"Mark."
The whisper slid into his ears, smooth and intimate like lips brushing against his eardrum. It originated from within him.
Mark tried to move, but his body wouldn’t obey. He lay paralyzed on the bed, his limbs stuck to the damp mattress. His chest felt strange—bloated as if something were writhing beneath his skin. When he opened his mouth to breathe, he felt them.
Tiny, skittering legs.
At first, just a tickle at the back of his throat, but then more—hundreds, thousands. Their bodies pushed against his tongue, wet and wriggling, fighting to escape. A churning mass of cockroaches spilled from his mouth, flooding his face, his chest, and his sheets.
He tried to scream, but they clogged his throat, their legs scraping against his esophagus. The crunch of tiny shells between his teeth sent acid up his gut. They filled his nostrils, scurrying into his sinuses, pressing into his ears—inside him, beneath his skin, behind his eyes.
Mark struggled against their weight, but his body wouldn’t respond.
"Mark."
The whisper again. Right against his ear.
The weight lifted.
Mark shot up in bed, gasping for air, his hands clawing at his face. He smacked at his mouth, his throat, his chest—no cockroaches. Only the damp sheets, soaked in sweat.
He was awake.
He pressed his fingers into his eyes, willing the dream away. The room smelled of mildew and something faintly metallic. His breathing was ragged, his heart hammering against his ribs.
And then he heard it.
A noise outside.
Not wind. Not an animal. Something… else.
Mark swallowed hard and turned toward the window.
At first, all he could see was the pale glow of moonlight against the glass, illuminating the rolling fields of the horse farm beyond. But then his eyes adjusted, and he saw—
The horses.
Every single one of them stood perfectly still.
Their bodies were motionless, their heads turned toward the house. Watching.
Mark’s breath hitched. His gaze locked onto the closest horse—a tall, muscular stallion with a coat as black as wet ink.
Its eyes were wrong.
They weren’t just dark. They were holes. Black voids, empty and soulless, stretching too deep, like tunnels burrowing into something beyond this world.
The horse convulsed. It appeared unnatural as if something was controlling it from within, forcing its movements.
Then—the others moved.
One by one, the horses' heads snapped in unison, their bodies shifting simultaneously, like puppets yanked by invisible strings.
And then—
They charged.
The entire herd rushed toward the house, their hooves pounding against the earth. Mark stumbled out of bed, heart slamming against his ribs.
He barely had time to move before—
CRASH.
The horses slammed into the wooden fence, their bodies smashing against the posts with brutal force. But they didn’t stop.
They thrashed and kicked, slamming their heads into the wood, their black eyes fixed on the house—on Mark.
And then—
Silence.
The horses stopped.
They stood completely still, their bodies pressed against the broken fence, chests rising and falling in slow, unnatural rhythm.
Then, one by one, their heads turned—away from the house.
Away from Mark.
Back toward the farm.
And, just like that, they walked away, their movements slow and deliberate, disappearing into the mist.
Mark stood frozen in place, his breath shallow. He could still feel the echo of their eyes on him, those endless, black voids.
And then, just as he turned away from the window—
The whisper.
"Mark."
Right behind him.
He spun around.
Nothing was there.
But the window—the glass was fogged up.
And something had been written on it, from the outside.
Four words.
“LET ME COME IN.”
Mark didn’t sleep after that.
He sat in bed for hours, staring at the fogged-up message on the window, heart thudding against his ribs. He had tried wiping it away, but the words kept reappearing—LET ME COME IN.
At sunrise, the letters finally faded. But the feeling didn’t.
Something had been out there last night. Watching. Whispering. And it wanted inside.
By the time Mark stumbled downstairs, the house smelled of coffee and burnt toast. Lillian was standing by the kitchen counter, staring blankly out the window at the damaged fence.
“They really did a number on that, huh?” she muttered, taking a sip of coffee.
Mark rubbed his face. His skin felt damp, and his body still rattled from the night. “Yeah,” he mumbled. “I—I don’t know what the hell got into them.”
Lillian finally turned toward him, giving him a once-over. “You look like shit.”
Mark forced a smirk. “Thanks, babe.”
She didn’t return the smile.
Instead, she leaned in, lowering her voice. “I heard you last night.”
Mark stiffened. “Heard me what?”
“Tossing and turning. Mumbling something in your sleep.” She studied his face. “You kept… gagging. Like you were choking on something.”
