Ansel didn't remember falling asleep.
But he woke up standing.
In the hallway.
Again.
No door behind him. Just the same stretch of flickering lights overhead, the buzz and pop of electricity that never quite worked. The walls pulsed like lungs, and the floor beneath his feet… was warm.
He turned, slowly. No end in sight. Just door after door after door—each identical. Each waiting.
No numbers.
No names.
No way out.
He reached for his flashlight, and his stomach dropped. It wasn't in his hand.
It wasn't anywhere.
His fists clenched. Nails dug into his palm. Breathe, Ansel. Breathe. You're awake. This is real. This is real. This is—
The lights flickered.
One of the doors halfway down the hall opened on its own. Just a crack. Just enough to let a smell crawl out.
Burnt hair. Wet fabric. Old teeth.
Something moved behind the door. Not walking. Slithering.
He backed away—only to hear the same creak behind him.
Another door.
Opening.
Then another. And another.
They weren't random anymore.
They were responding to him.
Opening as he moved. Calling softly. Beckoning. Like the hallway had figured out his scent.
He turned in a slow, shaking circle.
Every door was now slightly ajar.
He heard whispering.
But it wasn't coming from inside the rooms—it came from the walls themselves.
And it was his voice.
Repeating the same sentence over and over.
"I didn't mean to leave. I didn't mean to leave. I didn't mean to—"
He ran.
Not fast. Not graceful. Panic made him clumsy, slamming into doors, slipping on the slick floor. Behind him, the whispering turned to screaming. All of it—his own voice—bouncing off the walls in endless loops.
"I DIDN'T MEAN TO—"
He stopped. Chest heaving. Heart clawing at his ribs. He reached for the nearest door—grabbed the handle—
And it burned him.
He yanked his hand back, skin blistering instantly.
The door swung open on its own.
Inside was him.
But not now-Ansel.
This Ansel was twelve years old. Standing alone in the dark, fists balled up, tears streaking his cheeks.
It was his childhood bedroom.
The moment his mother left and never came back.
"No," Ansel whispered. "No no no no no—"
The child-Ansel turned.
His eyes were hollow. His mouth too wide.
"I waited for you," he said.
Ansel stumbled backward as the figure lunged—but the door slammed shut between them.
He collapsed to the floor.
The hallway stretched again.
Now the lights weren't just flickering—they were going out. One by one. Starting at the far end. Creeping closer.
Darkness was coming.
Something in the black. Heavy. Crawling on the ceiling. Its nails dragging across the drywall, leaving long, bloody trails.
Ansel scrambled forward, crawling now.
A door at the end of the hall blinked with red light from under its base.
Emergency exit?
Trap.
Didn't matter.
He had nowhere else to go.
The lights were almost to him.
Ten feet.
Five.
He reached the door and pushed it open—
The hallway again.
The same hallway.
But now it was upside-down.
He fell into it.
Dropped like a stone, landing hard on the ceiling—or maybe it was the floor. Nothing made sense here.
Gravity didn't work right. The walls pulsed louder now, like veins about to burst.
The lights here didn't flicker—they breathed. With him. Against him.
And now, the doors were whispering to each other.
Low, urgent murmurs. Like gossip. Like prayer.
He stood up. Legs shaking.
The hallway sloped downward now, like it wanted to guide him.
Or trap him further.
He followed. Not by choice.
Somewhere behind him, something clicked.
A lock. Turning.
No way back now.
The hallway began to fill with mist. Cold, damp. It crawled along the floor, rose to his knees, then chest. He couldn't see his hands anymore.
The walls began to hum.
And then… a new sound.
Weeping.
A woman.
Not screaming. Not whispering.
Just weeping.
Soft. Broken. Close.
He moved toward it, breath clouding in the freezing air.
A door appeared in the mist. This one was different.
It had a handle made of bone.
He didn't want to touch it.
He did anyway.
Inside, a small room. White walls. A single chair. And in it—a woman. Long dark hair covering her face. Hands bloody, nails cracked, dress torn.
She rocked back and forth, sobbing into her hands.
Ansel stepped closer.
And stopped.
There were pictures on the walls.
All of him.
Sleeping.
Eating.
Staring into the mirror.
Some of the pictures were taken just yesterday.
Some…
He didn't remember ever posing for.
The woman stopped crying.
Slowly, she looked up.
Her eyes were hollow sockets.
And her mouth—
Too wide.
Too full of teeth.
"You were supposed to stay in the dark," she hissed.
Then lunged.
He screamed and slammed the door shut.
Outside, the hallway was now pitch black.
Every door open.
And inside each one, dozens of hands reached out—long, thin, blackened—grasping.
He ran.
This time he didn't care where. He just ran.
Until he slammed into a door that hadn't been there before.
A brass number gleamed on it.
4B.
Not his apartment.
Someone else's.
He didn't think.
He just turned the knob—and stepped inside.
The door closed behind him.
And for the first time in hours…
There was silence.
Let's peel back the door to 4B—a room that doesn't belong to Ansel, yet feels like it's been waiting for him all along. This is where things grow colder, quieter… but far more unnerving. The hallway has spat him out here for a reason. Let's find out why.