around the counter, the chosen object clutched in the suit¡¯s hand, a small vial of amber liquid.
¡°What the hell was that?¡± the janitor muttered, his voice a little too loud in the newly charged air.
¡°Nothing good,¡± Vincent said under his breath, his gaze already snapping back to the hallway. He hadn¡¯t voted, hadn¡¯t even bothered to weigh in on their choice. And now he was glad. It meant he could stay detached, uninvolved with whatever consequences were about to unfold.
Down the shadowy corridor, a figure emerged, her body jerking into view with the unsettling precision of a marionette pulled by invisible strings. Her steps were too deliberate, too controlled, as though each movement were dictated by some unseen force. The pale green of her nurse¡¯s uniform was smeared with grime and dark, crusted stains that flaked off with her motions, and the sharp tang of rust and decay seemed to follow her like a shadow. Her head tilted unnaturally to one side, the dirty strands of her hair veiling her face, swaying slightly with each stuttering step.
Something about her movement made Vincent¡¯s stomach churn. She wasn¡¯t shuffling like a zombie or staggering like someone injured. She reminded him of stop motion movies that were on the forum that he looked over from time to time. Her feet moved, yes, but her steps seemed to blur together, as though the act of walking was more an afterthought than a necessity.
The air seemed to thicken with her presence, the sterile smell of the hallway giving way to a sickly-sweet stench that clung to the back of Vincent¡¯s throat. The temperature dropped, the coolness biting at his skin, and the faint hum of the fluorescent lights grew louder, more insistent, as though the room itself were trembling in anticipation. Shadows bled from the corners, pooling unnaturally around her feet, and with every step she took, the hallway seemed to stretch, the walls bending slightly inward as if recoiling from her.
The group huddled near the counter, still caught in their debate over the vial. Their voices were little more than static in Vincent¡¯s ears as he stared down the hallway. The nurse had emerged fully now, her figure a grotesque silhouette against the dim glow of the overhead lights.
Her scalpel dragged against the wall with a faint, grating sound, the blade catching faint glints of light with each stuttered step. She moved like an unbalanced pendulum, her limbs jerking forward with unnerving precision. The way her body twitched and jittered made Vincent¡¯s skin crawl, as though the laws of motion themselves had been corrupted.
When her head snapped sideways, her hair shifted just enough to reveal her face. Vincent¡¯s stomach clenched. Her eyes, no, her sockets, were sealed shut with thick black thread, the skin around them raw and puckered. She shouldn¡¯t have been able to see him. But the way she moved, the intent behind each motion, told him she didn¡¯t need sight.
Vincent instinctively began to retreat, his footsteps measured and silent. Blind. Okay, she¡¯s blind. His thoughts raced as his pulse thundered in his ears. But the scalpel in her hand told him she didn¡¯t need to see to kill.
But that meant she relied on something else. Sound. Smell. Maybe even both. Vincent pressed his lips together, forcing his breathing to slow. Panic would only make him louder, more noticeable. He had to stay calm.
The group behind him was still oblivious. He wanted to yell at them, to tell them to shut up, but that would draw her attention. Instead, he edged further down the hallway, his back brushing against the wall. Every step was painstakingly slow, his weight carefully distributed to keep his shoes from squeaking against the tile floor.
As he moved, he kept his eyes locked on the nurse. He couldn¡¯t look away, not for a second. In games, it was always the moment you blinked, the moment you turned your back, that the monster moved faster than it should.
The woman came to a stop in the middle of the hallway, her head tilting sharply to one side as if listening. Vincent froze mid-step, his muscles screaming in protest as he held perfectly still. The faint rustling sound of her breath reached his ears, a rasping, uneven noise that sent shivers crawling up his spine.
She raised her head slightly, her sewn-shut eyes turned toward the ceiling, and sniffed the air. The sound was wet, almost animalistic, and it made Vincent¡¯s stomach twist. She tilted her head the other way, then took a single step forward.
He cursed silently, his mind racing. Move quietly. Stay out of her path. Don¡¯t draw attention.
The scalpel in her hand dragged lightly against the wall, carving shallow scratches into the paint with a sound that grated against the ears, a metallic whine that seemed to vibrate in Vincent¡¯s teeth. The sound wasn¡¯t constant, it stopped and started in fits and bursts, making it impossible to predict her rhythm.
A loud clink behind him shattered the silence, and his blood ran cold.
¡°Shit!¡± one of the group whispered harshly, probably the pink-haired girl, based on the tone. Someone had bumped into the counter, knocking something over.
The nurse¡¯s head snapped toward the noise, her body stiffening. A low, guttural sound escaped her lips, a noise that made Vincent¡¯s skin crawl. She turned sharply and began gliding toward the room where the group was gathered, her scalpel clutched tighter now, her movements faster, more purposeful.
Vincent¡¯s heart pounded as he made a snap decision. Staying in the hallway was no longer an option, it was too exposed. The group was the nurse¡¯s target now, and their noise was a perfect distraction.
Carefully, he sidestepped into the shadowed alcove of a doorway further down the hall, pressing himself against the cool wall. From his new vantage point, he could see the nurse clearly as she approached the room. Her head swiveled slightly as she moved, as if scanning for more sounds.
The group was finally noticing her now. The janitor cursed under his breath. The child whimpered.
Stay quiet, Vincent thought furiously, willing them to understand the danger they were in.
But the suit, in a panicked voice, asked, ¡°What is that thing?¡±
The nurse stopped mid-step, her body twisting unnaturally toward the sound. The rasping breath grew louder as she took a jerky step forward, then another, closing the distance.
Vincent clenched his teeth, his mind racing. Don¡¯t run. Running only makes noise. Let her pass. Let her focus on them.
He tightened his grip on the crowbar, though he wasn¡¯t sure what he¡¯d even do with it. The thought of using it on her, of risking the noise and attention it would bring, was almost more terrifying than the nurse herself.
She entered the room, the group retreating further inside. Vincent couldn¡¯t see what was happening now, but the sounds painted a vivid picture, whispers of panic, the scraping of feet against the floor, and the steady drag of the scalpel as it scratched against tile.
His Sixth Sense didn¡¯t activate, and he realized with chilling clarity that this wasn¡¯t a moment of imminent death, it was a test. One meant to see how they¡¯d react under pressure.
Vincent¡¯s stomach churned. He didn¡¯t have time to play games with whoever had designed this twisted scenario, but he also didn¡¯t have a choice.
Survive first, understand later.
Vincent¡¯s world slowed to a crawl, every second stretching out into an eternity as adrenaline surged through his veins. His heart pounded in his chest, the sound of it drowning out the whispers of panic and the distant hum of his own Sixth Sense. Time had become syrupy, thick and cloying, each heartbeat a heavy thud reverberating in his ears.
The child stepped out of the room, his small figure backlit by the faint glow of the overhead lights. For a moment, he just stood there, clutching the stuffed animal to his chest. His wide, uncomprehending eyes darted between the group and the nurse, as if his brain couldn¡¯t fully process what was happening.
Then the scream came.
The scream stretched out, reverberating through Vincent¡¯s chest in slow motion. Every second felt impossibly long, each heartbeat a thunderclap in his ears. He could see it all, too clearly, the nurse¡¯s jerky, mechanical movements; the scalpel¡¯s glint as it rose with inhuman precision. The boy stumbled back a half step, his face twisted in terror, but he didn¡¯t run. He didn¡¯t even move.
Around them, the others shrank against the walls, their faces masks of fear and indecision. The janitor¡¯s eyes darted to the doorway like he was calculating the odds of escape. Pink Hair pressed her back into the counter, her hands clutching the edge as though it might pull her away from this nightmare. None of them stepped forward. None of them even breathed.
Vincent clenched his teeth so hard he thought they might crack. The sharp pressure radiated through his jaw, a searing counterpoint to the icy numbness spreading through the rest of his body. His legs felt like they were encased in concrete, every muscle locked in a battle between instinct and intention. Don¡¯t move. Stay still. Let it happen. It¡¯s not your problem.
But his chest burned. A hollow, gnawing ache spread from the center of his ribs, deeper than any fear he¡¯d ever felt. It wasn¡¯t the thrum of adrenaline or the chill of terror coursing through his veins, it was something worse. It was guilt.
His heart slammed against his ribcage, each beat so loud it felt like it might shatter him from the inside. The world around him seemed to slow, the edges of his vision dimming as if time itself were thickening, dragging everything into an unbearable stillness. The nurse¡¯s movements became jerky, disjointed, like a grotesque puppet pulled by unseen strings. Her scalpel glinted faintly in the sterile light, catching the reflection of the boy¡¯s stuffed animal as it dangled from his small, white-knuckled fist.
Do nothing, Vincent¡¯s mind screamed. Don¡¯t move. Don¡¯t make a sound. Let someone else handle it.
But no one else was moving.
Vincent¡¯s breath hitched. His lungs felt too tight, his throat dry and raw as though he¡¯d been screaming himself. Time dragged even slower, each second an eternity as his thoughts spiraled, faster and louder, like a storm raging in his head. He imagined the nurse¡¯s scalpel descending, slicing through the boy¡¯s fragile skin, his small body crumpling to the floor like a discarded rag doll. He imagined the others watching in stunned silence, their horror turning into relief that it wasn¡¯t them, that they were safe for one more moment.
And he imagined the boy¡¯s eyes, wide and pleading, staring up at him with a question that burned hotter than any flame: Why didn¡¯t you help me?
Vincent¡¯s pulse roared in his ears. His hand tightened on the crowbar, the metal slick with sweat. He felt the weight of the backpack pulling on his shoulders, the watch on his wrist digging into his skin. The chibi version of himself stared back at him, frozen in its idle pose, the three tiny hearts taunting him.
Three lives. You have three lives. He has one.