A cold wave crawled over his skin.
“I had a bad dream,” he admitted. “That’s all.”
Lillian didn’t look convinced.
A sharp knock at the door made them both jump.
Ethan.
He stood on the porch, grinning like he had slept just fine, his blonde hair slightly messy. His wife, Claire, was behind him, arms folded.
“Rise and shine, lovebirds,” Ethan said, stepping inside. “We’re heading to the bar.”
Mark frowned. “It’s barely past breakfast.”
Ethan shrugged. “And?”
Claire rolled her eyes. “He means we need to meet some locals. Get a feel for the place.”
Lillian sighed and grabbed her coat.
Mark hesitated. He wanted to tell them about last night. About the whisper. The window message. The horses. But something in his gut told him not to—not yet.
Instead, he nodded.
"Yeah. Let's go."
The village bar was exactly what Mark expected: dimly lit, smelling of old wood and spilt beer, with a handful of locals already drinking.
Aged faces turned as the four of them entered. The conversations slowed, but no one spoke to them. Just stared.
Mark felt something tighten in his chest.
They took a booth in the back. Ethan ordered whiskey, way too early in the morning, and Claire settled for wine. Mark barely touched his drink.
“Feels a little... weird in here,” Lillian muttered, glancing around.
Ethan chuckled. “Village folk always are. Small-town minds. They probably haven’t seen fresh faces in years.”
A man at the bar twitched. His head jerked slightly as if he’d heard Ethan’s words from across the room.
Mark noticed—but no one else seemed to.
He turned back to their table and caught something else:
Lillian and Ethan were exchanging glances.
Subtle. Almost nothing. But Mark saw it.
A look too familiar. Too comfortable.
Mark gritted his teeth and downed his drink.
The bartender, an older woman with sunken eyes, finally approached. “You folks renting the village house?”
Mark nodded. “Yeah. Got in yesterday.”
She glanced at him. Then at Lillian's. Then at Ethan.
Her fingers tightened around the rag she was holding.
“Best not to stay long,” she muttered.
Mark tensed. “Why?”
She didn’t answer. Just walked away.
Ethan smirked. “Well, that was welcoming.”
Lillian shifted uncomfortably. Claire barely reacted, just kept sipping her wine.
Mark exhaled. His head was spinning. Maybe it was the lack of sleep. Maybe it was the look Ethan had given Lillian.
Or maybe it was the way the man at the bar was still twitching, head jerking unnaturally.
Like the horses last night.
Mark swallowed.
Something wasn’t right.
And whatever it was…
It wasn’t just outside anymore.
Night Comes Again
The bar had been a mistake.
Mark felt it in his gut the moment they left, walking the dirt road back to the house as the sky turned a deep, suffocating gray. The village seemed quieter now like it was holding its breath.
No birds. No wind. Even the horses in the distance stood perfectly still again, their black eyes reflecting the dim light. Watching.
Mark glanced at Lillian. She was walking too close to Ethan. Too comfortable.
Something burned inside him, but he bit it back. He had bigger problems.
Something wasn’t right about this place.
And tonight, he would find out just how wrong it really was.
They got back to the house. No one spoke much. Claire muttered something about a headache and disappeared upstairs. Ethan followed soon after, giving Lillian a quick look before shutting his door.
Mark noticed.
Lillian didn't. Or maybe she pretended not to.
Mark stayed downstairs. His nerves were raw, his mind running in circles. He tried to shake the unease, but it clung to him like damp skin.
Maybe a shower would help.
He peeled off his shirt and stepped into the small, ancient bathroom. The pipes groaned as he turned on the faucet, and steaming water gushed into the old porcelain sink.
He splashed his face. Breathed.
Then—
A skittering noise.
Mark froze.
He looked up at the mirror, expecting to see something behind him. But there was only his own reflection—exhausted, damp, eyes shadowed with lack of sleep.
Then he looked down.
And saw them.
Cockroaches.
Pouring from the sink drain.
Mark staggered back as they crawled over the rim, their slick bodies moving with disgusting urgency. He reached for the faucet, twisting it, trying to drown them—
But more came.
Hundreds. Thousands. A flood of writhing bodies, spilled onto the counter, swarming over the floor.
Mark’s stomach lurched. He recognized this.
The nightmare.
It was happening.
The insects crawled toward him in waves, a dark tide of tiny, clicking legs—
Then, all at once, they stopped.
Every single one.
