The silence that followed Ronald's revelation pressed in like a suffocating fog. I stood there, frozen—not by fear, but by the weight of grief that clung to the air around us.
Empathy wasn't my strength.
But right now, it wasn't about saying the right thing.
It was about being there.
Without a word, I stepped forward and drew him into an embrace. He didn't resist. He didn't flinch. He just sank into it, trembling, clinging to something solid in a house built from shadows and memories.
'I'm here for you, Ronald.'
The thought pulsed silently as I closed my eyes, hoping it reached him beyond words.
His pain—raw, quiet—radiated through the contact. But underneath it was something else. A strength forged in silence. A child who had survived a nightmare and carried the weight ever since.
"We'll get through this, Ronald," I whispered. "No matter how daunting it may seem, we will uncover the truth together."
He nodded against my shoulder. His grip tightened—not out of fear, but resolve.
We stayed like that for a while.
When we finally parted, his smile was small, brittle—but it was real. "Thank you, Llyne."
I smiled back. "We'll face whatever comes our way together."
But the corridor didn't let us rest.
If anything, it welcomed the emotional lull—only to break it with something colder.
The air was heavier now, every step drawing us deeper into a place that felt detached from time. Each portrait stared down with stories etched in their silence.
Then—my heart skipped.
We stopped.
A painting.
Of Isaac.
Ronald's voice cracked with disbelief. "I-Isaac? Is that really him?"
I nodded slowly. "It's his likeness… but there's something… off."
And there was.
The eye.
A mole. Right below his right eye.
But Isaac didn't have one.
My eyes narrowed.
'Is it just artistic liberty… or a misdirection?'
Ronald pointed toward the canvas. "The date of death… it's scratched out."
He leaned closer, brows furrowed. "Why did they erase the date? What are they trying to hide?"
"This is definitely getting creepier," I muttered. Something wasn't adding up—and every part of me was bracing for a truth worse than fiction.
"I might wet my pants at this rate," Ronald muttered, barely holding it together.
"If it's any consolation," I said, trying to ground us both with levity, "I might join you in the pants-wetting department."
We moved on.
The faces in the portraits grew more personal, more familiar, each one dragging another shard of memory to the surface.
Then—
I stopped again.
My breath caught.
A smile.
Warm. Joyful.
Familiar.
My sister.
Frozen in a time where our bond still mattered.
'When did that smile fade? When did everything change?'
My chest tightened.
"What happened to us, sis?" I whispered.
But the painting didn't answer.
None of them did.
Just another frozen memory, sealed behind brush strokes and silence.
Below the frame—a date.
??/??/????.
I didn't speak it aloud. I didn't need to.
Ronald's voice broke the silence. "Who's that? She's really pretty."
I hesitated. "That's my sister."
His surprise was genuine. "You have a sister, Llyne?"
"Yup. A naggy old hag she was…" I gave a half-hearted smirk.
A pause.
Sadness slipped in like a draft beneath a closed door. "We didn't have a close relationship, though. Not like it'll change now."
I turned away, letting my feet carry me forward. "Anyway, let's focus on finding Rona."
He nodded, and we pressed on.
Step.
Step.
Step.
The corridor refused to end, stretching out like a twisted dream.
"I see no end to this corridor," I muttered.
"Tired, Llyne? I can carry you," Ronald offered without missing a beat.
"Nope. I just want to get out of here as soon as we can."
As we moved, Ronald pointed at another painting. "Llyne. Look at this painting."
A mature woman. Elegant. Composed. There was something magnetic about her.
"And?" I asked, waiting for his point.
He shrugged. "Don't know. I just felt like pointing it out."
I turned back to the painting—and nearly stumbled.
She was gone.
An empty canvas stared back at me.
Ronald shrieked. "Where did she go?!"
I leaned in.
'Did the woman… get revived?'
"There's no date of death?" I murmured.
Then—
Creak.
Our heads snapped around.
The noise came from behind us.
The way we'd come.
I raised my torchlight slowly, arm steady, heart not.
The beam sliced through the darkness.
And there she was.
The woman.
From the painting.
Standing there at the far end of the corridor, bathed in shadow and torchlight.
But something was wrong.
Her head tilted unnaturally. Her limbs twitched. Her mouth moved, whispering something incoherent.
"...se...ll...de…"
The words were broken, garbled. Not words—but an invocation.
A curse.
Then, she twitched. Jerked. Twisted.
Her spine contorted with a wet crack.
Her arms hung like broken branches. Her feet dragged.
She dropped.
Onto all fours.
And ran.
CRACK. SLAM. SNAP.
She bounded forward, a grotesque blur of motion, limbs scraping the walls as she charged.
Our bodies flinched, instinctively pressing close, arms tightening around each other.
But we couldn't look away.
Her bones popped and cracked like dry twigs in fire, her jaw unhinging in a grotesque leer.
And then—
She launched.
Ronald screamed.
"Z-Z-ZOMBIE!!!!"
I spun on my heel—
And ran.
The corridor warped around us as adrenaline took over. I didn't think—I just ran.
Her screeches chased us, bouncing off the walls. Her movements were unnatural, fast, almost weightless.
She darted across the corridor, crawling along the walls like some nightmare torn from the seams of reality.
"WAAAH! Do all zombies move like her?! How is she so agile?!"
She lunged. Her claws sliced through the air, inches from our necks.
I twisted, grabbed Ronald, dodged left. My body moved on instinct, honed from dungeons and death.
She came again.
This time—I turned and kicked.
A clean hit to her chest.
But she didn't even flinch.
She grinned.
And her jaw opened just a little wider.
This wasn't a mindless undead.
This was something else.
Something older.
And it had chosen us.