The two of them now sat on the ground-floor bed—oddly placed right beside the kitchen, as if it had always been there. Rick and 777. Side by side. Eyes locked. Silent. The whole thing looked like a weirdly awkward honeymoon scene—except reality didn't agree.
Because their peripheral vision said otherwise.
Beyond the corners of their eyes, the world peeled open. Ghosts with sideways limbs crawled along the ceiling. Jawless children blinked from walls that shouldn't have eyes. Monstrosities that seemed like burnt silhouettes twisted through shadows. The walls bled slightly. The floor throbbed, soft like flesh.
It felt like hell had squatted on Earth, and they were the uninvited guests.
Rick kept his gaze on 777, face still like a poker pro on his fifth losing hand.
But in his mind?
"This shit makes no sense. How can anyone not acknowledge what's happening? Even if some entity's behind this crap, they gotta know we know."
His fingers twitched. He scratched his head—unintentionally, a tell—then rested his hand on his left thigh. His four fingers casually pointed toward the window. Thumb toward 777.
"Or maybe this thing's just messing with us. Or worse, watching us. Or worse-worse... thinking 18+ shit. What the actual hell?"
As the thought spiraled, his peripheral picked up movement.
777 stood.
And moved to open the window.
The same cursed window.
That window had shown them darkness in broad daylight, had hissed wind through blood-streaked cracks at 2 p.m. sharp. The moment Rick tried to actually look at it, everything seemed normal. Just sunlight, harmless glass, and a cool breeze.
But when he went back to the edges of his vision, the horror returned.
There was no sun. Just pitch-black.
And blood. Thick stains like someone smeared their insides across the panes.
And now—dangling.
A severed hand.
Swinging lazily from the top frame, fingers twitching like it wasn't quite done.
Rick's voice came low and steady, breaking the silence like a controlled explosion.
"Let's check the whole house."
777 nodded like they were just deciding where to get coffee.
"Yeah, let's do it."
They walked toward the door and opened it.
Only… they weren't in the house anymore.
They were outside.
Back in the foggy village.
Their feet crunched against gravel, air thick and wet with something that wasn't quite mist, wasn't quite breath.
Both paused.
"The fuck just happened?" they thought in perfect sync.
Rick's internal monologue circled like a cracked record.
"Now what?"
777 exhaled.
"Now that we've checked this house, let's take a break in the van."
Rick squinted.
"Did we really check the house?"
Pause.
"I don't know what the fuck is going on."
777's thoughts surfaced—low, uncertain, like a whisper against static.
"Somehow… that lie removed the black figure from the hill."
A pause.
"I don't know what the fuck I'm doing."
The wind cut across their skin again—metallic, too warm. It smelled faintly of burnt copper and something deeper... like breath stolen from a corpse. It made Rick blink.
The village around them remained unnervingly still. But the shadows?
They pulsed.
They breathed.
And somewhere, just somewhere, the rules bent—like glass under pressure.
The game hadn't ended.
It had just… reloaded.
Cut to van
Back of the van.
Old cushions, rusted floorplates, and a dim blue glow from a laptop screen. The hum of the computer filled the air like background radiation.
In the center tank, suspended in translucent fluid—the baby. Not crying. Not blinking. Just watching.
Tiny eyes locked on them.
A constant observer in silence.
Its face barely pressed against the glass, fogging it slightly with slow, warm exhales.
Rick shifted uncomfortably. The hum of the machine synced with the low bass of his thoughts. He tapped a small code on the side panel. A red LED blinked.
That was the sign.
Time to speak in code.
To say things that meant more than they said.
777 picked up the cue, stretching with a fake yawn.
"No sign of Tobey."
The way he said it was almost... too casual.
His voice dry, lazy. But the undertone buzzed.
Rick scratched the back of his neck, a slow drag of fingers against skin that felt like it had ants crawling beneath it.
"Yes," he said.
"What should we do?"
His eyes never left the baby.
777 didn't blink.
"Let's come back late."
His lips barely moved.
Rick nodded.
"Right. Let's go."
He twisted the van's ignition.
Click. Clack. Chkkk.
Nothing.
The engine coughed, sputtered—then stopped entirely.
Rick muttered, tapping the dashboard harder than necessary.
"This thing doesn't want to go."
His tone was bitter, but the look in his eye said this isn't mechanical.
777 leaned back, voice almost distant now.
"Yeah… let's take a break."
A soft electronic chirp.
Rick looked at the front console.
"Jennifer, are the cameras working?"
Her voice, faint but present, drifted through the static filter.
"Yes, sir. Camera feed appears stable."
Her tone was off—flat. Like she wasn't alone on the other end.
Rick didn't reply.
777 curled up slightly on the mattress lining the back of the van. He was still in his boots, eyes closing slowly.
"I'm going to take a power nap."
Rick glanced at him, then at the baby in the tank.
Its eyes were still wide open.
Watching.
"Ok. Suit yourself," he muttered.
Outside, the wind brushed against the van like something dragging its fingers across the metal.
Inside, silence.
But not the kind that meant peace.
The kind that came right before something changed.