The corridor breathed with them. Each step sounded like it belonged to someone else, a half-second late, a half-second early, never in time with their own feet. The walls drank the sound and spat it back mangled, like voices overheard through water. Lanterns hissed, their glow trembling at the edge of collapse. Every inhale thinned the flames, every exhale swelled them again, until it seemed the light was no longer theirs but the corridor's own breathing.
Isaac walked ahead, shoulders rigid, his pace refusing to falter. Behind him, the others followed, but distance felt elastic sometimes the space stretched, a canyon of stone between them, sometimes it snapped tight as though they had never left his side. The air shifted in small, cruel ways: colder near the ceiling, thick with warmth at the ankles, as if walking through layers of invisible tides.
Ian tried not to look at the walls. They were too smooth, too clean, yet in the flicker he thought he saw faces leaning out of the stone, mouths still open from prayers that had never ended. He blinked, and they were only shadows again. Still, he kept his head down, afraid of catching another pair of eyes staring back.
The drip began without warning. A sound that did not echo, but multiplied. One drop became three, the third falling before the first. When the cold hit skin, it was not where the drip had landed. Ian brushed his cheek, but his palm came away dry. Isabelle flinched at nothing. Tomas muttered something low under his breath and then swallowed it, his eyes wide at his own voice.
The further they walked, the more certain it became: there was someone else with them. Not behind, not ahead, but beside a phantom space held in the rhythm of their march. When the group shifted closer together, the presence shifted too, as though unwilling to lose its place in line.
And then ,another step that wasn't theirs. Not ahead, not behind, but perfectly aligned with the group. Ian froze mid-breath. Isaac didn't stop, but the others felt it: a shuffle, a shift, a weight settling into place beside them. The air buckled as though a new body had claimed its share.
The lantern light stuttered. For a moment, five shadows dragged across the stone instead of four. One taller, one bent in a way the body should not bend. When Ian blinked, the shapes folded neatly into four again, but his stomach kept sinking, as though it remembered something he wasn't allowed to see.
The sound of breath changed. There was a rhythm to it now, too steady, too calm. Theirs came ragged, uneven, strained with fear. But threaded through the air was a smooth, practiced inhalation. Whoever it was had been walking with them longer than they had noticed, waiting until the cadence was perfect before joining in.
Isabelle's hand brushed her sleeve as if someone else's had touched it. Tomas tried to count their footsteps under his breath, to prove the corridor wasn't lying to him but each time he reached "four," another step slotted itself in, like the stone itself refused to agree.
The drip quickened, ticking from the ceiling like a clock only they could hear. Drops they couldn't catch, landing on them in places that made no sense. Cold at the wrist, then the back of the neck, then the tongue. Tomas gagged and swore it tasted like blood, though his mouth was dry.
Still, Isaac kept walking.
And with every step, the others felt more certain: someone, something was walking right there among them, breathing their air, wearing a shadow that didn't belong.
"How long are we going to pretend." Tomas asked
"Pretend what" Isaac answers still keeping pace
"Pretend what?" Tomas shoots and then gives out a big sigh
" We shouldnt't be here, there's no way this is a good idea, I taste blood on my tongue"
" It's just the iron from all the pipes Tomas you're fine."
Isaac's answer should have ended it, but the words didn't settle. They hung in the corridor like gnats, circling back, repeating themselves in different voices. Pretend what? Pretend what? The stone whispered it back in layers, until Ian swore there were a dozen mouths asking the same question at once.
The taste didn't leave Tomas's tongue. He spat into the dark, hoping to prove himself wrong — but when the glob hit stone, it sounded too heavy, like something thick sliding down the wall. He wiped his lips, his hand shaking as if he'd caught someone else's saliva.
Ian's chest ached with each breath, not from exertion but from the pressure in the air. It was too full, as though the corridor had been sealed tight with bodies they couldn't see. Every lantern hiss turned sharp, a warning. Every drip arrived before it fell, touching skin where no droplet could have reached.
