The door clicked shut behind Ansel with the finality of a vault.
He didn't turn around.
Couldn't.
Because the room ahead of him wasn't just dark.
It was still.
The air was stale. Not the rot he'd come to expect, not blood or mold or that crawling smell of something wrong—but dust. Years of it. Like nothing had moved in here for decades.
And yet—
The carpet bore fresh footprints.
Not his.
Small. Bare. Leading into the gloom.
He stood on the threshold, afraid to breathe too loudly.
4B wasn't like the hallway. There was no hum, no whisper, no pulse. But something about the silence felt worse—like walking into a room right after a scream had finished.
His feet sank slightly into the carpet. A green shag, worn to the threads in some places, stiff with dried stains in others. The wallpaper peeled in long, curling strips, revealing water-stained plaster beneath. The ceiling fan didn't spin. A thick cord of dust clung to each blade like spiderwebs in mourning.
And at the center of the room:
A chair.
Not facing him.
Turned toward the far corner, where a single floor lamp stood unplugged. Its bulb flickered faintly, even though no wire touched the outlet.
Something sat in the chair.
Not moving.
Ansel tried to speak—his throat locked up. His tongue felt too thick.
He took a step forward, and the door behind him disappeared.
Gone. Just flat, empty wall.
The footprints ahead—they changed. No longer human. They had toes. But not five. Three. Long. Clawed. And wet.
He swallowed hard and stepped deeper into the room.
The thing in the chair didn't move.
But the walls did.
Ever so slightly, they breathed. Not a stretch—not a pulse like the hallway. But inhaled. The wallpaper fluttered as though something just beneath it exhaled slowly, watching him.
He stepped closer to the chair.
It was rocking gently now.
But the air was still.
And the figure—whatever it was—had no shadow.
He circled to the side.
Slow.
Deliberate.
One foot, then the other.
The chair creaked.
Now he could see more of it.
Thin.
Long.
Not old. Not young. Bald, maybe. Its skin was papery and gray, like it had been wrapped in gauze and never unwrapped. The thing sat hunched forward, face just out of view, hands—if they were hands—folded in its lap.
Then it spoke.
Not with lips.
Not with sound.
Inside his head.
"You saw the hallway."
Ansel froze.
The voice wasn't loud. It was dry. Fragile. Like a moth's wings brushing bone.
"You followed the wrong footprints."
"I didn't mean—" Ansel whispered, but his own voice felt borrowed.
The thing turned its head a little.
Not to face him. Just to listen better.
Its neck creaked like old wood.
"They don't like you."
"Who?"
"The ones in the walls. The ones you woke up when you screamed."
"I didn't mean to—"
"They don't care what you mean. They remember you now."
He stepped back. His foot landed on something soft. A photograph.
He bent and picked it up.
It was of him.
Sleeping.
Again.
Only this time… there was someone else in the frame.
Standing just behind him.
A tall shape, featureless, grainy—but there.
Another photo sat beside it.
Him, again. Crying. Much younger. Six, maybe seven.
Behind him, the same shape.
Just a little closer.
Ansel dropped the pictures.
The chair began to rock harder.
The thing in it leaned back slightly—and now Ansel could see one eye.
It wasn't human.
Just a black marble. No iris. No white.
Just depth.
"They don't let you leave," the voice said. "Unless you bring something back with you."
"Something?" Ansel rasped. "Like what?"
The rocking stopped.
A pause.
Then: "Someone."
The lamp flickered once—then died completely.
And in that moment of darkness, Ansel felt the thing rise from the chair.
Felt it move.
Not walk.
Drift.
The temperature dropped ten degrees. His breath clouded.
He stumbled backward, reaching blindly—and his hand struck a doorknob.
The door was back.
And it was open.
Beyond it—the hallway.
Still warped.
Still whispering.
But waiting.
He turned back to the chair—
Empty.
The room now looked untouched.
No dust.
No stains.
Just an empty apartment.
Like no one had ever been here.
He stepped back into the hallway.
The door shut behind him.
And stayed.
This time, he didn't run.
He just stood.
Listening.
The hallway felt different now.
Not angry.
Not hungry.
But…
Expectant.
Somewhere deeper in the dark, something was waiting for him.
Not a creature.
Not a ghost.
But a decision.
And for the first time since this nightmare began…
He wasn't sure he'd survive it.
Let's drag Ansel deeper—into a level the hallway doesn't just contain, but one it feeds from. We're no longer in the realm of flickering lights and groaning doors. Now it's the belly of the thing. And it remembers everything.