Step by step, Sarah moved deeper into the narrow alley, Each step pressed down with a brittle snap of shattered glass beneath her soles. The smell of rot and mildew coiled through the ally , thick as fog, creeping into her nose and clinging to her skin.
At the very end of the alley stood a apartment building, if you could still call it that. . . . A apartment ? Its crumbling walls were stained with years of grime, The windows were broken and empty, and the gate swaying gently in the wind with a soft, metallic creak that make her feel uneasy.
The neighborhood felt wrong. Abandoned. That was a kind of place where screams could echo and no one would notice. Shadows pooled thick in the corners , stretching and curling like living entities under the dim, flickering light of a lone street-lamp. Sarah stood frozen for a moment, questioning her disition to come.
Why the hell did I even come here?
Still, she moved forward, as if something—curiosity, guilt, or maybe The concern for lisa—was pulling her in.
"No, I.. can't think like that, lisa need me, I.....i should definitely visit her."
As soon as she stepped through the doorway, the building swallowed her whole. The air was cold and stale and her footsteps rang out louder than usual , cracked tiels, peeling walls in a way that made her feel far too alone. Or… not alone enough.
The building groaned around her.
She reached the base of the staircase, and for a second she paused at the base of the stairs—old warped and coated in rust. One bad step and there's a possibility it would collapse under her.
End her life.
She swallowed hard.
She said she lives on the second floor. That's not too far. Just one flight... just one.
"Fine... she lives on the second floor. It's weird I never visited her house before," she muttered under her breath, voice barely above a whisper. "But I guess it's 222."
Her words didn't comfort her.
Taking a deep breath,"huh..." Sarah gripped the cold railing and placed her foot on the
first step.
It creaked.
So did something else—farther above.
She froze again.. , heart thudding.
It's just the wind, she told herself. Just the wind. Right?
But deep down, she wasn't so sure
The air around her heavy, oppressed and still—the kind of silence that didn't feel empty but watchful. Forgotten, maybe. But not abandoned. Each step up the groaning staircase made Sarah flinch, her grip on her phone tightening. Her thumb hovered over Lisa's name. Still no reply. No ringing, no read receipt. Just nothing.
Then, a low creak echoed from the end of the hall.
A door cracked open.
Peering out was a heavyset man with waxy pale skin and thinning greasy hair. He wore a filthy undershirt stretched tight over his stomach and his beady eyes locked onto hers like he'd been expecting her. He didn't blink. Didn't speak. Just stood there, staring—lips twitching into a crooked almost amused smile. And then—slowly, deliberately, he closed the door.
Click.
Sarah's breath caught. Her legs felt rooted to the step.
Something was wrong. Very, very wrong.
Her breath caught.
Not all at once—but slowly, like her lungs were tightening refusing to cooperate. She stood still on the staircase one hand resting on the rusted railing & the other hovering just slightly above her thigh. Every nerve in her body was suddenly awake—buzzing with alert.
Unsure.
Something wasn't right. Att all.
The dim bulb above her head swayed gently creaking with each movement of air. Shadows flickered against the cracked grime—covered walls shifting shapes, that didn't match anything she recognized. They danced just beyond clarity—just out of reach.
Her fingers tightened around the railing.
A low thud echoed from somewhere above, or maybe below. It was hard to tell. The building groaned in response like it was breathing with her—slower, deeper, more deliberate.
She swallowed.
You're just scaring yourself.
Old buildings sound like this. They always do.
But her feet wouldn't move.
Her heartbeat picked up—not racing, not yet, but insistent. Go, it pulsed. Go, go, go.
Still, she hesitated. Turned her head slightly as if expecting someone to be behind her.
Nothing.
Just the long narrow stairwell stretching down into shadows that felt too thick, too quiet.
She inhaled deeply held it, then released.
And then—finally—one step.
Boot to metal. A soft, dull sound that echoed far too loud.
She quickly climbed the stairs , each steps are deliberate and measured. With every lift of her foot— she expected something to move in the corner of her vision—a whisper, a shadow, a breath that wasn't hers.