Frozen in place.
Mark’s breath caught in his throat.
The cockroaches were forming something.
A pattern. A shape.
No.
A word.
A name.
Mark’s father’s name.
WILLIAM.
Mark’s stomach turned to ice.
He stumbled backward, knocking over a chair. His father had been dead for fifteen years. Buried. Forgotten.
So why the hell was his name spelled out in cockroaches on the floor?
Then—
A soft creak behind him.
Mark spun around.
The bathroom door was open.
And in the dim hallway beyond—
A shadow stood.
Watching.
Not moving. Not breathing. Just watching.
Mark couldn’t see its face.
Then—the whisper.
"Mark."
Right behind him.
A breath of icy air against his neck.
Mark whipped around—
Nothing there.
The cockroaches were gone.
Not dead. Not squashed. Just gone.
As if they’d never been there at all.
But Mark knew what he saw.
The name. The whisper. The thing in the hallway.
Something was playing with him.
And it knew about his father.
Mark barely slept.
He lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, listening.
The house felt wrong. Like it was breathing.
At some point, exhaustion took over. But when he woke up, it wasn’t to the morning sun.
It was to a noise.
A wet, clicking noise.
Mark sat up, heart pounding.
The room was dark. Shadows stretched across the walls like twisting fingers.
Then—the sound again.
A choking, gurgling noise.
Mark’s pulse slammed in his ears. It was coming from the hallway.
He swung his legs off the bed, stepping cautiously toward the door. The wood felt cold under his bare feet.
He reached for the doorknob. Turned it.
Slowly, he pushed the door open.
And saw Ethan standing in the hallway.
His back was turned. His head tilted slightly.
Mark’s breath shallowed.
“Ethan?”
No response.
Mark took a step closer.
That’s when he saw it.
Ethan’s mouth was moving. His lips twitched, his jaw opening and closing in small, rapid snaps.
Like he was muttering something.
Or... chewing.
Mark felt a pulse of dread.
Ethan's neck jerked. A spasm, like a puppet with tangled strings.
Then—
His head twisted slightly toward Mark.
Just enough for Mark to see his face.
Ethan’s eyes were gone.
Not empty sockets. Not bleeding wounds.
Just... black.
Deep, soulless voids.
Just like the horses.
Ethan’s mouth opened. His lips curled, revealing too many teeth.
And then—he whispered.
"Let me come in."
Mark slammed the door shut.
And outside, in the dark hallway—
Ethan laughed.
The next morning, Ethan was… normal.
No black voids for eyes. No twitching or muttering. Just his usual cocky self, flipping bacon in a pan, acting like nothing had happened.
Mark sat at the kitchen table, gripping his coffee mug too tight. His mind was a storm—flashes of Ethan’s twisted, unnatural face from last night, the way he had whispered those words.
"Let me come in."
But now? Ethan was just… Ethan.
Mark swallowed. “You, uh… feeling alright?”
Ethan grinned. “Never better.”
Something cold slithered through Mark’s gut.
Did he not remember?
Lillian and Claire joined them at the table. Lillian yawned, stretching. “God, I slept like a rock.”
Mark blinked at her. “You didn’t hear anything? Last night?”
She frowned. “No? Why?”
Mark glanced at Ethan, waiting. Expecting something.
But Ethan just smirked, taking a bite of toast. “Nightmares again, Mark?”
A chill ran down Mark’s spine.
Later that afternoon, Claire left for a walk, and Ethan dragged Lillian outside to check on the horses.
Mark stayed inside.
He couldn’t shake the feeling of wrongness in his own skin. He paced the house, trying to clear his head, but the more he walked, the more he felt it.
Something was watching him.
He turned suddenly, expecting to catch a shadow, a figure—anything.
But the kitchen was empty.
Then—
A loud crash.
Mark jumped, spinning toward the sink.
The glasses in the dish rack had shattered.
Not just one. All of them.
A dozen drinking glasses, split into perfect, jagged shards as if something had exploded them from the inside.
Mark took a slow, careful step forward. His breath came shallow, his skin prickling with unease.
The pieces were scattered deliberately—almost like a pattern.
He crouched down, heart pounding.
That’s when he saw it.
The shards had arranged themselves into letters.
A message.
“I SEE YOU.”
Mark’s stomach lurched.
Then—
His phone buzzed.
A single notification lit up Mark’s screen.
Unknown Number: 1 New Message.