The nurse¡¯s head snapped to the side, the motion so sharp and sudden it made Vincent flinch. For a moment, she froze, her sewn-shut eyes straining against the black threads as though they might tear open. Then she sniffed, the wet, guttural sound cutting through the heavy silence like a blade. Her chest rose and fell in short, erratic bursts, and the scalpel in her hand twitched with each sharp exhale, as if responding to her growing agitation.
Then, like a spring uncoiling, she moved. Her body jerked forward in a series of inhumanly fast, jittery motions, each step a blur of stop-motion horror. The scalpel glinted in her hand, catching the pale fluorescent light as she closed the distance with terrifying precision.
The others had already pressed themselves against the walls, their fear palpable, their silence deafening. Vincent¡¯s mind raced, his thoughts an incoherent tangle of instincts and memories. He wasn¡¯t even aware of making the decision, it was as if his body moved before his brain caught up.
The boy was going to die.
His legs refused to move, anchored by a deep, primal fear. He knew the rules, never play the hero. He repeated the mantra in his head, a futile attempt to quiet the gnawing guilt rising in his chest. But the boy¡¯s scream pierced through everything, drowning out reason. The sound was raw, helpless, and it clawed at something deep within him that refused to let him stay still.
The world seemed to grind to a halt. Each second dragged out, impossibly long, as Vincent¡¯s mind raced. The nurse took another jerky step forward, the scalpel rising in her hand, and time seemed to splinter into fragments. His gaze flicked to the boy, to the wide, pleading eyes that looked for someone, anyone to help. Don¡¯t move. Stay still, his instincts screamed. But his chest burned with an ache so fierce it felt like it would tear him apart. Move. His legs twitched. Don¡¯t. The scalpel gleamed. Move. And then, before he could think better of it, he did.
Get him out of the way. Rule one of horror: Don¡¯t be the hero. Don¡¯t be¡
Vincent didn¡¯t stop to explain. He didn¡¯t stop to think. He reached the boy in a single, desperate motion, his hands gripping the child¡¯s shoulders and shoving him back with all the force he could muster. The boy stumbled, falling to the floor with a small cry as his stuffed animal rolled away.
The nurse¡¯s scalpel flashed.
Vincent didn¡¯t feel the pain at first. There was only a sharp, jarring pressure as the blade drove through his palm, slicing through muscle and bone with sickening ease. His breath hitched, his body freezing as his mind tried to catch up with the reality of what had just happened.
And then the pain hit.
Vincent¡¯s breath hitched, his eyes widening as pain exploded in his palm. The blade slid effortlessly through flesh and bone, the nurse¡¯s hand steady despite her jittery movements. Blood welled up, warm and slick, coating his skin in a rush of crimson.
He barely had time to process the injury before the scalpel continued its path, driving into his chest. The sensation was surreal, almost detached at first, a sharp pressure that quickly gave way to searing, white-hot pain. Vincent staggered, his knees buckling as he gasped for air.
The nurse didn¡¯t stop. Her movements were precise, methodical, as though she were performing a macabre surgical procedure. The blade twisted slightly, and Vincent felt it puncture deeper, sliding between his ribs and into his lung. The wet, sucking sound it made was almost drowned out by his own ragged breaths.
His vision blurred, dark spots creeping in at the edges as the air around him seemed to thicken. He could hear the others shouting now, their voices distant and distorted, as if they were underwater. Someone called his name, but it barely registered. The only thing that mattered was the boy, safe now, pushed further down the hallway and out of the nurse¡¯s immediate reach.
Vincent¡¯s legs gave out, and he crumpled to the floor, his back hitting the cold tile with a dull thud. The scalpel remained embedded in his chest, its hilt jutting out obscenely, a grotesque marker of his failure. He tried to breathe, but each inhale came wet and gurgling, blood flooding his lung and choking him from the inside.
His mind scrambled for clarity, for some semblance of control. This couldn¡¯t be how it ended. Not like this. His hand twitched toward the watch on his wrist, the display dim and unresponsive. The chibi version of himself, once so lively, was now eerily still, its pixelated expression blank.
His body felt heavy, his limbs leaden and unresponsive. The pain was fading now, replaced by a numbness that spread outward from his chest. He tried to move, to sit up, but his muscles refused to obey. His vision darkened further, the edges of the world collapsing in on him like a closing curtain.
As his consciousness ebbed, a bitter laugh bubbled up in his throat, escaping as little more than a choked gasp. Rule one of horror, Vincent. Don¡¯t be a damn hero.
Vincent¡¯s lips twitched into a bitter, bloodied smile.
As the world darkened around him, Vincent¡¯s gaze fell to the watch on his wrist. The chibi version of himself flickered, its wide-eyed expression distorting for a split second before the animation froze entirely, two X¡¯s replacing its eyes. The three hearts on the display dimmed, one of them fading to black with an audible chime. A cold dread gripped him, heavier than the scalpel still buried in his chest.
And then, there was nothing.
Chapter 9:
Vincent was cold, so cold that the sensation of his own body faded into an aching absence. It wasn¡¯t the numbing chill of winter or the creeping freeze of ice, but a deep, primal cold that seemed to hollow him out from the inside. He existed somewhere, or maybe nowhere, adrift in a darkness so vast and consuming it could barely be called a space at all. He wasn¡¯t sure if his eyes were open or closed. He wasn¡¯t sure he even had eyes anymore.
The absence stretched around him endlessly, a void without direction or depth, without boundaries or meaning. He tried to breathe, but there was no air. He should have panicked, his chest seizing for oxygen, his body thrashing instinctively for survival. But he didn¡¯t. He couldn¡¯t. The absence denied him even that much of himself.
Somewhere ahead, or was it behind?, a faint glimmer pulsed. It wasn¡¯t light in the way he understood light. It didn¡¯t illuminate the darkness; it simply was, its presence asserting itself against the void. At first, it felt far away, insignificant against the vast nothingness. But with each pulse, the glimmer grew sharper, closer, as though the darkness itself bent to accommodate its approach.
The weight came next.
It wasn¡¯t a physical weight but a pressure, immense and suffocating, pressing against the edges of what Vincent still recognized as himself. It didn¡¯t settle over him gradually; it descended all at once, crushing and relentless, like the vast shadow of a mountain shifting to blot out the sky. Whatever was approaching wasn¡¯t a thing. It wasn¡¯t a creature. It was something far greater, something unbound by form or logic.
Vincent couldn¡¯t see it. He couldn¡¯t hear it. But he knew it was there, vast and overwhelming. It didn¡¯t belong to the darkness, it was the darkness, coiling and twisting in ways his mind refused to comprehend. And it was aware of him.
The realization struck with the force of a collapsing star. It knew him. Not just his presence, but him, the shape and thread of his existence. It was dissecting him, unraveling him, peeling away the boundaries that defined his thoughts and memories like a hunter stripping the skin from its prey. It wasn¡¯t cruel, it was curious. And it was delighted.
Something primal flared within Vincent, a small, flickering ember of resistance. He tried to think, to focus, to push back against the tide of unmaking. Who are you? he thought, or maybe pleaded. His thoughts trembled under the enormity of the thing. What is this? Where am I?
The glimmer pulsed again, and the void rippled around him. Not sound, not sight, but something that burned against the edges of understanding brushed over him. It was laughter. Alien and terrible, not an expression of joy but a vibration of pure elation, raw and stripped of anything human. It revelled in him, savoring every fragment of confusion, every flicker of fear.
Vincent¡¯s thoughts fractured. He tried to look away, to pull back from the oppressive presence, but there was nowhere to go. No walls, no ground, no self to retreat into. He existed only because it allowed him to.
A message came, not words, but something imposed into his being, an impression so vast it felt like the collapse of a universe.
You play my game.
The entity pressed closer, and Vincent¡¯s sense of self buckled. It wasn¡¯t a face he saw, there were no eyes, no mouth, no form. But the glimmer flared with a terrible intensity, a shifting mass of contradictions and impossibilities that wasn¡¯t meant to be perceived. Every piece of it screamed at him to look away, but there was nowhere to direct his gaze.
And already you fall.
The pressure grew unbearable, grinding against the fragile ember of his awareness. Vincent wanted to scream, but he had no mouth. He wanted to run, but he had no legs. All he could do was endure as the void bent further, the entity twisting the nothingness into something unknowable, unfathomable.
And then, just as he was sure it would devour him completely, something shifted.
The glimmer paused. The weight of its elation, its suffocating hunger, lightened just enough for Vincent to feel the absence of pain. The void stilled, and for one terrible moment, all of existence seemed to hold its breath.
The glimmer¡¯s joy turned cold. Alien anger seeped into the void, slow and corrosive, like acid eating away at stone. It wasn¡¯t anger at him. No, the entity¡¯s attention was elsewhere now, its focus bending outward toward something that Vincent couldn¡¯t see, couldn¡¯t feel, but could sense. The entity¡¯s rage was vast and infinite, but it was restrained, cold and calculating rather than explosive.
Something had interrupted it.
Vincent felt the tension between the entity and whatever had intruded, a clash of forces so immense it made his thoughts tremble like a brittle thread. Then, as if reality itself had shattered, he was yanked backward.
It wasn¡¯t a physical pull. It wasn¡¯t something he could fight or resist. It was like the concept of himself, his very being, was caught and ripped away from the void. The pressure from the glimmer surged as the entity strained to hold him, but the force pulling him was stronger. It was inexorable, uncaring, and utterly neutral.
The void unraveled. Time twisted backward, not in moments but in shattered glimpses. The nothingness folded inward, collapsing into itself as though retreating from the unseen force. The glimmer dimmed, fading into the background of existence, its anger like a fading echo.
And then Vincent was thrust forward, thrust back, his lungs heaving as cold, sterile air filled them.
Vincent gasped as his lungs filled with cold, sterile air, his body jolting upright as though pulled by an unseen force. The sensation of life flooding back into him was jarring, like being thrown into icy water without warning. Every nerve screamed as he came back to himself, the phantom echo of the scalpel¡¯s bite still sharp and vivid in his mind.