The exposed bulb above began to swing a little harder.
That's just vibrations, she told herself.
But it was too late.
Something inside her had shifted.
The instinct didn't scream—it hummed, low and steady: Leave.
She shook it off. Pushed forward. Up.
And now, without fully realizing how?she was at the second floor.
The hallway stretched on—long, dim, and unnervingly quiet like a dream on a fever.
Sarah's pace slowed. Not out of caution, but because something about the air made her limbs feel heavier. Her breath stayed near the surface, shallow and tight.
It wasn't fear exactly. More like pressure.
Like the building itself was pressing in.
Lisa's apartment?
End of the hallway. Still looks far from her reach.
Each step she took made her chest feel tighter.
Like the air grew thinner the closer she got.
Then the smell—sour, something old and forgotten. It clung to the cracked walls like mold beneath old paint.
Overhead, the light flickered. Buzzed. Fizzled.
A sound broke through the silence.
A baby's cry—high, sharp, and too short.
Almost cut off.
Then nothing.
Sarah stopped mid-step, her heartbeat dropped by the unpleasant sound.
That wasn't right, she clenched her jaw, kept walking.
At door 222, she raised her hand and knocked—hesitant, then firmer.
"Lisa? It's me."
No answer.
She turned the knob. It gave way too easily.
The door creaked open.
The room beyond was almost bare. Blank walls. Empty corners. No furniture. Just a single sheet spread on the floor and a few clothes shoved into one corner.
Sarah stepped in.
The air was flat. Not fresh, but not foul either.
Still, there was something coppery on the edge of it—like blood, or fever sweat.
And there she was.
Lisa.
Curled up. Facing away from the entrance.
Still.
Sarah dropped to her knees beside her.
heart pounding !
"Lisa?" Sarah bent down, gave her shoulder a shake.
Lisa twitched, just barely. Her head turned a little—eyes half-open, but... vacant. Like she wasn't even seeing her.
"Sarah…" The name came out rough, like her throat was made of sandpaper. "You—shouldn't... be here. Run. Don't—"
The words stumbled out. Slurred. Fractured. Like she was stuck deep in some kind of dream she couldn't crawl out of.
Sarah frowned, pressed her hand to Lisa's forehead. Burning hot.
"You've got a fever," she muttered. "This isn't good."
Lisa mumbled again.
Total nonsense.
Her lips moved, but no sound came.
Her skin was damp, almost slippery, and her breath—shallow. Fast. Too fast. Her whole body gave a small shiver.
Something surged through Sarah—panic, maybe. She didn't stop to think. Just pulled Lisa's arm up, hooked it around her shoulders, and heaved.
Lisa barely helped. Nearly folded to the ground.
"I'm getting you out of here," Sarah said, more to herself than anything.
They moved. Slowly. One foot, then the next.
Lisa let out this low sound—barely there. Her head slumped against Sarah's neck.
Finally, the hallway.
It was dead quiet.
No crying now, no peeping eyes. No buzz from the light. Nothing creaked. No hint of movement.
Just... wrong.
Sarah didn't turn around.
She gripped Lisa tighter and picked up the pace.
Behind her, the silence followed—close, heavy. Like it had weight. Like it wanted something.
---
The waiting room buzzed faintly, the lights overhead too bright—too cold. Nervous. Sarah couldn't sit still. She paced the narrow stretch between the chairs, arms folded heart thudding with every second that passed.
The door finally creaked open.
A doctor stepped out—middle-aged, face drawn with exhaustion and something else. Something unreadable.
"She's stable," he said carefully. "But... we're not sure what's causing it. No signs of illness. Nothing physical we can point to. Her body's fine, but the fever, the shaking—it doesn't add up. Could be psychosomatic. Has she been under any stress?"
Sarah stopped pacing. Her jaw tightened. "Not that I know of," she said, almost to herself. "She's been distant. Quiet. But she never said anything." She hesitated, then added, "Her place… it's empty. Like she just stopped trying. No furniture. Just a bedsheet on the floor."
