Lena descended one step at a time, the chill of the metal handrail seeping into her skin. The darkness below wasn't just the absence of light—it was alive, heavy, almost breathing. Each step down felt like a retreat from reason, and the door at the top creaked shut behind her, sealing off the room she was sure she'd never see the same way again.
A single bulb flickered into life overhead as she reached a landing. It buzzed, casting pale light on the faded wallpaper that lined the narrow passage. The pattern—an intricate, looping vine design—seemed to writhe when she wasn't looking directly at it.
She glanced behind her.
No door. Only a blank wall now. The staircase had vanished.
Her breath caught in her throat. "No," she whispered.
Ahead, the hallway stretched endlessly. Portraits lined the walls, faces unfamiliar and haunting. But one stopped her cold.
It was her mother.
Lena stepped closer, heart pounding.
It wasn't a generic resemblance—it was exact. Her mother, younger, frozen in time with the same distant stare Lena had seen the night before her death. That photo had only ever existed in one place—inside a locked album in Lena's apartment.
"How…?" she whispered, reaching out.
The glass was warm to the touch, unnaturally warm. As her fingers brushed it, the eyes in the portrait blinked.
Lena staggered back. The light above her buzzed louder.
And then — the hallway changed.
Where once had been wallpaper was now smooth concrete. Fluorescent lights flickered on, and cold, clinical air filled her lungs. It felt like a hospital. A very old one.
Footsteps echoed down the corridor.
Lena pressed against the wall, heart slamming. A tall figure passed by—dressed in a white coat, dragging something behind them. Not a body, but a gurney. The person on it wasn't moving.
And Lena recognized the face.
Hers.
Eyes closed, skin pale, a bandage over one temple.
The figure in the coat paused, turning slightly.
A man. Early forties. Sharp features. Something terrifyingly familiar in the way he moved, like watching a memory wearing skin.
Then he said it, just loud enough to hear: "She's waking up early. Again."
Lena stepped backward instinctively, knocking into the wall with a gasp.
The lights above shattered in a cascade of sparks. Darkness again.
But when she opened her eyes, she wasn't in the corridor anymore.
She was standing in a room with mirrors on every wall.
Her reflection stared back at her—dozens of her, each one different. In one, she was bloodied. In another, smiling like a stranger. One reflection was missing completely.
Footsteps sounded behind her.
She turned.
No one.
She turned again.
Now all the reflections were gone—except one.
It moved when she didn't.
It tilted its head, studying her. And then it whispered—without lips moving:
"They brought you back again. Why?"
Lena stumbled backward, hitting the real mirror, her breath fogging the glass. "What is this place?" she gasped.
The reflection stepped closer. Her own face twisted into a knowing smile. "You weren't the first Lena Marris to check in."
The mirror cracked—right between the eyes.
Behind her, the door to the room opened with a hiss of pressurized air.
A voice echoed from the hallway beyond.
"You're close to the truth now. But are you ready for it?"
Lena turned toward the door. Every instinct told her not to move. But curiosity, the thing that had always driven her into danger, screamed louder.
She stepped through.
The hallway led into a vast, circular chamber. In its center was a table.
And on it — her recorder.
Still running.
Still recording.
She reached for it, heart thudding.
But before she could touch it, the lights dimmed and a second Lena walked in from the opposite entrance.
Same face. Same clothes. Same bag.
But the look in her eyes was something Lena didn't recognize.
The other Lena smiled faintly.
"I remember this part," she said.
Then everything went black.