The sterile fluorescent lights above seared his retinas as he blinked rapidly, trying to orient himself. His chest ached as though it had been hollowed out, and his palm throbbed with the phantom memory of a wound that wasn¡¯t there anymore. He stared down at his hand, flexing his fingers experimentally. No blood, no torn flesh, just pale, unbroken skin.
For a moment, Vincent was paralyzed by the impossibility of it. He had died. He knew he had died. The memory of the nurse¡¯s scalpel twisting between his ribs was too real to dismiss, too visceral to be a nightmare. And yet, here he was, sitting upright, whole, and very much alive.
His gaze snapped to the watch on his wrist. The chibi version of himself stood frozen, its once-cheerful animation static and lifeless. Vincent¡¯s stomach churned as he saw the hearts displayed on the screen: ?????.
Two hearts left.
The sound of voices brought him back to the present, their sharp tones cutting through the fog in his head. He turned toward the noise, his breath catching as he recognized the scene playing out before him. The others were huddled around the counter, their faces tense with frustration and unease. The three objects, the scalpel, the vial, and the key, sat in the center, untouched, their gleaming surfaces almost mocking.
He had seen this before. Lived this before.
¡°What about the key?¡± the suit asked, his voice measured but strained. ¡°If this is an escape scenario, a key might be what we need to move forward.¡±
¡°And the vial?¡± the child chimed in, his small voice barely cutting through the tension. ¡°It could be medicine. If someone gets hurt¡¡±
The boy¡¯s words faltered as the others turned to glance at him, suspicion flickering in their eyes. Vincent felt the familiar shift in the air as he watched from the edge of the room. The group was beginning to fracture, their unspoken distrust deepening with every passing second.
He pressed a hand to his chest, feeling the rapid thrum of his heartbeat beneath his fingertips. This wasn¡¯t a dream or a hallucination. Somehow, he had been pulled back, to this moment, this choice. But why? What had he done wrong? What was he supposed to change?
The janitor¡¯s voice cut through his spiraling thoughts. ¡°You¡¯ve been quiet,¡± he said, turning his sharp gaze toward Vincent. ¡°What¡¯s your take, Backpack?¡±
Vincent¡¯s teeth clenched at the nickname, but he didn¡¯t rise to the bait. He knew how this conversation played out, how they bickered, voted, and ultimately chose the vial. He could already feel the weight of their scrutiny, their suspicion. If he wasn¡¯t careful, they would paint him as the enemy.
¡°I think we¡¯re overcomplicating this,¡± he said evenly, keeping his tone measured. ¡°It doesn¡¯t matter what we pick if we¡¯re not ready for what happens after.¡±
The pink-haired girl scoffed, her arms crossed defensively over her chest. ¡°That¡¯s vague as hell. Care to elaborate?¡±
Vincent shrugged, forcing his expression into something neutral. ¡°In games like this, the choice itself isn¡¯t the real challenge. It¡¯s what comes next. The objects could be tools, traps, or distractions. The only thing we know for sure is that we¡¯re being tested.¡±
The janitor frowned, his expression thoughtful. ¡°You¡¯ve got a point. The question is, are we being tested as individuals or as a group?¡±
¡°Does it matter?¡± the suit interjected, his voice tight with irritation. ¡°Either way, we¡¯re being manipulated.¡±
¡°Exactly,¡± Vincent said, his eyes flicking to the hallway beyond the door. The shadows there seemed darker now, more oppressive, as if they were waiting for something. ¡°And the sooner we stop playing into it, the better.¡±
The room fell silent, tension thickening like a physical weight pressing down on them. Vincent studied the others, noting the subtle changes in their body language. The pink-haired girl¡¯s defiance was sharper, her eyes darting to the counter as if willing the objects to give her answers. The janitor¡¯s impatience was growing, his fingers drumming against his arm. The suit maintained his air of control, but the strain in his jaw betrayed his growing unease.
And the child¡
The boy stood apart from the group, his small figure dwarfed by the oversized hoodie he clutched around himself. His wide eyes darted between the adults, his face a mix of fear and uncertainty. Vincent felt a pang of guilt as he watched the boy shrink further into himself, the weight of the group¡¯s tension pressing down on him.
But there was something else. Something he couldn¡¯t quite place. The boy¡¯s presence felt¡ muted, almost like an afterthought. The others didn¡¯t address him directly, their attention sliding past him as though he didn¡¯t fully exist in their reality. Vincent¡¯s stomach twisted as unease crept up his spine.
¡°Alright,¡± the janitor said, breaking the silence with a sharp clap of his hands. ¡°Let¡¯s vote. Majority rules.¡±
¡°Great idea,¡± the pink-haired girl snapped. ¡°That way, when this inevitably goes sideways, we can all just blame each other instead of figuring out what the hell we¡¯re supposed to do.¡±
¡°Isn¡¯t that what you¡¯re doing already?¡± Vincent muttered, earning himself another glare.
The suit raised his hands in a placating gesture. ¡°Let¡¯s keep this civil. The longer we stand here arguing, the more likely we¡¯re going to run into something worse.¡±
Vincent¡¯s chest tightened as he listened to their bickering. He had been here before. He had watched them fracture and falter, and it had cost them all dearly. This time, he wouldn¡¯t stand by and let history repeat itself.
He glanced at the child again, his heart pounding as doubt crept into his mind. The boy didn¡¯t belong here. He was too small, too vulnerable. If this was some kind of twisted trial, then why was a child part of it? None of it made sense.
And yet, Vincent couldn¡¯t shake the memory of the nurse¡¯s scalpel flashing in the dim light, couldn¡¯t forget the boy¡¯s terrified scream as he stood frozen in the face of death. Whether the child belonged or not didn¡¯t matter, not yet. What mattered was making sure he didn¡¯t die again.
Vincent¡¯s hand brushed against the crowbar at his side as he forced himself to focus. This time would be different. He would make sure of it.
Vincent stood at the edge of the room, letting the tension swirl around him like a storm as the others¡¯ voices rose and fell, sharp and brittle. He didn¡¯t need to contribute; he¡¯d already played this scene before. The arguments, the votes, the way the decision tore at the group, it all felt like a grotesque play, the actors unwittingly repeating their lines.
The pink-haired girl jabbed her finger at the counter, her frustration palpable. ¡°It¡¯s obvious. We¡¯re here looking for medication. The vial is the only thing that makes sense.¡±
The hoodie guy leaned back lazily against the wall, his arms crossed. ¡°Yeah, and what happens when it¡¯s poison or something? You ever think about that?¡±
¡°Oh, because the scalpel or the creepy old key are so much better options,¡± she snapped, her voice dripping with sarcasm.
The suit stepped in, his tone measured but tight. ¡°Let¡¯s focus. We don¡¯t have all night, and the longer we sit here debating, the worse this is going to get. The vial makes the most logical sense.¡±
Vincent watched as the group¡¯s fragile unity frayed further with every passing moment. Their fear was palpable, bleeding into the air like a toxin, clouding their judgment. His gaze drifted to the janitor, who stood slightly apart from the others, his sharp eyes scanning the room with quiet intensity.
¡°I¡¯m telling you, the key¡¯s the way out,¡± the janitor said, his voice steady but firm. ¡°We don¡¯t need to overthink this. We grab the key and move. It¡¯s the only thing that doesn¡¯t scream trap.¡±
The pink-haired girl rolled her eyes. ¡°Right, because the creepy antique key definitely doesn¡¯t scream trap. Get real.¡±
The child¡¯s small voice broke through the argument, hesitant but clear. ¡°The vial¡ it might help if someone gets hurt¡¡±
The others turned to glance at him, their gazes sliding over him with a strange sort of detachment. Vincent¡¯s stomach twisted as he observed the dynamic. They weren¡¯t ignoring the boy entirely, but their acknowledgment of him felt superficial, almost perfunctory, like he was an afterthought in their collective anxiety.
This time, Vincent stayed silent, his jaw tight as he watched the scene unfold. He didn¡¯t need to say anything. He already knew how this would end. They¡¯d pick the vial, the nurse would appear, and the others would freeze like rabbits in headlights as death came for them.
The janitor¡¯s gaze shifted to Vincent, narrowing slightly. ¡°What about you, Backpack? Got anything useful to say?¡±
Vincent met his eyes, his expression unreadable. ¡°I¡¯m not voting,¡± he said flatly.
The pink-haired girl threw up her hands in exasperation. ¡°Of course you¡¯re not. Why am I not surprised?¡±
¡°Because I¡¯m not playing your game,¡± Vincent replied, his tone calm but laced with steel. He stepped back toward the doorway, his fingers brushing the strap of his backpack. ¡°You want to make a choice? Go ahead. Just don¡¯t blame me when it goes wrong.¡±
The janitor snorted. ¡°Coward.¡±
¡°Practical,¡± Vincent shot back. He let the insult roll off him, his focus already elsewhere. He didn¡¯t care what they thought of him. All that mattered was being ready when the time came.
The votes came quickly after that. The pink-haired girl was the first to cast hers, her voice sharp and decisive. ¡°Vial. Obviously.¡±
The hoodie guy shrugged, his indifference palpable. ¡°Fine, vial. Whatever.¡±
The suit nodded, his expression tight. ¡°I agree. The vial makes the most sense.¡±
The janitor crossed his arms, his lips pressed into a thin line. ¡°Key.¡±Stolen content warning: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.
Three to one. The decision was made. Vincent¡¯s chest tightened as he watched the suit reach for the vial, his hand hovering above it for a brief moment before closing around it.
¡°Here we go,¡± the pink-haired girl muttered under her breath.
The air shifted immediately. The faint hum of the fluorescent lights deepened, resonating in Vincent¡¯s chest like a low, ominous vibration. The temperature in the room seemed to drop, a chill settling over them like an unwelcome shroud. Vincent¡¯s muscles coiled instinctively as he felt the weight of impending doom press down on him.
