Shit

He finishes the last loop with the tip of his finger . . . still warm, still wet. It glistens on the wall like a birthmark. The stink is unbearable. A sharp stink that sticks behind the teeth and blooms in the lungs like mildew in a tomb.

He steps back, barefoot in the mess, and stares at what he’s written. Not just letters. Something older. Something he shouldn’t know but does anyway, like the lyrics to a hymn from a church he’s never seen.

His fingers twitch.

His head jerks.

. . . Thunk . . .

A memory punches through.

A trapdoor.

A woman’s voice: “my babies…”

Rope snapping tight. Her legs jerking once.

The creak of old wood as she swung beneath him.

He gasps. Wipes his face. Smears more of it up into his hair. He’s trembling now. Not from cold. From something deeper.

The room’s shadows begin to crawl.

They stretch from the corners like they’ve been waiting patiently. Like his madness is the dinner bell and they’re hungry things with linen napkins tucked under their throats. One slithers across the bed frame. Another flickers like a broken vein along the wall. They don’t move fast. They don’t need to.

He’s not running.

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

. . . Thunk . . .

Again.

The drop.

The noose going taut.

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

He presses his palms to his ears, but he can still hear her.

Worse . . . he can feel the rope burn on his own neck.

A shadow glides over the door’s lock.

. . . Click . . .

The red LED winks out.

Dead.

The door swings open with a sigh.

He doesn’t question it. Just steps forward. Shadows trail ahead of him like wet footprints. They’re feeding off him now. You can feel it. The way moths are drawn to heat. The way addicts twitch around a lighter.

He’s radiating madness like caviar. Like incense. Like sin.

He walks the corridor barefoot, each step leaving smears. The security camera at the end of the hall flickers. A shadow passes over it. The red eye goes black.

. . . Thunk . . .

He flinches again. But there’s no platform here. No rope. No lever. Just echoes. Just rot.

The walls pulse slightly . . . like they’re breathing in his fear, holding it in their lungs.

He passes doors. Closed. Locked.

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

He reaches the door. Closed. But, not locked. The Plant Room. Peeling paint. Yellow triangle faded to piss-grey. It hisses open when he touches it. Doesn’t swing. Doesn’t creak. Just breathes.

Inside . . . pipes. Valves. Mould. The air is wet with rot and rust. Shadows spill down the stairwell ahead of him.

Cast iron steps lead into the dark.

He doesn’t hesitate.

One hand on the rail. One dragging along the wall. His fingertips trail rust and something that might be blood or memory.

. . . Thunk . . . Swing . . . Creak . . . “Please!..”

The flashbacks ripple through him. He shudders. Exhales. Smiles. The shadows are still leading, still hungry.

And down he goes.