Chapter One: A Ride on a Rainy Night
That night, the West Loop elevated line in Chicago coiled above the streets like a steel serpent, its body drenched in darkness and rain. Raindrops pounded the windshield in relentless waves, sharp and unceasing, like a thousand nails hammered all at once. The wipers swung with stubborn rhythm, yet the clarity they granted lasted only a heartbeat before the storm blurred everything again.
Streetlamps flickered weakly, their beams fractured by the downpour into dim yellow shards. The light spilled across the slick pavement, not steady but fragmented, like signals from some distant, hidden world.
I slowed the car. The tires hissed across the soaked asphalt, spraying dirty water to either side. Just as I approached an exit, I caught sight of figures on the roadside. They stood close, whispering perhaps, or waiting. Rain streamed down their long coats, dripping into shallow puddles that shivered with each splash.
One middle-aged man suddenly raised his head. His gaze pierced through the rain, sharp as a blade cutting open the night. My chest tightened; I eased on the brake almost unconsciously. He raised his hand—a gesture more instinct than request.
The headlights lit their faces. Pale. Unfamiliar. As if they had walked out of a place where warmth no longer existed.
The man strode to my window, his breath fogging the glass. His voice was urgent, hoarse: "Can you give us a lift?"
I hesitated for only a moment, then unlocked the door.
A young woman slid into the back seat. Her clothes clung to her frame, soaked through. Wet strands of hair clung to her cheeks, shadowing her face. Her eyes were hollow, sunken, like two bottomless wells. She clutched a black canvas bag to her chest, knuckles whitening with the force, as if the bag contained her last refuge. Rain traced down her wrists, dripping onto the seat in cold, steady drops.
The man settled into the front passenger seat. His movements were deliberate, guarded. He glanced back at her often, as if protecting her—or shielding himself from something unseen. The air inside the car thickened, damp and metallic, carrying a faint tang of rust.
"Go straight ahead," he muttered, his voice almost a command.
I asked no questions. My grip tightened on the wheel, eyes locked on the road. The rain, the hum of the engine, and their uneven breaths tangled together, pressing heavily on my chest.
In the rearview mirror, I caught the woman's reflection. Though her head was bowed, her eyes gleamed faintly behind the curtain of wet hair. They were not watching me—but the mirror itself, measuring distance, waiting.
Suddenly, she spoke, her voice fragile, nearly lost in the storm: "Turn right up ahead."
I obeyed. The car slipped into a narrow, forgotten alley. The pavement was cracked and broken, darkness pressing in from all sides. Far away, neon signs flickered dully, like weary eyes struggling to stay open.
When the car stopped, the man shoved a crumpled twenty-dollar bill into my hand. His voice was forced, tight: "Thank you." Then he hurried out with the woman, both swallowed by the shadows almost instantly.
I reached for the gearshift, ready to drive off—when I noticed it. A dark wet patch gleaming on the rear seat. At its center lay a train ticket, soaked through. The date was clear: three days earlier. The point of origin was printed plainly: West Loop 45, Chicago.
Chapter Two: They're Still Behind
My eyes locked on the train ticket, my fingers nearly frozen stiff. Though rain had soaked the paper through, the words on its surface stood out with cutting clarity. "West Loop 45, Chicago." They burned into my mind like a brand.
Just as I drew a shaky breath, the passenger-side lock clicked open with a sharp snap. I hadn't touched it. At that instant, it felt as though the blood in my veins froze solid.
I jerked my head to the side—
The passenger seat was empty. The rain seemed to vanish, sucked away, leaving only the sound of my ragged breathing. And on the rain-smeared windshield, a pale face slowly emerged in reflection.
It was her. The woman. Her lips parted, but no sound reached me. And yet I could read them as clearly as if she whispered in my ear:
"Go. They're still behind."
I slammed my foot on the accelerator. The engine roared, the car lunged forward like a startled beast tearing into the night. Rainwater fanned outward in silver streaks, but in the rearview mirror, faint shapes flickered. Two cold lights, appearing and vanishing, as though chasing from afar.
I wound through block after block, not daring to breathe until the mirror showed nothing behind me. But the train ticket still lay on the passenger seat, drenched and mocking. The paper was wrinkled and frail, yet the ink remained disturbingly sharp. On the back, scrawled in pencil, was a single line:
"Do not look back."
The words chilled me to the bone, as if an icy hand clenched tight around my heart.
My phone lit up suddenly, casting a cold glow across my trembling hands. A new message appeared, from an unknown number:
"We've been looking for them for three days. West Loop 45—they must be there tonight."
The rain had eased, but the air carried a faint, acrid scent, like something smoldering. I lifted my gaze, and on the horizon, a thin column of black smoke curled upward—rising from the direction of West Loop 45.
When I arrived, the building stood sealed with police tape. Red and blue lights from cruisers painted the rain-soaked street in sharp, shifting colors. The pavement gleamed wetly, and across it ran a dark red streak, diluted by rain yet unmistakable. It wound toward a storm drain, vanishing into the gutter. Not water—blood.