¡°What the hell was that?¡± the janitor muttered, his eyes darting toward the corridor.
¡°Nothing good,¡± Vincent said under his breath, his gaze fixed on the hallway. He took a slow, deliberate step back, his hand tightening on the crowbar at his side.
And then she appeared.
The nurse emerged from the shadows like a grotesque puppet, her jerky, unnatural movements sending a ripple of unease through the group. Her uniform was filthy, stained with grime and dried blood, and her scalpel glinted in the dim light as she dragged it against the wall with a sickening metallic whine.
The group froze, their eyes widening as they took in the horrific sight. The pink-haired girl let out a strangled gasp, her bravado crumbling in an instant. ¡°What the hell is that?¡±
The janitor cursed under his breath, his hands balling into fists. The hoodie guy shrank back against the wall, his earlier nonchalance evaporating. The suit¡¯s carefully composed facade cracked, his eyes darting between the nurse and the others as panic set in.
And the child¡
The boy stepped forward, his small figure silhouetted against the harsh fluorescent light. He clutched his stuffed animal tightly, his wide eyes fixed on the nurse as though drawn to her by some invisible force. Vincent¡¯s breath hitched as he saw the boy¡¯s lips part, a scream building in his throat.
Not this time.
Vincent moved before he could think, his body acting on instinct. He reached the boy in a single, fluid motion, his hand clamping over the child¡¯s mouth to stifle the scream. The boy¡¯s muffled cry vibrated against his palm as Vincent hauled him backward, his movements swift and deliberate.
The others turned at the sound, their eyes narrowing as they saw Vincent dragging the boy toward the door. ¡°What the hell are you doing?¡± the pink-haired girl demanded, her voice sharp and accusatory.
Vincent didn¡¯t answer. He didn¡¯t have time to explain, didn¡¯t have the energy to waste on their misplaced outrage. The nurse¡¯s movements were growing more deliberate, her jerky strides closing the distance with terrifying speed.
¡°Stop!¡± the suit shouted, his voice cracking with panic. ¡°You can¡¯t just, ¡±
Then they saw her.
The nurse stepped fully into the room, her scalpel gleaming as she tilted her head unnaturally to one side. Her sewn-shut eyes strained against the black threads, her movements precise and mechanical as she sniffed the air like a predator catching a scent.
The group¡¯s protests died in their throats as terror overtook them. They stood rooted to the spot, their earlier anger at Vincent forgotten as they stared at the nurse in horrified silence.
Vincent didn¡¯t stop. He tightened his grip on the boy, dragging him out of the room and into the corridor. The child struggled against him, his small fists beating weakly against Vincent¡¯s arm, but Vincent held firm.
¡°Stay quiet,¡± he hissed, his voice low and urgent. ¡°Do not scream.¡±
The boy whimpered but stopped struggling, his body trembling as Vincent continued to pull him away from the others. The hallway stretched out before them, sterile and cold, the shadows pooling in the corners like silent observers. Vincent¡¯s breath came in short, shallow bursts as he moved further from the room, his ears straining for the sound of the nurse¡¯s scalpel.
Behind him, the first scream erupted.
Vincent didn¡¯t turn back. He didn¡¯t need to see what was happening to know. The others had made their choice, and now they were paying the price. They hadn¡¯t moved to protect the boy before. They wouldn¡¯t have moved this time either. They were dead weight. Scum.
Vincent¡¯s grip on the boy¡¯s arm tightened as he rounded the corner, his pace quickening. The screams behind him grew louder, more desperate, before they were abruptly cut off. Silence fell over the corridor, thick and suffocating.
He glanced down at the boy, whose wide eyes were brimming with tears. The child clung to his hoodie, his small body shaking like a leaf in a storm. Vincent felt a pang of guilt twist in his gut but shoved it aside. There was no time for that. Not now.
¡°Keep moving,¡± he muttered, his voice rough. ¡°We¡¯re not safe yet.¡±
The boy nodded, his small hand slipping into Vincent¡¯s as they hurried down the endless hallway. Vincent¡¯s mind raced, his thoughts a tangled web of questions and doubts. This time, he had saved the boy. But at what cost?
Vincent''s boots echoed against the sterile tiles, the sound sharp and hollow in the vast emptiness of the corridor. His grip on the boy¡¯s hand was firm, almost too tight, but he didn¡¯t loosen it. He needed to feel that connection, that grounding reminder of what he¡¯d just done. His pulse pounded in his ears, and his breath came in short, uneven bursts as his thoughts raced, fraying at the edges.
The boy stumbled, his smaller legs struggling to keep up, but Vincent didn¡¯t slow. The screams had been cut off too abruptly. That wasn¡¯t how terror should end, it wasn¡¯t how anything should end. The silence in their place was worse, heavier, as if the corridor itself was holding its breath.
His mind spun, trying to process the fragments of information he had. This wasn¡¯t just a game. It wasn¡¯t even a test in the way he¡¯d first thought. It was something far more sinister. The patterns, the choices, the entity that had swallowed him when he died, it all pointed to rules he didn¡¯t yet understand.
And then there was the boy.
The child¡¯s soft breaths, punctuated by an occasional sniffle, were the only other sounds in the corridor. Vincent glanced down at him, his small figure hunched in the oversized hoodie, his free hand clutching the edge like a security blanket. The boy¡¯s wide, watery eyes darted around nervously, his expression a mixture of fear and exhaustion.
Something about him didn¡¯t fit.
Vincent¡¯s jaw tightened as he replayed the events of the last cycle in his mind. He¡¯d acted on instinct then, driven by guilt and the overwhelming need to save the boy. He¡¯d failed, died, and been thrown back into this moment. But why? What was so important about this exact scene that he¡¯d been forced to relive it?
And why did the boy always seem to be at the center of it?
Vincent slowed his pace, his grip on the boy¡¯s hand loosening slightly. The child stumbled again, and this time Vincent stopped entirely, pulling him to a halt. The silence pressed down on them, the sterile hum of the lights overhead the only constant in this place.
¡°Are we safe now?¡± the boy asked softly, his voice trembling. He looked up at Vincent, his eyes wide and pleading.
Vincent didn¡¯t answer right away. His gaze lingered on the boy¡¯s face, studying the tiny details, the freckles scattered across his nose, the way his bottom lip quivered ever so slightly. He looked so normal, so human. But his presence gnawed at the edges of Vincent¡¯s mind, an itch he couldn¡¯t scratch.
Were they safe? The question lingered in the air between them, heavy and unanswered. Vincent¡¯s instincts screamed at him that safety was an illusion here, that nothing in this place could be trusted. Least of all the things that seemed harmless.
His grip on the boy¡¯s hand tightened again, his mind flashing to the moment in the room when the others had cast their votes. The child¡¯s voice had been so quiet, so hesitant, when he¡¯d said ¡°the vial.¡± But had anyone truly heard him? Had they truly acknowledged his choice? Vincent thought back to the pink-haired girl¡¯s sharp tone, the janitor¡¯s gruff dismissal. They¡¯d argued, voted, and acted as though the boy¡¯s opinion didn¡¯t matter.
Or maybe they hadn¡¯t heard him at all.
Vincent¡¯s chest tightened as realization began to settle over him like a cold, suffocating fog. He¡¯d noticed it before, in fragments, the way the others had seemed to gloss over the boy¡¯s presence, the way their gazes had slid past him as though he were just part of the scenery. Even now, his memories of the boy felt... fractured. As if his mind was trying to piece together something that didn¡¯t entirely belong.
And the watches. The watches strapped to their wrists, marking their lives, tracking their progress. He glanced down at his own, the chibi version of himself still frozen in its idle animation. Two hearts. Two lives left. He¡¯d been so consumed by his own survival, his own mistakes, that he hadn¡¯t questioned why the boy didn¡¯t have one.
His eyes drifted to the boy¡¯s wrist. The hoodie sleeve obscured it, but Vincent knew what he¡¯d see if he pulled it back, nothing. No watch. No tracking device. No acknowledgment that this child was part of the same game.
His chest ached as he fought to keep his expression neutral. The boy was watching him closely now, his head tilted slightly as if sensing the shift in Vincent¡¯s demeanor.
¡°What¡¯s wrong?¡± the boy asked, his voice small and uncertain.
¡°Nothing,¡± Vincent lied, his tone flat. He released the boy¡¯s hand, crouching slightly to look him in the eyes. ¡°You okay? Can you keep going?¡±
The boy nodded quickly, almost too quickly, his movements jerky and eager to please. ¡°I¡¯m okay. I can keep up.¡±
Vincent forced a small smile, though it felt hollow. ¡°Good. Stay close.¡±
As they began walking again, Vincent¡¯s mind raced with questions. If the boy wasn¡¯t real, if he wasn¡¯t part of the same ruleset as the rest of them, then what was he? A trap? A distraction? The memory of the entity he¡¯d encountered in the void crept into his thoughts, its vast, unknowable presence pressing down on him. It had been delighted by his failure, by his death. Was the boy its creation? Its tool?
His Sixth Sense flared faintly, a whisper of unease that settled in his gut. It wasn¡¯t the kind of danger that came with immediate threats. It was subtler, quieter, the kind that made his instincts coil like a spring. He glanced down at the boy again, his small figure trudging along beside him.
What if this game was never about saving anyone? What if it was about proving he couldn¡¯t?
The thought chilled him. He¡¯d acted on instinct in the last cycle, driven by the need to protect, to be the hero. It had cost him a life. This time, he¡¯d acted deliberately, planning every step, every move, to change the outcome. But what if that was exactly what the game wanted?
Vincent¡¯s breath hitched as a new thought crept into his mind, unbidden and unwanted. What if the boy wasn¡¯t meant to be saved at all? What if saving him was the mistake?