Mark’s pulse thundered as he tapped it open.
The message was short. Too short.
"LET ME COME IN."
Mark’s chest seized.
It was the same sentence. The same whispered words from last night.
But the number?
It was his father’s old phone number.
The one that had been disconnected fifteen years ago.
Mark felt a wave of nausea crawls up his throat.
He gripped the phone tighter, his fingers trembling. He could still hear Ethan’s voice from last night, whispering in the dark.
"Let me come in."
Mark’s vision blurred for a second, a buzzing in his skull, like something was trying to get inside.
Then—
His phone rang.
Same number. Calling him.
Mark froze.
The ringing echoed through the house, bouncing off the walls.
His thumb hovered over the screen.
Then—the call ended.
A voicemail notification popped up.
Mark stared at it.
And then—slowly—he hit play.
At first, nothing. Just static.
Then—a wet, gurgling sound.
Like someone was choking.
Then—his father’s voice.
“Mark.”
Mark dropped the phone.
The audio kept playing.
“LET ME COME IN.”
Then—a sharp, piercing scream.
The phone screen glitched, flickering violently.
Then, all at once—the audio cut off.
Silence.
Mark’s chest rose and fell in ragged breaths.
Something was playing with him.
And it knew exactly how to get inside his head.
That night, the tension between the four of them finally snapped.
Ethan and Lillian had been too close all day. Their touches lingered too long, their glances too obvious.
Mark saw it. Claire saw it.
And neither of them stopped it.
Maybe it was the pressure of the village. Maybe it was the darkness creeping into their minds. Or maybe, just maybe, it was always bound to happen.
Mark didn’t fight it. Neither did Claire.
The storm outside raged as they made their decision.
No one spoke about it. No one needed to.
They all knew what was coming.
But none of them knew that something else was watching.
Waiting.
Ready to come in.
The Storm Outside, The Fire Inside
The decision wasn’t made. It didn’t need to be.
The air was thick with tension, something unspoken boiling between them for weeks—maybe longer.
The storm outside raged against the house, rain hammering against the windows, but inside, it was hot, suffocating, the air charged with something electric.
Mark sat on the couch, whiskey burning down his throat, his fingers gripping the glass too tight. Across from him, Ethan stood close to Lillian, his hand grazing her lower back—subtle, slow, testing the boundaries.
Mark should have cared.
But he didn’t.
Not when Claire moved closer to him, her bare leg pressing against his.
Not when she looked at him with those knowing eyes, her lips parted slightly, like she was daring him.
And he took the dare.
Lillian felt Ethan’s breath against her neck before she felt his hands.
She shuddered, her skin already alive beneath his touch.
She shouldn’t want this.
But she did.
His fingers slid beneath her shirt, tracing up her spine, and she leaned into him, her body instinctively arching.
“You sure?” Ethan murmured, his voice low, thick with something dangerous.
Lillian exhaled a shaky breath. “I am if you are.”
That was all it took.
Ethan turned her fast, pressing her against the wooden pillar near the fireplace, his hands roaming greedily over her body. His mouth found hers, rough and claiming, and she moaned into him, her fingers already fumbling with the buttons of his shirt.
Clothes fell in a slow, teasing dance—her top first, then his. His mouth found her throat, his teeth grazing the delicate skin there, and she gasped, pressing her body against his, feeling his heat, his hardness.
Ethan’s hands slid between her thighs, teasing, making her ache for more.
She pulled him toward the couch, their bodies crashing together.
And when he pushed into her, she didn’t hold back the sound that escaped her lips.
Claire’s lips were on Mark before he could think.
Before he could hesitate.
She tasted like wine, her tongue teasing against his, slow at first—testing—but then he grabbed the back of her neck, deepening the kiss, pulling her into his lap.
She gasped against his mouth, and he swallowed it, his hands already exploring her curves.
“You’ve been waiting for this,” Claire whispered, her breath hot against his ear.
Mark didn’t answer. He just bit her bottom lip, hard, making her whimper.
His hands moved lower, yanking at her shorts, and she let him take control.
She wanted it rough.
Wanted him to forget about Lillian.
She rolled her hips, grinding against him, feeling how ready he was.
And when she finally took him in, her nails raked down his back as she moaned his name.
Mark lost himself in her.
The room blurred. The storm outside vanished.
For a moment, there was nothing else—just skin, heat, movement.
Nothing else.
Until—
The lights flickered.