I reached for the door handle, ready to step out, when a knock rattled my window. A plainclothes man stood there, his gaze sharp as a blade. His voice was low, urgent:
"You're the last one who saw them, aren't you?"
I froze. "Who are you talking about?"
His stare hardened, his words cutting cold:
"The two bodies that disappeared three days ago."
Chapter Three: Back to No. 45
Though the rain had stopped, the air was heavy with the acrid tang of smoke, mingled with the metallic bite of rust. It pressed down on my lungs, making each breath sharp and shallow. In the darkness, the silhouette of West Loop 45 loomed—a massive tombstone towering over the deserted street. Its windows were dead and black, the occasional flash of lightning sketching its jagged edges against the sky.
The plainclothes man handed me a photograph, its edges curled, stained with watermarks. In it were the same man and woman I had picked up earlier that night—the woman's wet hair clinging to her cheeks, the man's piercing eyes. Their expressions mirrored my memory with uncanny precision. On the back of the photo was a date: three days ago.
"They died in the building's basement," the man said flatly, his voice like iron grinding against stone. "Early hours. Three days ago."
My throat tightened. Words rose but jammed inside, trapped.
His gaze cut into me, then he added slowly: "The basement surveillance was down. But the only key that can open that door… is in your car."
I spun around, eyes locking on the passenger seat. The damp patch had long dried, but there it was—the black canvas bag, resting quietly, as if it had never left. My breath quickened; my heart hammered violently against my ribs.
I remembered—without doubt—the woman had carried it away when she left. Yet now it had returned, waiting. My trembling fingers tugged at the zipper. A rush of cold air hit my face, raising gooseflesh along my arms.
Inside lay a single, rusted key. Its bow was etched with a number, clear and undeniable: 45.
I looked up sharply—
With a sudden snap, the building's windows flared to life. Every pane glowed a dull, sickly yellow, like countless eyes opening in unison, fixed on me.
When I blinked, the plainclothes man was gone. In his place stood the woman, framed in the doorway. Her drenched hair clung to her face, and at the corner of her lips curved a faint, uncanny smile.
She raised a hand. Beckoned.
And before I could resist, my feet carried me forward. One step. Two. My heartbeat pounded louder with every movement, echoing inside my skull.
As I crossed the threshold, the heavy iron door swung shut behind me with a resounding click. It sealed the night away—like a judgment passed, locking me in another world.
Chapter Four: The Key to the Basement
The moment I stepped inside, the air turned bone-chilling, as if the entire building had been hollowed out, leaving behind nothing but a damp skeleton. The sound of dripping water echoed down the corridor, each drop falling with a weight that landed square in my chest.
The dim yellow lights flickered overhead. The woman's shadow stretched unnaturally long, twisting across the cracked walls like a nest of serpents. Her pace was measured—neither fast nor slow—each step leaving a trail of wet footprints that merged into a dark, winding path, as though guiding me to somewhere I should never reach.
I wanted to speak, to demand answers, but my throat tightened as if bound by invisible rope. No words came. All I could hear was my own pounding heartbeat, urging me to turn back. Yet my legs betrayed me, moving automatically to follow her.
At the end of the hall stood a rusted iron door. Its ancient keyhole matched perfectly with the "45" key in my hand. The woman stopped, tilting her head ever so slightly. Her eyes were vacant, unfocused—staring through me, into something far deeper.
"Open it."
Her voice was low, but it rang directly in my ear.
I hesitated, then slid the key into the lock. With a grinding screech, the door creaked open. A wave of mildew, rust, and rot burst outward, foul enough to choke me.
Beyond the door stretched a stairway leading downward. The walls were mottled, flaking, and the lightbulbs overhead flickered like dying fireflies. The woman descended first, her footsteps echoing in the narrow passage, multiplied as if more than one person walked beside her. Forcing down the rising dread, I followed.
The basement was empty, yet scattered across the floor lay charred planks and broken iron cages. Blackened stains scarred the walls, remnants of some ancient fire. At the center stood two metal gurneys, side by side, draped in damp, blood-streaked sheets.
The woman approached, fingers trembling slightly as she peeled one sheet back. My blood froze.
Lying there were the woman herself—and the middle-aged man. Faces pale, rigid, sealed in the terror of their final moment.
I stumbled backward. The key slipped from my grasp and clattered against the floor, the metallic echo ricocheting through the cavernous room.
The figure before me lowered her head, lips curving into a smile colder than death. Slowly, she raised a finger and pointed at the corpses on the gurneys. Her voice seeped from the ground itself, deep and earthbound:
"Look… we've been dead all along."
My chest seized under crushing fear. A tide of ice swept through me.
Then, the single bulb overhead flickered once and went out. Darkness swallowed everything.
From within the void came the sound of breathing—heavy, layered, not from one, but from many. Countless unseen eyes opened in the dark, fastening on me.
And then, a cold, unfamiliar male voice whispered right beside my ear:
"You should never have opened that door."
Chapter Five: The Door of Echoes
Darkness swallowed everything. The sound of breathing closed in, from every direction at once, suffocating me. The air grew heavy, dense, as though the basement was filled with wet cement. Each breath felt like a stone pressing against my chest.