He forced the thought aside, his jaw tightening as he quickened his pace. Now wasn¡¯t the time for doubt. He needed to keep moving, to put as much distance between them and the room as possible. Whatever the boy was, whatever his purpose in this twisted game, Vincent couldn¡¯t afford to let his guard down.
The boy¡¯s voice broke the silence, hesitant and soft. ¡°Do you think... they¡¯ll be okay?¡±
Vincent¡¯s heart clenched, but he didn¡¯t look down. He kept his eyes on the corridor ahead, the endless stretch of sterile tiles and flickering lights. ¡°I don¡¯t know,¡± he said finally, his voice low and even.
He didn¡¯t know if the others would survive the nurse¡¯s attack. He didn¡¯t know if they deserved to. But one thing was certain, they hadn¡¯t moved to save the boy before. They¡¯d left him to die without a second thought.
And now, Vincent had left them.
His footsteps slowed as the weight of that choice pressed down on him, heavy and unrelenting. The boy glanced up at him, his wide eyes filled with quiet confusion. Vincent forced himself to keep walking, his mind churning with questions he couldn¡¯t yet answer.
As Vincent pressed forward, the boy¡¯s small hand slipping occasionally from his grasp only for him to reflexively tighten his grip, the silence around them grew thicker. The sterile hum of the lights above seemed distant now, a backdrop to the chaos in his own head. His thoughts had become a cacophony, each one louder and more demanding than the last, vying for attention as he tried to make sense of the puzzle in front of him.
And then, it hit him.
The watch on his wrist let out a faint, almost imperceptible chime. He froze mid-step, his entire body tensing as the display flickered. For a heartbeat, he thought he¡¯d imagined it, but then the chibi avatar of himself blinked, shifting slightly as text scrolled across the screen:
Sixth Sense has leveled.
The words burned themselves into his mind, stark and undeniable. His breath hitched, and his hand trembled slightly as he stared at the watch. The leveling wasn¡¯t just a number or a notification, it was a wave of something intangible, something alive. It surged through him like a tidal force, unbidden and unrelenting, crashing into every corner of his mind.
And with it came the whispers.
They started softly, like faint echoes at the edges of his thoughts. But they grew louder, more insistent, until they reverberated in his skull, each one carving into his consciousness with surgical precision.
"Protect him."
"He¡¯s innocent. He needs you."
"You¡¯re a hero, Vincent. You can save him."
He staggered, nearly recoiling as the whispers twisted his name, wrapping around it with a familiarity that made his stomach churn. He¡¯d never told anyone his name, not the others, not the boy. The weight of it pressed down on him, suffocating and undeniable. These weren¡¯t just thoughts. They were intrusions, something external pressing into the very fabric of his mind.
The boy turned to him, his wide eyes full of concern. ¡°Vincent? Are you okay?¡±
Vincent flinched as the boy spoke his name, his chest tightening with a mix of unease and realization. How does he know? He¡¯d been so careful, so deliberate in keeping his distance, in staying detached. But here the boy was, saying his name as naturally as if it had always been part of their conversations.
The whispers surged again, their tone shifting from soothing to urgent.
"Don¡¯t question it. Focus on saving him. That¡¯s all that matters."
"He¡¯s a child. He¡¯s helpless. He needs you."
"You can do this. You have to do this."
Vincent clenched his teeth, his free hand clamping over his watch as though he could physically block out the voices. His Sixth Sense had always been a subtle nudge, a quiet instinct that guided him away from danger. But now, it was something else entirely, something intrusive, demanding, almost predatory in its insistence.
He glanced down at the boy, his small frame still clutching at the hem of his hoodie. The child looked so fragile, so perfectly crafted in his fear and vulnerability. And that was the problem. The perfection of it. The whispers urged him to act, to protect, to save, but they felt wrong now, like a song played just out of tune.
He thought back to the last cycle, to the way he¡¯d moved without thinking, compelled by those same whispers. They had pushed him to be the hero, to sacrifice himself for the boy without question, and he had. He¡¯d died for it, a life snuffed out for a child who wasn¡¯t wearing a watch, who the others hadn¡¯t even truly acknowledged.
"Don¡¯t overthink this. Keep him safe. It¡¯s what you¡¯re supposed to do."
Vincent¡¯s breath came in sharp, shallow gasps. His chest tightened as the realization crept over him, slow and suffocating. The whispers hadn¡¯t been instinct. They hadn¡¯t been his conscience. They had been something else entirely, something planted, external, designed to push him into a specific role.
"Save him. Be the hero."
The words repeated like a drumbeat in his head, each one louder and more insistent than the last. But this time, they didn¡¯t feel like encouragement. They felt like orders.
And then the wall broke.
It was sudden, a sensation like glass shattering in his mind. The whispers didn¡¯t stop, but their source became painfully clear. They weren¡¯t his thoughts. They weren¡¯t his instincts. They were the system, the game, bending his will to its design. It had been there all along, a quiet puppeteer pulling his strings, whispering promises of heroism and purpose to keep him moving, keep him playing. No this wasn¡¯t the Sixth Sense, it was just taking down the curtain allowing him to hear what was already there, the subtle little messages that pushed at his subconscious influencing him.
Vincent recoiled, his hand jerking away from the boy as though he¡¯d been burned. The child stumbled slightly, looking up at him with wide, confused eyes.
¡°Vincent?¡± the boy asked, his voice small and uncertain. ¡°What¡¯s wrong?¡±
Vincent couldn¡¯t answer. His heart pounded in his chest as he stared at the boy, his mind unraveling every moment they¡¯d shared. The way the others had ignored him, the way his voice barely registered in their arguments, the absence of a watch on his wrist. The whispers had led him to save the boy, to protect him at all costs. But why?
"Don¡¯t question it. Just do your part. Be the hero."
The words grated against his mind now, their urgency a sharp contrast to the clarity he¡¯d just gained. He took a step back, his gaze narrowing as he studied the boy. The child¡¯s face was perfect, too perfect, each detail crafted to evoke pity, to inspire action. But the pieces didn¡¯t fit. They never had.
The whispers shifted, their tone growing desperate.
"Stop this. Protect him. Save him. That¡¯s your role."
Vincent¡¯s jaw clenched as he forced himself to look away from the boy, his thoughts racing. This wasn¡¯t just a test of survival. It was a test of manipulation, of control. The game wanted him to be the hero, to act without question, to sacrifice himself for a goal he didn¡¯t even understand.
Not this time.
¡°Let¡¯s keep moving,¡± he said finally, his voice steady but cold. He didn¡¯t look at the boy as he spoke, didn¡¯t reach for his hand. Instead, he turned and started down the corridor, his steps slow and deliberate.
The boy hesitated, his small frame trembling slightly. ¡°But... where are we going?¡±
Vincent didn¡¯t answer right away. He kept walking, his gaze fixed on the shadows ahead, his mind already calculating his next move. He didn¡¯t need to understand everything yet. He just needed to see what would happen if he didn¡¯t play along.
¡°I don¡¯t know,¡± he said finally, his tone distant. ¡°But we¡¯ll figure it out.¡±
Vincent trudged forward, the boy trailing behind him like a shadow, his mind reeling with the weight of his revelations. He hadn¡¯t spoken again since deciding to keep moving, the oppressive silence of the corridor matching the storm raging inside him.
The hero.
The voices had made it clear, hadn¡¯t they? That¡¯s what they wanted him to be. They weren¡¯t nudging him toward survival, they were carving him into a role, shaping him into something more palatable to their narrative. The realization sat in his gut like a lead weight, pulling at every fragile thread of his identity.
He scoffed under his breath, the sound humorless and bitter. The hero. What a joke. He didn¡¯t even look like one. In horror games, in movies, the hero was someone you could root for, someone with charm, grit, maybe even a tragic backstory. They weren¡¯t¡ average. And Vincent? He¡¯d always been painfully average.
A reflective surface caught his eye as they passed an old, cracked mirror set awkwardly into the wall. He paused for a moment, glancing at the boy to ensure he wasn¡¯t going to dart off before stepping toward it. The distorted glass showed his face in jagged pieces, each one a reminder of just how ordinary he looked. His messy, unkempt hair was neither dark enough to brood nor light enough to shine. His features weren¡¯t sharp or striking, his nose was slightly crooked from a long-forgotten childhood accident, his lips too thin, his eyes an unremarkable shade of pink.
Vincent stared at himself, almost daring the mirror to offer some hidden revelation, something deeper beneath the surface. But there was nothing. He was just¡ Vincent.
¡°If this were a horror movie,¡± he muttered to himself, ¡°what would I even be?¡±
The question lingered in his mind, dragging his thoughts further into the archetypes he¡¯d studied and loved in fiction. The jock? Definitely not. The final girl? Not unless there was some major rebranding involved. The loner? That had seemed right before, but now¡ the whispers had shattered that illusion.
"The hero," they insisted.
He thought about what heroes in stories like this usually faced. Sacrifice. Martyrdom. They didn¡¯t get the girl, or boy. They didn¡¯t get the happy ending. Hell, they usually didn¡¯t even make it to the end at all. They saved others, sure, but at the cost of their own lives, their own futures.
And if they looked like him? Average, forgettable, disposable? Then it was almost guaranteed. The world wasn¡¯t kind to ¡°heroes¡± who weren¡¯t easy to root for.
Vincent leaned closer to the mirror, studying the dark circles under his eyes, the faint stubble on his jawline. This was the face of someone you forgot five minutes after meeting. Not someone who inspired trust or hope or anything remotely heroic. But here he was, being shaped, pushed, forced into that role.
For what?
The boy tugged at his sleeve, breaking his reverie. ¡°Why are we stopping?¡±
Vincent pulled back from the mirror, straightening as he turned to look at the child. The boy¡¯s wide eyes reflected the same innocence and vulnerability that had drawn him in before. But now, Vincent couldn¡¯t look at him without hearing the whispers, without feeling the weight of expectation pressing down on him.
