Shit

He finished the last loop with the tip of his finger, still warm, still wet. It glistened on the wall like a birthmark. The stink was unbearable. A sharp stink that stuck behind the teeth and bloomed in the lungs like mildew in a tomb.

He stepped back, barefoot in the mess, and stared at what he’d written. Not just letters. Something older. Something he shouldn’t have known but did anyway, like the lyrics to a hymn from a church he’d never seen.

His fingers twitched.

His head jerked.

Thunk.

A memory punched through.

A trapdoor.

A woman’s voice. “My babies—”

Rope snapping tight. Her legs jerked once.

The creak of old wood as she swung beneath him.

He gasped. Wiped his face. Smeared more of it up into his hair.

He was trembling now.

Not from cold, from something deeper.

The room’s shadows began to crawl.

They stretched from the corners like they’d been waiting patiently. Like his madness was the dinner bell and they were hungry things with linen napkins tucked under their throats. One slithered across the bed frame. Another flickered like a broken vein along the wall. They didn’t move fast. They didn’t need to.

He wasn’t running.

The voices started next. Not talking, not even whispering, really. More like breathing thoughts directly into his skull. A loop of sounds that might have been words. Might have been his name. Might have been hers. Might have been something worse.

Thunk.

Again.

The drop.

The noose going taut.

Her final, pitiful “please—” was still caught behind his ribs like a swallowed nail.

He pressed his palms to his ears, but he could still hear her.

Worse, he could feel the rope burn on his own neck.

A shadow glided over the door’s lock.

Click.

The red LED winked out.

Dead.

The door swung open with a sigh.

He didn’t question it. He just stepped forward. Shadows trailed ahead of him like wet footprints. They were feeding off him now. You could feel it. The way moths were drawn to heat. The way addicts twitched around a lighter.

He was radiating madness like caviar. Like incense. Like sin.

He walked the corridor barefoot, each step leaving smears. The security camera at the end of the hall flickered. A shadow passed over it. The red eye went black.

Thunk.

He flinched again. But there was no platform here. No rope. No lever. Just echoes. Just rot.

The walls pulsed slightly, like they were breathing in his fear, holding it in their lungs.

He passed doors. Closed. Locked.

The shadows slithered along the ceiling now. Delighted. Too smooth, too fluid to be of this world.

He reached the door. Closed, but not locked. The Plant Room. Peeling paint. A yellow triangle faded to piss-grey.

He pushed.

It didn’t swing, didn’t creak. It just breathed open.

Inside, pipes. Valves. Mould. The air was wet with rot and rust. Shadows spilled down the stairwell ahead of him.

Cast iron steps led into the dark.

He didn’t hesitate.

One hand on the rail. One dragging along the wall. His fingertips trailed rust and something that might have been blood or memory.

Thunk. Swing. Creak. “Please—”

The flashbacks rippled through him. He shuddered. Exhaled. Smiled. The shadows were still leading, still hungry.

And down he went.