I clenched my fists, but my palms were slick and cold, as if something unseen had brushed against them. The breathing thickened, multiplying, until it was no longer one presence but a crowd—drawing closer, circling me.
Then came a sharp click at my feet. I looked down. In the dim afterglow of the failing light, the key engraved with "45" rolled on its own, rattling to a stop between the two gurneys. Its movement was deliberate, like a switch thrown.
At once, the basement shuddered. Dust sifted down from the ceiling. The corpses beneath the sheets opened their eyes in unison. Murky, lifeless eyes, yet locked on me with unbearable resentment and silent accusation.
The woman's voice rose again, but not from her lips. It seeped from the walls, the floor, the very air:
"The key… brings you back… but will never let you leave."
Panic surged. I stumbled backward, colliding with the wall—
Only it was no longer solid. The concrete had become thin and fluid, rippling like water. The moment my body pressed against it, the wall swallowed me whole.
The breathing ceased. In its place came a chorus of whispers, countless voices layered, men and women, children and elders, repeating the same phrase:
"West Loop 45… there is no way back…"
My vision went black. Then I jolted awake.
I was in my car again. Rain hammered the windshield. The wipers swept rhythmically, just as before. Everything was exactly as it had been that night.
But this time, on the passenger seat, the black canvas bag rested quietly—as though it had never left.
My phone lit up, screen glowing pale in the dark. A new message appeared, the words etching themselves onto the glass:
"Are you ready? Tonight, they will get in again."
Chapter Six: The Door of the Loop
The faint glow of the phone screen pulsed in the dark. Sweat trickled down my palms, the words on the message blurring, bleeding into each other as if soaked in rain. At last, only one word remained, expanding until it filled the screen:
"Again."
With its fading, the passenger-side lock clicked open on its own. Outside, the rain poured mercilessly. Streetlights flickered through the watery curtain, and behind it, silhouettes emerged—slow, steady, inevitable.
It was them. The middle-aged man. The woman clutching the black canvas bag. Every movement, every expression, every step was the same as that night.
I slammed my foot on the accelerator, desperate to escape. The engine growled low, like a caged beast panting, but the car refused to move. The frame shuddered violently, yet the wheels clung to the ground. The wipers thrashed wildly, but the rain on the glass never cleared, as if the storm itself resisted being swept away.
Click.
The passenger door swung open. The man climbed in, soaked, eyes sharp with urgency. His voice cracked with fear: "Drive! They're right behind us!"
My mind screamed "No," but my body betrayed me. My hands moved of their own accord—shifting gears, tightening on the wheel. The car lurched forward, plunging into the storm.
In the mirror, the woman slowly came into focus. Her head bowed, arms still wrapped around the bag. But this time, I saw it clearly—the bag's mouth gaped slightly, revealing the gleam of cold, black metal. A key. Its bow engraved with the number: 45.
She lifted her head. Wet strands of hair fell away, and her eyes locked onto mine through the mirror. They pierced me, relentless, and her lips parted:
"This time… you won't escape."
And then—the rain vanished.
Whispers replaced it, flooding in from every direction, rising, overlapping. Voices of men, women, children, elders, swelling into a single chant:
"West Loop 45… the eternal crossroads…"
The steering wheel turned icy in my grip, hard and immovable. It wasn't a wheel anymore. It was a lock. And I was the key, bound to a road from which there was no return.
Chapter Seven: Distorted Images
The car sped through the storm, yet the scenery outside grew wrong, disturbingly wrong. Streetlights, signs, neon—they wavered like reflections on rippling water. Buildings bent and dissolved, the world thinning into shadows. Every turn I made brought me back to the same stretch of road, beneath the same sign glowing mercilessly: "West Loop 45."
My breath came fast and shallow. Sweat trickled down my spine. My fingers clenched the wheel so hard my knuckles burned white.
In the rearview mirror, the woman lifted her hand and pointed at the man beside me. Her voice was low, cracked, splintered like broken glass:
"He… is not real."
I snapped my head toward him. Slowly, he turned his face to me. His skin looked waterlogged, peeling in strips. Beneath was not flesh but a shifting blur, like static crawling across a broken television screen.
"Drive!"
His lips moved, but no human sound came. Instead, jagged static screeched through the air, a radio gone mad.
Then the rearview mirror rattled violently on its own. The reflection changed. It no longer showed the car—but the basement of West Loop 45. Two gurneys lay there, the bodies beneath their sheets unchanged. But this time, a chair sat beside them.
And in that chair—sat me.
The other "me" slumped forward, clutching the key etched with 45, lips twisted into a grotesque, frozen smile.
My heart thundered, each beat a detonation in my skull. I reached out to cover the mirror, but the instant my palm touched the glass, it rippled like water—and swallowed my hand whole.
The whispers returned, sharper, clearer, thousands of voices overlapping in suffocating unison:
"You are not a witness… From the very beginning, you were inside."
My mind roared, as though pulled into an endless tunnel of echoes, spiraling deeper, with no escape.