¡°We¡¯re not,¡± Vincent said, his tone sharper than he intended. He turned away from the mirror and started walking again, faster this time. The boy scurried to keep up, his small footsteps barely audible against the tiled floor.
Chapter 10:
Vincent¡¯s footsteps echoed faintly in the sterile hallway as he mulled over everything that had happened since this nightmare began. His mind raced with fragmented thoughts, piecing together inconsistencies, questions, and an unsettling truth: he wasn¡¯t reacting like he should. He wasn¡¯t panicking, wasn¡¯t spiraling into despair the way he might have expected if this were real life. Instead, he was disturbingly calm, his emotions muted as though something, or someone, were pulling strings in the background.
The realization made his skin crawl.
He glanced at the boy walking silently beside him, his small figure a stark contrast to the oppressive atmosphere of the corridor. The child¡¯s presence was grounding, yet also unnerving, a puzzle piece that didn¡¯t quite fit. Vincent¡¯s mind circled back to his own strange detachment. Shouldn¡¯t he be more¡ human? Shouldn¡¯t his nerves be fraying at the edges, his breath hitching with every step deeper into this maze?
"This isn''t me."
The thought hit him like a cold slap. This calmness, this eerie clarity, it wasn¡¯t natural. It felt distant, artificial, like a layer of insulation between him and the reality he was trapped in. And then there were the whispers, weaving through his thoughts like poisonous vines, urging him to save the boy, to step into a role he never asked for. Be a hero. The phrase curled in the back of his mind, persistent and cloying, and he hated it.
Vincent reached over his shoulder, pulling the small radio from the strap of his backpack. It was an old, cheap thing he¡¯d picked up a few days before everything spiraled into chaos. A preparation, he¡¯d told himself at the time. Back then, he¡¯d treated the countdown messages as a joke, a gimmick to hype up some obscure ARG or marketing stunt. But some part of him had believed the warnings, enough to buy supplies, tools, extra batteries, the radio.
The radio had become an odd comfort. He¡¯d spent days listening to it before all this, letting its quiet static fill the background as the countdown ticked away. Something about the sound had a strange, meditative quality, like white noise lulling his mind into clarity. Now, with the whispers creeping into his head, it seemed more necessary than ever.
He flicked it on, twisting the volume knob just enough for the faint hum of static to fill the air. The noise was soft, barely audible, but it cut through the whispers like a knife. The voices faded into the background, still there but muffled, less invasive. He let out a slow breath, his grip on the crowbar loosening slightly.
The boy looked up at him, curious. ¡°What¡¯s that for?¡±
¡°Just¡ something to clear my head,¡± Vincent muttered, not meeting the boy¡¯s gaze. He didn¡¯t need to explain himself to a child, especially not this child.
The static seemed to anchor him, pulling his thoughts into sharper focus. He remembered the games he¡¯d played, Silent Hill, Amnesia, the ones that thrived on atmosphere and subtle terror. The radio had been a deliberate choice, a nod to those experiences and a small comfort against the uncertainty of what the countdown might bring.
He hadn¡¯t expected it to feel this necessary.
As they walked, Vincent¡¯s mind churned with questions he¡¯d ignored earlier, ones the group hadn¡¯t bothered to ask. Why weren¡¯t they more panicked? Why hadn¡¯t they questioned their sudden displacement? Why hadn¡¯t anyone demanded answers about how they got here? Instead, they¡¯d fallen into a pattern, arguing, making quick decisions, and moving forward like it was the most natural thing in the world.
Even Vincent wasn¡¯t immune. He¡¯d spent more time analyzing the situation than questioning the bigger picture.
"Why?"
The word hung in his mind, heavy and insistent. The entity he¡¯d encountered in death, if death was even the right word, flashed through his thoughts. A vast, incomprehensible presence that had regarded him with hunger and delight. He tried to focus on it, to dissect the memory, but it slipped away like water through his fingers. The harder he grasped for it, the more distant it became, until the thought vanished entirely.
Vincent shivered. Something was guiding him, shaping his thoughts, blurring the edges of his awareness. It wasn¡¯t just the whispers; it was something bigger, something he couldn¡¯t fully grasp. He clenched his jaw, forcing his focus back to the present, to the static in his ears, to the weight of the crowbar in his hand. These were tangible, real, grounding.
He glanced at the boy again, watching as the child trudged silently beside him. The kid seemed so ordinary, so unremarkable, yet Vincent couldn¡¯t shake the sense that something about him didn¡¯t add up. But he couldn¡¯t let that suspicion control him, not yet. There were too many unknowns, and the boy might still be his only anchor in this twisted game.
The whispers crept back, faint but persistent, pushing against the edge of his consciousness. "Protect him." "Save him." "You¡¯re a hero."
Vincent¡¯s grip tightened on the radio, the static crackling faintly in response. He wasn¡¯t going to play their game. Not by their rules. Not again.
¡°You okay?¡± the boy asked, his voice soft but tinged with worry.
Vincent forced a thin smile, nodding. ¡°Yeah. Just thinking.¡±
The boy nodded, satisfied, and fell silent again. Vincent watched him for a moment longer before returning his gaze to the corridor ahead. The radio¡¯s static buzzed in his ears, steady and grounding, a thin barrier between him and whatever was trying to manipulate him. He didn¡¯t know how long it would last, but for now, it was enough.
He¡¯d keep moving, keep questioning, and keep listening to the static. It was the only thing he trusted.
Vincent¡¯s fingers tightened around the crowbar as the hurried footsteps grew louder behind him. He didn¡¯t turn immediately, keeping his eyes fixed ahead down the corridor. The static from the radio strapped to his backpack buzzed faintly, grounding him, a steady hum against the growing tension in his chest.
¡°Backpack!¡± a voice shouted from behind, sharp and tinged with desperation.
He froze. His grip on the crowbar turned his knuckles white as he slowly pivoted, keeping the boy at his side and behind him. The pink-haired girl came into view, stumbling slightly as she rounded the corner. Her clothes were spattered with crimson streaks, the vibrant color stark against the sterile whites and grays of the hospital corridor. Her chest heaved, her eyes wild and panicked as they locked onto him.
¡°Why the hell did you run off?¡± she demanded, her voice breaking under the strain of whatever she¡¯d just been through. ¡°There were more of us back there! You didn¡¯t need to run. You have a weapon, for God¡¯s sake!¡±
Vincent said nothing, his stance shifting subtly as he adjusted his grip on the crowbar. His gaze flicked down to her hands. She was clutching something, a piece of broken metal, maybe part of a bedframe or a discarded medical tool. Whatever it was, it was jagged, crude, and streaked with blood.
His stomach twisted. He didn¡¯t know whether the blood was hers, the nurse¡¯s, or someone else¡¯s. He didn¡¯t ask.
The girl noticed the shift in his stance, the way his body coiled as if ready to strike. Her eyes darted to the crowbar in his hands, and something flickered across her face, annoyance, desperation, maybe even fear. She took a hesitant step forward, and he immediately took one back.
¡°Relax,¡± she said, holding up her free hand as if to placate him. ¡°I¡¯m not here to fight you. I just-¡± Her voice cracked, and she took a shaky breath. ¡°I just don¡¯t want to be alone, okay? You¡¯re the only one left I¡¯ve seen, and-¡± She stopped, her gaze flicking briefly to the boy behind him. Her brow furrowed. ¡°Where the hell did you find a kid?¡±
Vincent didn¡¯t answer. He shifted his weight, keeping the crowbar raised slightly as his eyes stayed on her weapon. The jagged piece of metal dripped faintly, leaving small, dark droplets on the floor. He didn¡¯t trust her, not one bit.
She took another step forward, her movements deliberate but cautious, her free hand still raised in a gesture of truce. ¡°Come on, Backpack,¡± she said, her tone wavering between frustration and pleading. ¡°We¡¯re not going to survive this crap on our own. You know that. You¡¯ve got a weapon, I¡¯ve got a weapon-¡± Her voice hitched slightly. ¡°We can watch each other¡¯s backs.¡±
His grip on the crowbar didn¡¯t falter. ¡°You¡¯ve got blood on yours.¡±
Her expression twisted briefly, like she was about to snap at him, but she quickly masked it with a brittle smile. ¡°Yeah, no shit. That thing, the nurse, came at us. People panicked. I did what I had to do. You would¡¯ve done the same.¡±
Vincent¡¯s eyes narrowed. ¡°Would I?¡±
The pink-haired girl¡¯s hand tightened slightly on her makeshift weapon, her composure cracking just enough for him to notice. ¡°Look,¡± she said, her voice growing sharper, ¡°I don¡¯t care what you think about me. I¡¯m not here to hurt you, okay? We¡¯re all just trying to survive. If you think I¡¯m gonna attack you, you¡¯re wrong.¡±
¡°And yet,¡± Vincent said evenly, ¡°you¡¯re holding a bloody weapon and creeping closer.¡±
She stopped in her tracks, a flash of something dark crossing her face. ¡°I¡¯m not creeping closer. I¡¯m trying to talk to you. Jesus, Backpack, what the hell is wrong with you?¡±
¡°Wrong with me?¡± Vincent¡¯s voice was low, almost too calm. ¡°What¡¯s wrong with you? You¡¯re running around with blood on your hands, yelling at me for leaving, and acting like we¡¯re best friends all of a sudden. You think I¡¯m stupid?¡±
Her mouth opened to retort, but she hesitated, her gaze flicking to the crowbar again. ¡°I¡¯m not¡ Look, I just need to stay with someone who knows what they¡¯re doing, alright?¡± she finally said, her voice softening. ¡°You seem like you have a plan. I just want to get out of here.¡±
Vincent didn¡¯t lower the crowbar. ¡°You followed me for a reason,¡± he said, his tone flat. ¡°What was it? Because I don¡¯t think you¡¯re looking for a buddy.¡±
Her face tightened, the desperation in her expression hardening into something more guarded. ¡°Fine,¡± she said after a moment, her voice clipped. ¡°You don¡¯t trust me. I get it. But I¡¯m not walking away. If you want to hit me with that thing, go ahead. Otherwise, let¡¯s stop wasting time and figure out how to get the hell out of here.¡±
Vincent¡¯s mind raced, weighing his options. He didn¡¯t trust her, couldn¡¯t trust her, but she wasn¡¯t backing down. She had her reasons, whatever they were, and he wasn¡¯t about to turn his back on her. Not with that weapon in her hand and that look in her eye.