Claire didn’t notice.
But Mark did.
A flicker. A shadow. Something in the corner of the room.
Watching.
Then—the whisper.
"Let me come in."
Mark froze.
His breath stalled in his throat. His body tensed beneath Claire’s.
The heat in the room died instantly.
Something was there.
Something had been there the whole time.
Watching them.
Waiting.
Mark turned his head slowly toward the corner of the room—
And saw a figure standing there.
Claire noticed his change in expression. “What’s wrong?” she whispered against his lips.
Mark’s eyes never left the corner.
Because the figure—
It was him.
An exact copy of himself, standing in the shadows.
Watching.
Smiling.
And bleeding from the eyes.
Mark’s breath shattered.
And then—the lights cut out completely.
A high-pitched screech tore through the room.
And the storm outside finally crashed through the windows.
The moment the lights died, the house was swallowed in pure blackness.
The wind howled through the broken windows, sending rain slashing into the room. Mark stumbled back, yanking Claire with him as shards of glass sprayed the floor.
Somewhere in the dark, Ethan cursed.
“What the fuck was that?!” Lillian’s voice, was sharp, breathless.
Mark barely heard her. His gaze was still locked on the corner of the room where—just seconds ago—he had seen himself.
But now?
Nothing.
Only shadows.
Only the echo of that whispered voice, still crawling in his skull.
"Let me come in."
Claire’s hand trembled against his chest. “Mark,” she breathed, “something’s outside.”
A thudding noise.
Slow. Rhythmic.
Like heavy footsteps moving through wet earth.
Mark turned toward the broken window—
And his stomach dropped.
The horses were back.
Dozens of them, standing just beyond the fence, their bodies rigid, their black eyes locked onto the house.
Rain pounded against their slick coats, their breath fogging in the cold air. But they didn’t move.
Not at first.
Then—they did.
All at once.
Charging.
Hooves thundered against the earth, the entire herd rushing toward the house with impossible speed.
Mark barely had time to react—
CRASH.
The first horse hit the porch railing, splintering it to pieces.
Another slammed into the side of the house, its massive body rocking the walls.
The sound was deafening—hooves smashing against wood, glass shattering, frantic whinnies tearing through the air.
“Get upstairs!” Mark shouted, grabbing Claire’s wrist.
Ethan was already pulling Lillian toward the staircase, but—
Too late.
The front door exploded inward.
A stallion, black as the void, tore through the entrance, its soulless eyes locked on them.
It wasn’t natural.
Its body twitched, jerking forward in stiff, unnatural movements, like something was controlling it from inside.
And then—
It screamed.
Not a whinny. Not a neigh.
A scream.
A long, distorted human scream, poured from the horse’s throat.
Mark shoved Claire away, barely dodging as the stallion reared up, hooves slashing the air.
Ethan grabbed the fireplace poker, swinging wildly. It connected, slamming into the horse’s side—
But it didn’t react.
It didn’t feel pain.
It just turned its head slowly, those empty eyes now fixed on Ethan.
And then—
It lunged at him.
Ethan didn’t have time to move.
The horse’s massive jaws unhinged, opening too wide—and then it clamped down on Ethan’s shoulder.
A sickening crunch.
Ethan screamed, collapsing to the floor as blood sprayed across the wooden planks.
“Ethan!” Lillian shrieked, scrambling toward him—
But Mark grabbed her, pulling her back.
“Upstairs! Now!”
Lillian fought against him, tears streaming down her face, but Mark yanked her hand and dragged her up the staircase.
Claire was already ahead of them, panting, shaking—too scared to scream.
Below, Ethan lay motionless, his body twitching, his breath ragged.
The horse stood over him. Watching.
Then—it looked up.
Right at Mark.
And it grinned.
The fucking thing grinned.
Mark’s blood turned to ice.
Then—
The stairs collapsed beneath them.
Mark hit the ground hard, the impact knocking the air from his lungs.
Lillian crashed beside him, groaning in pain.
Dust and splintered wood filled the air, and Mark coughed, struggling to sit up.
The house was old. Rotten.
And when the stairs gave out, they hadn’t just fallen into the basement.
They had fallen into something else.
A hidden space.
The air was thick—musty, damp, suffocating.
And when Mark looked around, he realized where they were.
An underground tunnel.
The walls were made of stone, slick with moisture. Wooden support beams ran along the ceiling, cracked and splintered with age.