And through it all, the phantom kept pace. When Tomas's voice cracked, the breath at Ian's shoulder did not. When Isabelle shifted closer to him, she swore her sleeve brushed not cloth, but skin. Isaac didn't look back, didn't acknowledge, didn't slow — and that refusal to break stride made it worse, like he'd already accepted they weren't alone.
The air changed again warmer, damp, heavy like the fever at the edge of skin. It pressed against their temples, against the backs of their eyes. Ian felt certain that if he looked sideways, he would see the face of the one walking with them, close enough to kiss, close enough to bite.
Tomas stopped mid-step, his tongue dragging across his gums as if the teeth had turned foreign in his own mouth. Loose all of them loose, trembling in their sockets like stones in wet clay. He spat, hard, to shake the panic free, but what struck the floor wasn't spit.
Chink.
The sound was wrong, sharp, metallic the sound of a pebble, not a mouthful of saliva. It echoed up the corridor as though it belonged to someone else's throat.
He coughed, a raw bark that rattled through his chest, and clutched at his mouth. The taste burst thick and iron-rich, and when he tore his hand away to see, his palm bore the proof: a single tooth, slick with blood, sitting like an offering in the center of his hand.
His knees wavered. His breath pitched high. For a heartbeat he thought he saw more teeth clattering down the stone ahead of him, like breadcrumbs leading them deeper.
Isaac didn't turn.
The others stared not at the tooth, but at Tomas's eyes, wide and unmoored, reflecting a terror that felt contagious.
Did I drop it? Did I swallow it?
The thought turned frantic. He scraped his tongue again, harder, searching for gaps. Nothing but gum, flesh, enamel all still there, all unbroken. His teeth felt solid again, stubbornly rooted.
He staggered, nearly called out, but swallowed the words. Because they wouldn't believe him. They'd see only a man spitting at shadows, clutching at his own face.
And still he swore he heard it another clatter, faint and behind him this time, like someone dropping dice one by one in the dark.
It's following me.
The thought landed like a nail in his skull. He pressed his teeth together just to prove they'd hold, but even the bite felt hollow, like chewing with borrowed bones.
Isabelle tried not to look back at Tomas. She could hear him dragging, hear the wet rasp in his throat, but she kept her eyes on Isaac's back the sway of the lantern, the steady rhythm of his stride.
If she let herself listen too closely, she swore she could hear him muttering. Not words, not anymore, just the grinding of teeth that weren't falling out.
And then the walls pressed closer.
She blinked hard, once, twice, but the dark didn't recede. It crawled nearer, tugging the edges of her vision tight like thread pulled through cloth. Every seam in the stone, every crack in the mortar seemed to swell with depth.
Faces.
That's what she saw half-formed, the slope of a brow, the shadow of an eye, mouths flattened into the rock. They were still until she blinked. When her lashes closed, they moved. When she opened again, they froze. Always staring. Always fixed on her.
She held her breath without meaning to. Her chest ached.
They know me.
The thought bloomed sharp, absurd, but she couldn't shake it. Every face had the same eyes. They weren't strangers. They were her own. Dozens of them, hundreds maybe, looking back at her from the walls, pale and patient, waiting for her to stumble.
Her hand twitched toward Isaac, then froze halfway. If she spoke, if she admitted it, they'd turn too and what if they didn't see? What if the faces vanished, like Tomas's teeth?
Her throat tightened. She forced her gaze to the floor. But even there, in the seams between the stones, she thought she saw them smiling up at her.
Isaac kept walking.
The lantern swayed at his side, light catching on damp stone, throwing their shadows long and misshapen. He didn't let himself look at them. Shadows liked to play tricks. Shadows liked to whisper if you gave them the time.
His focus stayed fixed on the corridor ahead, step by step, one boot in front of the other. The path was straight, but it felt alive, like the air itself was bending with each stride. Behind him, he could hear Tomas choking back spit, Isabelle's breath catching, Ian's shoes scuffing just a little too fast. He didn't turn.
Because if he turned, he'd see what they saw. And then it would be real.