The doctor nodded slowly. "It might be emotional. Grief, trauma… it can show up like this. Right now, she shouldn't be alone. Talk to her. Be there. Sometimes that's what helps most."
Sarah looked at him, eyes tired but sincere. "Thank you, doctor… really."
Almost silent.
The doctor sighed, lowering his voice.
"Then what she really needs most right now isn't medicine—it's someone who won't leave when she starts to fall apart." with that Silent mender of pain walks away to tend another wound.
---
Sarah didn't think twice. She brought Lisa back to her apartment.
There was no way she was leaving her alone—not after what she saw. That house had turned hollow. Like it had been emptied of anything warm. At least here, in her little place, there was light, noise, life. Something normal to cling to.
The living room smelled like old books and half—finished tea. A faint, familiar comfort. Sarah hoped it would be enough.
But .
Lisa stayed silent for days. Everyday She'd sit near the window, knees drawn up, staring out into the sky like she was killing time for something—or trying to erasedsomething that wouldn't stop playing in her head. Her eyes looked far past the buildings, unfocused and tired. Always somewhere else.
At night, it got worse.
Sarah would wake to whispers. Not in English. Not in anything she recognized. Fragmented sounds. Muffled crying. Sometimes Lisa would say a name, or just… moan, like she was fighting something in her sleep.
One night, something woke her. A soft, drawn-out sob.
At first, she thought it was wind. But the sound grew clearer—real. Human.
Sarah crept out of bed.
The place was quiet and dim, shadows cloaked the apartment, the only light entering through streetlight, casting an dim orange glimmer leaking through the blinds. She trailed the crying sound into the living room.
Lisa was there. Hunched in the corner, hugging herself. She looked so small.
Sarah stepped closer. "Lisa…?"
Lisa didn't move. Just kept crying, like her body had caved in on itself.
Sarah knelt beside her, gently placing a hand on her arm. "Hey. Talk to me. What's wrong?"
Lisa slowly lifted her head.
Her face was a mess—red, puffy, wet with tears. Her voice came out barely above a breath.
"He's here."
Sarah blinked. "Who's here?"
Lisa's eyes darted toward the window.
"yami," she whispered.
The name hit Sarah like a stone in cold water. She didn't know why—but something about it felt… off. Like it didn't belong in her world.
Lisa pointed, her hand shaking.
"He's watching me."
Sarah stood up fast, moved to the window, and threw the curtain aside.
Nothing. Just the street. Empty sidewalk. No cars. No wind. The kind of silence that didn't feel right. Heavy. Waiting.
She stared longer than she meant to.
For a moment, she felt it too. Like someone had just slipped out of view.
She turned back.
And froze.
The corner was empty.
"Lisa?" she called, voice catching.
No answer.
She scanned the apartment. Everything suddenly looked darker, stretched. Wrong.
Then she saw the faint light from the kitchen.
Water was running.
Sarah rushed in.
Lisa stood at the sink. Her hands under the stream, not moving. The water was ice-cold. So much had already spilled that it was pooling around her bare feet. The tap was still open, overflowing the basin now—water was spilling out of the washbasin, drenching the counter, cascading onto the floor.
Before Sarah could speak, Lisa jerked forward—and shoved her head under the tap.
Hard.
"Lisa!" Sarah screamed, running toward her.
She grabbed her shoulders, tried to pull her back, but Lisa's body resisted. Like she wasn't the one in control anymore.
The water roared. Her hands were locked on the counter, fingernails digging in. She wasn't breathing.
"Lisa, stop! Please!"
No response.
For a terrifying second, it was like something else was holding her down.
Sarah used everything she had—yanked, shouted, shook her.
Lisa gasped.
Water poured from her mouth. She collapsed onto the floor, coughing, trembling.
Sarah dropped beside her, holding her, soaked and shaking.
She couldn't speak.
Couldn't even ask what had just happened.
She has no Idea , at all.
All she could do was sit there, staring at the puddle spreading across the tiles, and the unconscious body . Of her friend.
What the hell was happening to her friend?
What the hell was yami?