¡°Stay where I can see you,¡± he said finally, his voice like steel. ¡°And don¡¯t try anything.¡±
She raised her eyebrows, a bitter laugh escaping her lips. ¡°Oh, sure. Because I¡¯d be stupid enough to mess with the guy holding a crowbar.¡±
He didn¡¯t reply. Instead, he turned slightly, positioning himself so he could keep both her and the boy in his line of sight. The static from the radio buzzed softly, a faint reminder of the uneasy calm he was trying to maintain.
Vincent¡¯s sigh was barely audible over the faint hum of the static on his radio, but it carried the weight of his growing unease. The corridor stretched endlessly ahead, its sterile walls closing in like the jaws of a trap. The faint flicker of the overhead lights added to the oppressive atmosphere, casting shifting shadows that felt alive.
Then, from behind them, another scream tore through the silence, sharp and jagged. The sound crawled into his chest like a cold hand gripping his heart. It was closer this time, more urgent. Whoever was left back there was either running for their life or had just lost it.
¡°Move,¡± Vincent muttered, the word sharp and clipped. He tightened his grip on the boy¡¯s hand and shot a glance at the pink-haired girl. Her face was pale, her weapon gripped tightly in her blood-slicked hand. For all her bravado earlier, the scream had shaken her. Without a word, all three of them began moving faster, their steps echoing ominously in the hallway.
The air felt heavier now, oppressive, as if the corridor itself was bearing down on them. Vincent¡¯s eyes flicked from one shadow to the next, his Sixth Sense buzzing faintly in the back of his skull. The static on his radio offered little comfort, a distant hum that couldn¡¯t drown out the growing tension pressing in on him.
Then he saw it.
To the right, a door stood slightly ajar, a bright, almost unnatural light spilling out into the hallway. Unlike the dim, sickly glow of the other lights, this one was steady, its intensity almost too much for the drab, oppressive corridor. It stood out like a beacon, its light cutting through the shadows that seemed to shun it, retreating to the edges of the walls.
Vincent slowed, his steps faltering as he stared at the door. Something about it pulled at him, not physically, but instinctually, as though every fiber of his being knew that this was where they needed to go. Or, perhaps, where the game wanted them to go.
¡°What the hell?¡± the pink-haired girl muttered, noticing his hesitation. She took a few more steps ahead of him before she turned sharply, her eyes narrowing. ¡°Why are you stopping?¡±This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.
Vincent didn¡¯t answer immediately. His eyes remained locked on the door, the bright light spilling from within casting stark lines across the sterile floor. It wasn¡¯t right. It was too deliberate, too perfectly out of place in this twisted maze.
¡°Vincent?¡± the boy whispered, his small voice trembling with fear.
Vincent felt his chest tighten. He hadn¡¯t given the boy his name. He knew that. But this wasn¡¯t the time to address that slip. Not yet.
The pink-haired girl, oblivious to his inner turmoil, scoffed and turned back to him, gesturing impatiently. ¡°You¡¯re seriously stopping here? Are you kidding me? We don¡¯t have time for-¡±
Her words cut off as Vincent abruptly raised his hand, signaling her to stop. She took a step forward, her irritation flaring, but before she could say anything, he turned to her, his expression sharp and unyielding.
¡°Stay back,¡± he said, his voice low but firm.
She faltered, her annoyance melting into uncertainty. ¡°What are you-¡±
¡°Just stay back,¡± he repeated, his gaze darting to the door. The light seemed to pulse faintly now, as if it were alive, responding to their presence. It wasn¡¯t warm or inviting. It was cold, clinical, and far too calculated.
The girl took an uneasy step back, glancing nervously between Vincent and the door. ¡°Fine,¡± she muttered. ¡°But if this is some kind of trap, it¡¯s on you.¡±
Vincent didn¡¯t respond. His focus was entirely on the door. The boy clung to his side, his small hand trembling in Vincent¡¯s grasp. The faint whispers from earlier, the ones that had urged him to save the boy, were quieter now, lurking at the edges of his thoughts like a predator waiting for its moment to strike. He ignored them, or tried to, as he took a cautious step forward.
The door didn¡¯t move. The light didn¡¯t change. But the oppressive silence grew thicker, wrapping around them like a smothering blanket.
His Sixth Sense buzzed faintly, but it was disjointed, uncertain, as if it couldn¡¯t decide whether this was danger or simply inevitability. He took another step, and the static on his radio grew louder, crackling faintly as he neared the doorway.
¡°Vincent¡¡± the boy whispered again, his voice a fragile thread that barely carried.
¡°I know,¡± Vincent muttered under his breath, his voice barely audible. He didn¡¯t look back at the boy or the girl. His focus was entirely on the light, on the doorway, on the unknowable presence that seemed to pulse from within. It wasn¡¯t right. None of this was right.
And yet, he couldn¡¯t turn away.
The pink-haired girl shifted behind him, her footsteps scraping faintly against the tile. ¡°This is insane,¡± she hissed. ¡°Whatever¡¯s in there, it¡¯s not safe.¡±
Vincent finally turned to her, his expression hard. ¡°Nothing here is safe,¡± he said evenly. ¡°But if we stay out here, we¡¯re sitting ducks.¡±
She opened her mouth to argue, but another scream echoed faintly from the depths of the corridor behind them. This one was shorter, sharper, and it cut off abruptly, leaving only the oppressive silence in its wake.
The girl swallowed hard, her grip tightening on her weapon. ¡°Fine,¡± she said, her voice quieter now. ¡°But if this gets us killed, I¡¯m blaming you.¡±
Vincent didn¡¯t reply. He turned back to the door, his fingers flexing around the crowbar. The light pulsed again, a cold, rhythmic beat that seemed to resonate in his chest. It was waiting for them. Whatever was in there, it was waiting.
Taking a deep breath, he stepped forward, the boy still clinging to his side. The static from the radio crackled louder now, an almost mocking counterpoint to the suffocating tension that filled the air.
He reached the door, the light spilling over him and casting long shadows behind him. For a brief moment, he hesitated, his heart pounding in his chest. He could feel the pink-haired girl¡¯s eyes boring into him, her unease palpable. The boy clutched his hand tighter, his small fingers digging into Vincent¡¯s palm.
And then, with one final breath, Vincent pushed the door open.
The air in the room seemed to congeal around Vincent as he stepped inside, thick and oppressive, like walking into a space that didn¡¯t want them there. The room was a surgical theater, with cold, sterile walls that gleamed faintly under the fluorescent lights. A faint hum filled the air, a sound that felt too low to be heard but too persistent to ignore. It burrowed into his ears like a distant static, leaving him tense and uneasy.
His gaze was immediately drawn upward, to the observation windows overlooking the surgical area. Rows of mannequins sat there, their faceless heads tilted downward as if watching intently. They weren¡¯t posed with curiosity or engagement, though. They looked like bored spectators at a zoo exhibit, waiting for something to happen. It was their stillness, too calculated, too expectant, that set Vincent¡¯s nerves on edge.
He forced himself to glance away, his eyes falling to the operating table in the center of the room. The stark, white sheet draped over it was eerily pristine, untouched by the grime and decay that clung to the rest of this place. It felt out of place, like it had been carefully curated to contrast with the faint rust stains that streaked the tile floor around it.
There was a figure standing near the table, its presence commanding despite its silence. A man, or what used to be a man. His face was a grotesque mockery of humanity, stitched together like a patchwork quilt, with pieces that didn¡¯t quite fit. His cheeks sagged, the loose threads threatening to unravel and let his features slide away entirely. One of his eyes bulged slightly, while the other sat deep in its socket, mismatched and wrong. He stood unnaturally still, his posture rigid, as though he were a mannequin too.
Vincent¡¯s breath hitched as his eyes flicked back to the observation windows. He could have sworn the mannequins had shifted. Just slightly, an arm raised here, a head tilted there. But when he looked directly at them, they were as still as statues.
¡°Backpack,¡± the pink-haired girl hissed behind him, breaking the silence. She hadn¡¯t moved far from the door, her eyes darting nervously between the mannequins and the stitched man. Her knuckles were white as they gripped her weapon. ¡°What is this? Why the hell did we come in here?¡±
Vincent clenched his jaw, refusing to rise to the bait. She¡¯d called him that nickname since the start, despite the boy using his name earlier. It didn¡¯t make sense, and it ticked at the back of his mind like an itch he couldn¡¯t scratch. Was she ignoring it on purpose, or was she like the others, unable to acknowledge certain things? He didn¡¯t answer her, instead taking another tentative step forward.
The boy stayed close to him, his small hand gripping the hem of Vincent¡¯s jacket. ¡°Is this¡ safe?¡± he asked softly, his voice trembling.
Vincent¡¯s Sixth Sense buzzed faintly at the edges of his awareness. It wasn¡¯t a full warning, but a soft, persistent hum, like an animal sensing a distant predator. ¡°No,¡± he muttered under his breath. ¡°It¡¯s not.¡±
He glanced at the stitched man again, his unease growing as he noticed the faint movement in the figure¡¯s chest, an unsettling, jerky rise and fall, like the mechanics of breathing were unfamiliar to it. The man, or thing, didn¡¯t look directly at them, but there was an awareness in its posture, a tension that made Vincent feel like they were being scrutinized.
