Bring the dread closer, stretch the silence longer, and let the weight of what Ansel went through in Episode 1 sink into his bones. Mira doesn't show up just yet… But the building starts to show him what it wants.
Ansel didn't leave the corner all night.
The flashlight's beam dulled to a sick yellow as dawn struggled to find the building. Sunlight came late here, if at all. The windows didn't face anything—just another wall. Another room. Another secret.
He'd kept every light on. The bathroom. The hallway. Even the oven lights.
And still, the dark pressed in like rising water.
He hadn't dreamed. Not really. Just flashes. Something crawling across the ceiling. His mother's voice in the walls again. The old man was whispering through the vents. When he blinked, he saw shapes behind his eyelids. Long fingers. Wide mouths. Too many eyes.
He hadn't moved in hours. His legs had gone numb. He tensed his neck. He didn't care.
What mattered was that he was still awake.
Still breathing.
Still outside whatever was waiting to devour him the moment he slept.
But dawn never came.
His phone—stone dead—still flashed "3:33 AM." He'd watched it for what felt like hours. Minutes passed. Nothing changed.
He finally stood, knees cracking like twigs. His apartment seemed smaller now. The walls closer. The corners deeper. He flicked off one light. Then another.
Testing it.
The silence didn't change.
The shadows didn't move.
He turned off the last light—and the second he did, a faint whisper tickled his ear.
He spun—no one.
But something was… wrong.
The air. It was thicker. Like standing underwater. The kind of thick that made your lungs burn and your thoughts turn sluggish.
Then the smell hit him.
Rot. Not garbage. Not sewage. Meat. Something alive once, now curdling.
He stumbled to the kitchen and yanked open the fridge.
Empty.
He didn't remember it being plugged in—but now it was humming. Inside, a single object sat on the middle shelf.
A black box.
He reached for it—then stopped.
It wasn't there before.
It hadn't been.
And yet—there it sat. Wrapped in tattered black cloth. No latch. No writing. Just… waiting.
His fingers hovered over it.
Then something cold brushed his ankle.
He looked down.
Nothing.
But the shadow cast by the counter didn't look like his.
It looked like something kneeling.
He stepped back fast, flashlight raised. The shadow didn't follow. It just faded slowly, like it had never been real.
The box in the fridge began to twitch.
Not violently. Just enough to make the cloth shift, like something inside was breathing.
He slammed the fridge shut.
That's when he heard the door unlock.
Click.
His heart hammered.
He hadn't touched it.
He backed toward the hallway, footsteps slow, careful. The door didn't open. It just stood there, ajar, like a smile held too long.
He reached for the flashlight switch. But this time, the beam didn't come.
Dead.
He clicked it again. And again.
Dead.
The apartment was now completely dark.
Then a light came on.
Not the hallway.
Not the ceiling.
The TV.
He hadn't plugged it in.
He hadn't touched it.
But the screen buzzed to life—static and snow—and from the noise came voices.
"…run…"
"…don't speak…"
"…they
hear through the walls…"
Ansel's breath caught.
The static pulsed.
Then a face appeared.
Not clearly. Just a distortion—a mouth stretched too wide. Lips barely moving.
But it was saying his name.
"Ansel… let us in…"
He screamed and yanked the power cord from the wall. Sparks danced across the floor.
Silence returned.
Only his breath.
And something dripping in the hallway.
He turned slowly.
A wet trail—thick, black—led from the door down the hall toward the bedroom. Every few steps, it dripped. Like something dragging itself on elbows. Or bleeding from the hands.
Ansel followed it, flashlight still dead in his grip.
The bedroom door was open. The bed untouched.
But on the wall above it—
New writing.
In blood.
YOU DREAMED OF THIS PLACE.
NOW IT DREAMS OF YOU.
He stumbled back. Tripped. Fell to the floor.
And in that moment—
He felt it.
Not a presence.
A pressure.
Like something massive was now above the building. Sitting on it. Sinking through the ceilings.
He ran for the door.
But it was closed again.
Locked.
The knob twisted, hot to the touch.
He tried the deadbolt—it spun endlessly.
Something scraped behind him.
He turned.
The hallway had changed again.
It was longer now.
Doors lined either side—more than the building should have. Each one closed. No handles. Just warped wood and thick cracks where something black oozed through.
He stepped forward.
The walls shivered.
One door creaked open slowly.
Inside… only darkness.
But he could hear something breathing.
Then the voice came again.
Not his mother.
Not the old man.
Not even the TV.
This voice was deeper. Ancient. Wet with hunger.
"You brought light where it should not be. Now you will know the shape of silence."
The walls groaned.
The hallway collapsed inward, swallowing the doors one by one.
He turned and sprinted—
Only to find himself back in the bedroom.
The trail gone.
The writing gone.
His flashlight—working again.
He sat down.
And wept.
Because no matter where he turned…
…the layout never stayed the same.