The sudden, absolute darkness was a physical blow. Arjun stood paralyzed, the weight of the silence pressing in on him, amplifying the frantic thud of his own heart. His mind screamed for him to move, to run, to find an escape, but his body remained a statue carved from pure terror. The air grew impossibly cold, carrying with it a faint, cloying scent – metallic, like the drip from the ceiling, but also something else, something fetid and ancient, like earth from a fresh grave.
He squeezed his eyes shut, as if by doing so he could erase the chilling image burned into his mind: the gaunt face, the light-absorbing eyes. When he opened them again, the blackness was absolute. He extended a trembling hand, blindly reaching out, desperate for anything tangible. His fingers brushed against something cold and slick on the desk – not the paper he'd been examining, but something else, something that felt disturbingly like congealed blood. He recoiled, a choked gasp escaping his lips.
The whisper returned, closer this time, a dry, papery rustle right next to his ear. It was unintelligible, yet somehow profoundly menacing, like a secret being hissed by something that had no tongue. He spun wildly, flailing his arms in the void, but encountered only empty space.
Panic, cold and sharp, began to cut through his paralysis. He had to move. He had to get out. He fumbled for his backpack, remembering the spare battery. His fingers scrabbled at the zipper, his breath coming in ragged gasps. Every rustle of the fabric, every soft sound, was magnified in the overwhelming silence. He could feel the presence now, a crushing weight in the room, surrounding him, pressing in from all sides. It was no longer just a feeling; it was a tangible force, a cold breath on his neck, an icy grip that seemed to constrict his lungs.
Finally, his fingers closed around the hard plastic of the spare battery. With fumbling urgency, he tried to insert it into his phone, but his hands were shaking so violently that he couldn't align it properly. He dropped the battery. It hit the floor with a tiny, echoing clatter, a sound that seemed to reverberate through the vast, dark space of the hospital.
And then, a new sound. A low, guttural moan, coming from the very corner where the black liquid had dripped. It was a sound of profound suffering, yet laced with an undeniable, predatory hunger. It seemed to vibrate through the very floor, up into Arjun's bones.
He froze again, every muscle screaming for him to flee, but his body was locked in a terrible embrace of fear. He could feel a cold, light touch on his shoulder, fingers that were too long, too thin, too cold. He didn't dare breathe, didn't dare move.
The whisper intensified, forming words now, though still distorted and ancient. "You… shouldn't… be… here…"
The voice was not just in his ears; it was in his head, a chilling invasion of his thoughts. He could feel a presence behind him, tall and menacing, radiating an unbearable cold. He could almost smell the decay emanating from it.
Then, the touch on his shoulder became a grip, surprisingly strong, and he was spun around. He opened his mouth to scream, but no sound came out. He couldn't see anything in the impenetrable blackness, but he felt it – the close proximity of something monstrous. He felt its breath, cold and stale, against his face.
A new sensation, something slick and rough, brushed against his cheek, moving slowly, deliberately, tracing the line of his jaw. He knew, instinctively, that it was a finger. A long, skeletal finger.
His heart hammered against his ribs, a frantic drumbeat in the oppressive silence. He was going to die here. In this forgotten, haunted place. His "Urban Scrawl" channel, his desperate attempt for internet fame, had led him to his end.
He dimly registered a faint, almost imperceptible shift in the air, a movement of something immense in the darkness around him. The cold intensified, piercing him to the bone. He felt a pressure on his chest, as if an invisible weight was pressing down, suffocating him. He struggled for breath, but his lungs refused to obey.
The whisper returned, directly in his ear, a low, sibilant chuckle. "Such… a… curious… little… worm…"
And then, a sharp, agonizing pain erupted in his arm. He cried out, a guttural sound torn from his throat, as he felt something pierce his flesh. It was like a needle, but colder, sharper, and deeper than any needle he had ever known. He tried to pull away, but the grip on his shoulder was unyielding.
He heard the sound of dripping again, this time much closer, and he knew, with chilling certainty, that it was his own blood.
The last thing Arjun felt before the darkness fully consumed him was the sensation of being dragged, slowly but inexorably, deeper into the suffocating embrace of St. Agnes, the chilling whispers echoing in his mind: "Welcome… home…"