Out of the corner of his eye, he caught another flicker of movement from the observation windows. This time, he didn¡¯t look away immediately. He let his gaze linger on the mannequins, trying to catch them in the act. His heart thudded in his chest as he realized their heads had tilted slightly further forward, as if leaning in for a closer look.
¡°You seeing this?¡± the pink-haired girl whispered harshly, following his gaze. ¡°They¡¯re moving. Those things up there, they¡¯re moving!¡±
Vincent nodded slowly, his grip tightening on the crowbar. ¡°Don¡¯t look away,¡± he said, his voice low and measured. ¡°Whatever you do, don¡¯t take your eyes off them.¡±
The girl let out a shaky laugh, her bravado cracking. ¡°Great. Just great. First the creepy nurse, now this. Are we gonna deal with every horror trope before this nightmare¡¯s over?¡±
Vincent ignored her, his focus locked on the mannequins. Every time his eyes drifted to something else, a shadow in the corner, the stitched man near the table, they seemed to shift slightly. Not enough to catch in the act, but enough to make him feel like they were closing in, one imperceptible step at a time.
His mind raced as he tried to piece together the rules. The stitched man hadn¡¯t moved yet. The mannequins weren¡¯t outright hostile, but they were watching, waiting. For what? The table, the pristine sheet, the light that had drawn them in, it was all too deliberate, too staged. This room was a trap, but the trigger wasn¡¯t clear.
¡°Vincent¡¡± the boy whispered again, his voice shaking.
Vincent¡¯s heart clenched at the sound. He hadn¡¯t given the boy his name, but now wasn¡¯t the time to unpack that. ¡°Stay close,¡± he said instead, his tone firmer than before.
The pink-haired girl took a hesitant step forward, her weapon trembling in her grip. ¡°What about him?¡± she asked, jerking her chin toward the stitched man. ¡°He¡¯s just standing there. Is he even alive?¡±
Vincent¡¯s gaze flicked to the figure again. ¡°Alive might not be the right word,¡± he said grimly.
The pink-haired girl let out a frustrated groan. ¡°You¡¯ve got a weapon. Do something!¡±
¡°Do what?¡± Vincent snapped, his voice sharp. ¡°Rush him and hope for the best? That¡¯s how you die in places like this.¡±
Her eyes narrowed, and for a moment, he thought she might argue. But another faint flicker of movement from the mannequins silenced her. They were leaning further now, their headless gazes fixed on the room below.
Vincent swallowed hard, the static from his radio crackling faintly in his ears. ¡°This isn¡¯t about him,¡± he said quietly, gesturing to the stitched man. ¡°It¡¯s about us. About what we do.¡±
The girl¡¯s brow furrowed. ¡°What are you talking about?¡±
Vincent didn¡¯t answer immediately. His mind was already turning, picking apart the scene like a puzzle. The mannequins weren¡¯t attacking. The stitched man wasn¡¯t moving. But the room was a pressure cooker, pushing them toward¡ something. A mistake. A choice.
Or a sacrifice.
Vincent tightened his grip on the crowbar and took another step forward. ¡°Stay behind me,¡± he said, his voice steady despite the cold knot of fear twisting in his stomach. ¡°And don¡¯t touch anything.¡±
The pink-haired girl didn¡¯t argue this time. She stayed where she was, her eyes darting nervously between the mannequins and the stitched man. The boy pressed closer to Vincent, his small frame trembling.
The air seemed to grow thicker with each step they took, a suffocating weight pressing against their lungs. It wasn¡¯t just the cold, sterile atmosphere of the surgical room, it was something more, something oppressive that seeped into their skin and coiled tightly around their chests. Each breath felt labored, as though the act of inhaling and exhaling was a conscious effort.
Vincent¡¯s grip on the crowbar tightened as they approached the table at the room''s center. His footsteps echoed faintly on the tile, the sound swallowed almost immediately by the dense silence that filled the room. The sheet draped over the table stood out starkly against the grime and decay of the space, pristine and unnaturally clean. Beneath it, a lump protruded, vague in its shape yet unmistakably humanoid.
They stopped at the edge of the table, the weight of the moment pressing down on them. Time itself seemed to stretch, slowing to a crawl as they stared at the covered figure. The mannequins above loomed like silent spectators, their faceless heads tilted downward in unison, expectant. Watching. Waiting.
Vincent¡¯s gaze flicked to the pink-haired girl. She was trembling, her weapon clutched tightly in her hands as she scanned the rows of mannequins, her breath coming in shallow, uneven bursts. Her bravado from earlier was gone, replaced by a raw, palpable fear that she couldn¡¯t hide.
¡°They¡¯re still watching,¡± she whispered, her voice barely audible.
¡°Let them,¡± Vincent muttered. His eyes didn¡¯t leave the figure standing near the table, the doctor. Or at least, that¡¯s what Vincent had decided to call it. The patchwork man hadn¡¯t moved, but the unnatural precision of its breathing shadowed everything else. It wasn¡¯t the shallow, instinctive rhythm of a human breath; it was deliberate, too measured, like a predator holding itself still so as not to scare off its prey.
Vincent¡¯s Sixth Sense hummed faintly in the back of his mind, a low vibration that didn¡¯t give him answers but kept him on edge. His instincts screamed that they were being observed, assessed, judged, but for what purpose, he couldn¡¯t say.
¡°What¡¯s under there?¡± the pink-haired girl asked, her voice quivering as she gestured toward the sheet. Her question broke the stillness of the moment, the words hanging in the air like an unspoken challenge.
Vincent didn¡¯t answer. His knuckles whitened as he shifted his grip on the crowbar. He could feel the boy¡¯s small hand gripping his jacket, trembling with an unspoken fear that mirrored his own. The lump beneath the sheet was just a shape, and yet it felt alive, as though it were pulsing with a quiet malevolence.
The mannequins shifted again. This time, Vincent caught it, a faint, collective motion that sent a shiver racing up his spine. Their faceless heads tilted slightly further forward, their collective focus intensifying. The rows of them, their inhuman stillness and synchronized movements, bore down on him like an unrelenting tide of dread.
¡°Whatever it is, we¡¯re not just walking away from it,¡± he said finally, his voice low and steady. He reached out, his fingers brushing the edge of the pristine sheet. The fabric felt cold under his touch, almost damp, and the sensation made his stomach twist.
The doctor¡¯s shadow flickered, just slightly. Vincent¡¯s gaze darted toward the patchwork figure, but it remained still, its mismatched face tilted downward as though in solemn observation. Its chest continued to rise and fall with mechanical precision, the sound of its labored breathing filling the room like the ticking of a clock.
¡°I don¡¯t like this,¡± the pink-haired girl said, taking a half-step back. ¡°This feels wrong. We shouldn¡¯t be here.¡±
¡°Too late for that,¡± Vincent¡¯s hands gripped the sheet tightly, the fabric cooler than it should have been, with a dampness that clung to his skin as if it were alive. He forced himself to breathe, but each inhale felt like pulling in air too thick to pass through his throat. The pink-haired girl muttered something behind him, her words a muddled buzz, lost under the deafening thrum of his own pulse in his ears.
His fingers hesitated, his knuckles whitening as a chilling thought flared in his mind: What¡¯s under here might not belong to this world. The room seemed to lean in closer, as if holding its breath, waiting for him to act.
The air seemed to hold its breath with him. Even the faint hum of the fluorescent lights above seemed to dim, as though the room itself had gone still in anticipation. Every fiber of Vincent¡¯s being screamed at him not to pull the sheet back, to turn and run, to leave this cursed place behind.
But he didn¡¯t.
He yanked the sheet back in one sharp motion, the sound startlingly loud, shattering the oppressive silence. It echoed like a crack of thunder, unnaturally amplified by the still air.
The sheet resisted for a split second, like pulling something glued to the surface, before it came free. His body tensed, bracing for the grotesque, the macabre, the unimaginable.
Underneath lay¡ª
Nothing.
For a moment, Vincent¡¯s brain couldn¡¯t comprehend what he was seeing. The absence hit harder than anything he¡¯d braced himself for, a hollow, suffocating void that seemed to mock his fear. For a heartbeat, he felt relief, a fleeting thought that the horror hadn¡¯t yet revealed itself. But his gut twisted, and his Sixth Sense buzzed faintly, warning him that the absence itself was the trap.
¡°What the hell?¡± the pink-haired girl breathed, her voice trembling as she took an instinctive step back. The jagged weapon in her hand dipped slightly, her grip loosening as though the emptiness on the table had stolen the fight from her.
Above, the mannequins shifted again. This time, Vincent heard it, a faint, grating scrape, like chairs being dragged across tile or fabric brushing against itself in eerie synchronicity. The sound crawled under his skin, sending a shiver rippling down his spine. He looked up sharply, his breath hitching as he caught the faintest hint of movement from the corner of his eye.
They were leaning forward now, their faceless heads tilted at sharper angles, their attention narrowing like predators honing in on prey. Vincent¡¯s chest tightened, his grip on the crowbar turning rigid.
They were leaning forward now, every single one of them. Their featureless heads loomed over the edge of the observation windows, their faceless gazes fixed on the empty table below. It wasn¡¯t just watching anymore. It was anticipation, hunger, malice.
The doctor moved.
The stitched man twitched, his head snapping to the side with a suddenness that made Vincent flinch. The sound of taut threads straining against flesh filled the air, faint but sickening, as though the movements were tearing him apart from the inside. Vincent¡¯s breath hitched, his body locking in place as the thing¡¯s focus seemed to shift, heavy, deliberate, and inescapable. The air felt colder, his skin prickling as if the room itself recoiled from whatever life animated the patchwork figure.
¡°Backpack,¡± the pink-haired girl whispered, her voice barely audible. ¡°What do we do?¡±
Vincent didn¡¯t answer. His mind raced, piecing together the fragments of this puzzle. The table. The mannequins. The doctor. They were all connected, tied together in some way he didn¡¯t yet understand. But one thing was clear, whatever game they were playing, it had just begun.