This place had been sealed off. Hidden beneath the house for decades—maybe longer.
A faint drip, drip, drip echoed through the tunnel.
Water?
No.
Not water.
Mark reached out, his fingers brushing against the damp stone floor—
And came back red.
Blood.
A deep, endless pool of it, seeping from somewhere deeper in the tunnel.
Lillian shuddered beside him.
And then—they heard it.
A noise.
A wet, shuffling noise.
Coming from the darkness ahead.
Something was down here.
Waiting for them.
And it wasn’t alone.
The air in the underground tunnel was thick and wet, like rotting breath against Mark’s skin.
Lillian was shaking, her fingers clutching his arm in a death grip. The only light came from a sliver of moonlight filtering through the collapsed wooden staircase above them.
But ahead?
Nothing but darkness.
And the sound.
A wet, dragging sound.
Like something crawling.
Mark forced himself to breathe. His hands were slick with blood—not his, not Lillian’s. The stone floor was soaked with it.
The smell of decay curled into his nostrils, thick and wrong.
“W-What the hell is this place?” Lillian whispered.
Mark swallowed hard. “We need to find a way out.”
Something shifted in the dark ahead.
A low, wet exhale.
Lillian sucked in a sharp breath. “Did you hear that?”
Mark didn’t answer.
He was too focused on something else.
Something just a few feet ahead.
A shape, barely visible in the dim light.
A body.
Slumped against the tunnel wall.
Not fresh. Not rotting.
A skeleton.
Mark stepped forward, his pulse hammering against his skull. The bones were old, picked clean, and wrapped in the remains of rotting fabric.
But it wasn’t just the bones that made Mark’s stomach drop.
It was the wristwatch.
A modern, silver wristwatch.
Still strapped to the skeleton’s bony wrist.
And worse?
It was still ticking.
Mark felt his blood run ice cold.
Lillian let out a small, horrified gasp. “How—How is that still working?”
Mark didn’t know.
But before he could process it before he could even think—
The skeleton’s jaw moved.
A slow, creaking snap.
Like it was trying to speak.
Mark and Lillian both stumbled backward, their breath caught in their throats.
The wristwatch ticked louder.
Louder.
Louder.
Then—
The skeleton’s hand twitched.
Lillian screamed.
Mark grabbed her, yanking her away, his mind screaming to run—
But before they could move—
The bones collapsed into dust.
The wristwatch hit the stone floor.
Still ticking.
Still counting down to something.
Then—
A whisper.
"Mark."
Not from behind them.
Not from the tunnel.
From inside his own head.
Mark’s vision blurred.
Something was here.
Something inside him.
And it was getting stronger.
Mark pressed a hand to his temple, breathing through the sudden dizziness.
Lillian was panicking, backing away from the pile of dust that used to be a man.
“What the fuck is happening?!” she gasped.
Mark staggered, trying to focus. His gaze flicked up to the tunnel wall.
And his breath caught.
Because carved into the stone, just above where the skeleton had been sitting, was a message.
Deep, jagged letters, scratched into the rock with fingernails or something worse.
A warning.
"IT'S UNDER THE FARM."
Mark felt his pulse slam against his ribs.
He turned to Lillian, his mouth dry. “We need to get the fuck out of here.”
Lillian nodded frantically. “Yeah. Yeah. Okay.”
They turned—
And froze.
The tunnel behind them wasn’t empty anymore.
Something stood there.
A tall, twisted figure, its body shrouded in darkness, its eyes hollow voids.
And then—
It charged.
It rushed at them.
Fast. Too fast.
A tall, twisted figure, its black void eyes locked on Mark, its body jerking unnaturally with every movement.
Lillian screamed.
Mark yanked her hard, dragging her into a full sprint down the tunnel. Their footsteps slammed against the wet stone, the tunnel walls narrowing as they ran, shadows stretching like clawing fingers.
Behind them, the thing gave chase.
A wet, scraping noise filled the space, like something crawling on all fours, too fast, too wrong.
The whispers returned.
"Mark. Mark. Mark."
A voice that was his father’s.
A voice that was inside his own skull.
Mark pushed harder, his breath ragged, lungs burning. Up ahead, a ladder.
A way out.
He shoved Lillian toward it. “Climb!”
She scrambled up the rungs, hands shaking, breath coming in sharp gasps.
Mark turned—just in time to see the thing lunge.
It was inches away.
