Chapter 3: The Falling of Night
They waited as the gray light faded.
After the horror of the twelfth floor — after the not-quite-woman and the bleeding walls — they dared not go further. Not until they knew the night's rules. John sat against the wall, candle stub guttering between his fingers, while Jake checked the door's makeshift barricade for the tenth time.
"Sun's gone," Jake muttered.
But there was no sun to speak of. Only the shift — that moment when the light dimmed unnaturally, when warmth and life leaked from the air. A stillness settled over the world, heavy and cold.
Cherlyn sat silent in the corner, rosary clenched so tight her fingers bled. Her lips moved in prayer — but not to God. God had left long ago.
A groan echoed down the stairwell. Low. Wet. Like something dragging itself from a grave.
John felt the hair on his neck rise. "They're coming out again."
Jake moved to the window — what remained of it — peering into the twilight beyond Tower 9. Shadows crawled between the ruins below. Shapes formed from the darkness — tall, thin, broken things, walking on limbs too long, heads lolling as if strung by wire.
The Hollow Ones.
John swallowed hard. "They know we're here."
The first crash came minutes later — a heavy blow against the lower doors. The tower shook. Dust drifted from the ceiling.
"Not again," Jake hissed, gripping his knife.
John whispered, "They're testing us. Like last night."
But it was worse than last night.
A voice crept up the stairwell. Childlike. Mocking.
"Jooooohn..." it sang. "Jaaaaake..."
Cherlyn gasped. John felt ice run down his spine.
Another blow — closer now. The sound of nails dragging on concrete. Soft padding footfalls on old tile.
And then the whispering — not human, not words. The Twin Voices.
"Turn the handle..." they whispered from the stairwell. "Open the door... let us in..."
Jake backed away. "That's them. The Twins. The ones Rick talked about."
John shook his head. "They can't get in. We've locked—"
The handle turned.
The door creaked open — a slow, soft widening of shadow and dark.
Nothing stood there. Empty stairwell. Silent air.
Until the shadows shifted.
Twin figures — small, child-sized, holding hands — watched from the threshold. Black eyes. Smiling mouths. Unmoving. Waiting.
Cherlyn sobbed. "Don't speak to them. Don't look."
The Twins tilted their heads in unison.
"We'll play forever," they whispered.
Jake threw the knife. The blade struck the doorframe — and passed through empty air. The Twins were gone.
A sound came from below — heavy, wet footsteps. Something huge was climbing the stairwell. Floor by floor. Groaning, breathing.
"Run," John gasped.
They fled into the hall — past blood-smeared walls and cracked doors. The thudding below grew louder, closer.
"Up!" Jake shouted.
To the thirteenth floor — long abandoned, half collapsed. They kicked open a door — found themselves in a vast dark room filled with forgotten machines, old chairs, shattered desks.
And mirrors.
Hundreds of mirrors lined the walls, cracked and warped. Their reflections flickered in the glass — twisted versions of themselves, smiling wide and wrong.
Cherlyn froze. "This is... wrong. This floor shouldn't exist. There was no thirteenth..."
But here it was.
In the mirrors, the Twins appeared again. Smiling. Closer.
The door behind them groaned.
The huge thing — the Shadow Beast — pushed through. A shape of flesh and bone and blackness, its face blank, its hands clawing, fingers scraping metal.
John raised the pipe, breath sharp. Jake held the knife. Cherlyn gripped the rosary, whispering desperate words.
The mirrors shattered — all at once — screaming light and shadow and sound.
And then darkness.
When John opened his eyes, he was