The lantern hissed, the wick straining against the oil, and for a moment he thought it might gutter out. His hand tightened on the handle, knuckles white. That tiny flame was the only thing holding the dark back, the only proof there was still ground in front of him, still air to breathe.
He whispered, low enough the others wouldn't hear:
"Keep moving."
Not to them. To himself. To the corridor. To the fifth set of footsteps that slid neatly between their own, never too loud, never too soft always there when the lantern swung forward, always gone when it swung back.
Isaac didn't slow. He didn't falter. The others could drown in their fear; he would not. But he felt the hair rise on his neck all the same. Because if he was counting right, there were too many shadows on the walls.
The lantern flared when he lifted it higher, light dragging along the walls. Four shadows stretched long, tangled in the rock.
But there was a fifth.
It didn't belong to anyone. It never lined up right too tall, too thin, its head bent wrong against the ceiling.
Isaac stopped for the first time. The others nearly stumbled into him, their breaths ragged in the dark.
He didn't turn to face them. His eyes stayed on that shape stitched to the wall.
"There's something walking with us."
His voice was flat, without tremor, but the words struck the corridor like a bell, and the silence that followed sounded hungry.
The drip became thunder. It filled their ears, their teeth, their lungs.
"You don't even know she's alive!" Tomas shouted, voice bouncing off the stone like a curse. "All of this, all this crawling in the dark ,for what? A ghost? A dream? Admit it, Ian you're chasing shadows because you're too weak to let go."
Ian's jaw shook. "She's not a shadow. She's my friend-"
"Friend?" Tomas spat. "She wont even look at you now. You're nothing to her. You think she'd choose you over the rest of us? You're pathetic. The only reason you're here is because you can't stand being forgotten."
"Stop it!" Isabelle snapped, clutching her arms. "Why are you talking like this? Why are you making it worse?"
"Because it's already worse!" Tomas screamed. "Because this place wants us dead and you're too stupid to see it!"
"You don't have to stay," Isabelle shot back, voice cracking into a sob. "Go. Run back to your little friends, tell them how brave you were until the dark scared you. That's all you've ever been - scared."
"Better scared than useless!" Tomas turned on her. "What have you done? Nothing! Just whining, just waiting for someone else to save you. If we die here it's because you slowed us down."
Isabelle trembled, then her face hardened. "At least I'm not the one falling apart over nothing. There's no blood in your mouth, Tomas. There never was. You're just weak."
He froze, lips curling back like an animal's.
"Shut your mouth," he whispered. "Shut your mouth before I make you."
Isaac's voice cut across them, low, flat, final.
"Enough."
They all froze. Even the drip seemed to pause.
Isaac turned, the lantern swinging. His face was pale in the glow, eyes sunk deep. "You think I don't hear it too? You think I don't feel it? This place wants us to break. That's what it's for. To split us open. And you're letting it win."
No one spoke. Their ragged breaths filled the silence, sharp and ugly.
Then Ian's voice broke high, desperate. "He's right. We're almost there. I can feel it. If we stop now, it's over. If we stop now, Cala's gone forever."
Tomas laughed a hollow, broken sound. "Listen to yourself. You sound insane. You sound just like them. You want us to keep walking until what? Until we drown? Until we rot in here?"
"Maybe that's better than living like you," Ian snapped. "Running from everything. Hiding. You think you're strong because you complain the loudest? You're nothing, Tomas. You're nothing and you know it."
Tomas lunged not with fists, but words sharp as knives.
"At least I don't cling to dead girls to make myself feel whole."
Ian's face broke, like a crack running through stone.
The drip crashed, endless, filling the corridor like rain. Their breaths tangled into gasps. For a heartbeat, it felt like they'd tear each other apart here, now, in the dark.
And then Isaac lifted the lantern.
The light cut across the floodwater, and there at the far end of the corridor a figure sat in the black. Small. Pale. Still.
Cala.
She was waist-deep in the water, hair plastered to her face, eyes wide open. She didn't blink. She didn't move.
And for one awful moment, none of them breathed at all.