And its face—
No.
Not its.
His.
It was Mark’s own face, staring back at him, grinning too wide, eyes bleeding black.
Mark jerked back, scrambling up the ladder.
The thing slammed into the bottom rungs, its fingers stretching—**too long, too many joints—**trying to grab his ankle.
Then—the smell of smoke.
Heat.
A roaring fire.
Mark’s vision blurred, his body suddenly somewhere else.
A house burning.
A boy screaming.
Then—
Darkness.
Mark blinked.
And he was back in the tunnel.
Back on the ladder.
The thing was gone.
But the whispers?
They were still there.
They climbed out into a barn.
Dusty. Old. Filled with the suffocating stench of decay.
Mark and Lillian collapsed against the wooden walls, gasping for air.
Lillian wiped at her face, her hands smeared with dirt and something darker. “W-What the fuck was that?”
Mark couldn’t answer. His heart still hammered. His mind was fractured.
Something was wrong with this place.
And it was getting inside him.
A creak.
Mark snapped his head up.
Across the barn, two bodies hung from the rafters.
Suspended. Swinging slightly.
His stomach twisted.
The smell of rot thickened.
Mark pulled himself to his feet, moving closer, dreading what he already knew.
The bodies—
Ethan and Claire.
Dead.
Their throats were slashed open. Their eyes were hollow.
Lillian choked back a scream, her hands covering her mouth.
Mark felt the world tilt around him.
They had been alive less than an hour ago.
So how the fuck were they dead now?
His breath hitched—
Then—
The barn door creaked open.
Mark spun—ready to fight, ready to run.
But what he saw—
His blood turned to ice.
Because standing there, in the doorway, alive, breathing, perfectly fine—
Were Ethan and Claire.
Looking at him like nothing had happened.
Mark felt his mind splitting apart.
Ethan and Claire stood in the barn doorway, alive, whole, blinking at him like he was the crazy one.
But behind him—
Hanging from the rafters—
Their bodies still swung.
Blood dripped onto the dirt floor.
Mark’s breath hitched. This isn’t real. This isn’t real.
Lillian shook violently beside him, her face pale, eyes darting from the dead bodies to the living ones.
“What the fuck is happening?” she whispered.
Claire stepped forward, frowning. “What’s wrong with you two?”
Mark opened his mouth. Nothing came out.
His hands trembled at his sides. The smell of rot choked him. His brain couldn’t—**wouldn’t—**accept what he was seeing.
Lillian snapped.
She grabbed Mark’s arm, dragging him away from the bodies, away from the nightmare. “We need to get the fuck out of here.”
She was right.
Mark took one last look at the impossible scene—the two corpses swaying in the dim barn light, the same two people standing there, watching them—
And then he ran.
The village bar was full.
Mark and Lillian burst inside, their bodies shaking, their lungs burning.
Eyes turned toward them.
The locals.
The same silence, watching people from before. But something was… different now.
Their faces were too still.
Their eyes are too dark.
Mark’s pulse pounded.
Something was wrong with them.
Something was wrong with everything.
The bartender, the old woman with the sunken eyes, stepped forward, wiping her hands on a rag that was already red-stained.
“You saw it, didn’t you?” she murmured.
Mark felt the words in his bones.
Saw what?
The thing in the tunnels? The bodies? The impossible truth?
Lillian grabbed his wrist. “We need to go. Now.”
But the bartender blocked their path.
Her lips curled into something, not a smile.
A twist of flesh, unnatural, inhuman.
“You were never supposed to see.”
Then—
The locals moved.
At the same time.
Every single one of them.
Standing from their chairs.
Turning toward Mark and Lillian.
Their joints cracked as they stepped closer.
Their necks twisted too far.
Their smiles stretched too wide.
Mark’s stomach plummeted.
The bar was full of things wearing human skin.
And they were closing in.
Lillian grabbed a beer bottle off the counter and smashed it against the nearest thing’s face.
It didn’t scream.
Didn’t even blink.
The broken glass cut into its cheek, but no blood came out.
It just grinned wider.
Then—
It lunged.
Mark grabbed a chair and swung hard, knocking it back. Another one grabbed Lillian’s arm, its fingers digging into her flesh—too strong, too cold.
Mark yanked her free, shoving her toward the door.
“GO! RUN!”
They sprinted outside.
The night air was thick with fog, the village eerily silent.
Except—
The sound of footsteps.
The locals were following.
Not running.
Just walking.
But too fast.
Too smooth, like they weren’t really moving their legs.
Like they were gliding.
Lillian was panting, terror wild in her eyes. “Where the fuck do we go?!”
Mark’s head snapped toward the farm.
The tunnel. The thing underneath.
The message on the wall.
"IT’S UNDER THE FARM."
His gut twisted.
They had to end this.
Now.
“Come on,” he growled, grabbing Lillian’s hand and dragging her toward the farm.
Behind them, the locals whispered in unison.
“Let us come in.”
Mark and Lillian ran toward the farm, their breaths ragged, their bodies slick with sweat and rain.
Behind them, the locals followed—gliding through the mist, their too-wide smiles illuminated in the dim moonlight. Their voices merged into a single whispering chant.
"Let us come in."
Mark’s gut twisted.
They weren’t people anymore.
They were part of it.
Whatever was buried under the farm, whatever was pulling the strings in this village, had already won.
Unless they stopped it.
Now.
They burst through the barn doors, slamming them shut behind them.
Lillian was gasping for breath, her fingers still slick with Ethan’s blood.
Mark grabbed an old rusted lantern hanging by the wall. He smashed it onto the hay-covered floor, kerosene spilling across the dirt.
"Burn it," Lillian panted, her voice raw. "Burn it all."
Mark's eyes darted toward the trapdoor—the entrance to the underground tunnel where they had found the skeleton with the modern wristwatch.
Where they had heard the whispers.
Where something had been waiting.
If they didn’t destroy it, it wouldn’t just stay in the village.
It would spread.
Mark grabbed a pitchfork and hooked the trapdoor open.
The tunnel yawned below them, black and endless.
The air that spilled out was wrong.
Too warm.
Too alive.
Then—
The whispers returned.
"Mark. Mark. Mark."
Lillian let out a shaky breath. "Do you hear that?"
Mark swallowed. "It's been in my head since we got here."
And then—
Something moved in the tunnel.
A slow, wet sound.
Like something pulling itself toward them.
Mark barely had time to react before—
It rose from the darkness.
It wasn’t human.
It wasn’t even trying to be.
A mass of black tendrils and twisted bone, its face shifting constantly—one second a skull, the next his father’s, the next Ethan’s.
It crawled toward them, its movements jerking, wrong, like it was pulling itself into existence.
And at the center of it—
A single, gaping mouth.
Lillian screamed.
Mark grabbed a rusty oil can off the shelf and poured it straight down the tunnel.
The thing twitched violently, its whispers turning into distorted shrieks.
"FUCK YOU," Mark growled, striking a match.
Then—
He dropped it.
The flames exploded downward, igniting the oil-soaked tunnel.
A horrific shriek tore through the air as the fire spread—roaring through the underground, lighting up the bones buried in the walls.
Mark grabbed Lillian, yanking her away as the barn caught fire, the flames ripping through the wooden beams.
The creature screamed beneath them, its voice morphing, shifting—one second a child’s cry, the next a deep, guttural roar.
The locals outside began shrieking too.
Mark glanced through the cracks in the barn walls.
The villagers were burning.
Not running.
Not fighting.
Just standing there, arms outstretched, their faces melting—as if they were nothing more than skin puppets burning with their master.
The entire village was dying with it.
The ground rumbled.
The barn started to collapse.
Mark grabbed Lillian’s hand. “RUN!”
They sprinted outside, barely making it into the field before the entire structure caved in.
A shockwave ripped through the air.
The whispers finally stopped.
And the village went silent.
The sun rose over the charred remains of the barn.
Smoke drifted through the morning air, the once-green fields now blackened and dead.
Mark and Lillian sat on the back of an abandoned truck, their bodies filthy, their minds fractured.
They had won.
But at what cost?
The village was gone.
The thing was gone.
But Mark still felt it.
A hollow ache in his skull.
Like something had left a piece of itself inside him.
Lillian leaned against him, her voice hoarse. “Do you think it’s really over?”
Mark didn’t answer.
Because in the silence—
He thought he heard his father whisper.
"Let me come in."
The city was supposed to be safe.
Mark and Lillian had left the burned ruins of the village behind, driving until the roads turned into highways, until the mist-covered fields were nothing but a distant nightmare.
They didn’t talk much.
There wasn’t anything left to say.
The fire had destroyed everything.
Hadn’t it?
THE END.🔥
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