- LATE NOTICE -
On a gray winter evening in 2010, the city breathed heavily, like an old creature groaning under the weight of years. The streets were narrow, the sidewalks worn, and the buildings were covered in a layer of dust and desolation. Here, in this forgotten corner of the world, lived Kyle, a young man in his mid-twenties, his sharp intellect shining in his eyes, yet hidden behind walls of doubt and anxiety. Kyle observed the world from the window of his small apartment, staring at the dim lights reflected on the glass, listening to the silence of the night, occasionally broken by the sound of a passing car or the bark of a stray dog. Inside, a constant struggle raged: between a desire to prove himself and a fear of failure, between grand dreams and a reality that grew narrower with each passing day.
Kyle didn't own much; his apartment barely fit a small bed and an old wooden desk, its walls bearing the marks of damp and peeling paint. He lived on the brink of bankruptcy, chasing temporary jobs and counting every coin in his pocket as rent and debt piled up. Every night, he went to sleep hoping tomorrow would bring a new opportunity, and every morning he woke up to find himself in the same cycle: job hunting, rejection letters, and gnawing anxiety.
Kyle's apartment was like a small box of memories and worries. The walls were painted a faded white, long since lost their luster. A single window overlooked a narrow alley, letting in sunlight for only a few minutes each day before the shadows returned. On the wall opposite the window, Kyle hung an old painting from his college days, its lines as tangled as his thoughts, its colors as muted as his dreams. In the corner, a small desk was piled high with papers and rejection letters from various companies, above which a yellow lamp cast a dim light, barely enough to dispel the gloom.
Kyle spent most of his time in this room, reading, writing, or staring at the ceiling. Sometimes, he would get up to make himself a cheap cup of coffee and sit on the edge of the bed, listening to the rain beat against the windowpane. In those moments, he felt profoundly alone, as if the whole world had forgotten him. Yet, something inside him refused to give up: a tiny spark of hope, or perhaps a hidden stubbornness, that drove him to keep searching for a chance to change his life.
One night, while Kyle was browsing job websites on his old computer, an advertisement unlike any he had ever seen appeared. It was simple, without colors or pictures, written in black font on a white background: "Night shift worker needed for a private hospital. Starts immediately. No experience required. Competitive salary. Call now." There was a phone number at the end of the advertisement, but no company name or further details.
Kyle paused at the advertisement, a strange feeling stirring in his chest a mixture of curiosity and suspicion. Why hadn't the ad named the hospital? And why did it specify night shifts only? Yet, his desperation had reached a point where he no longer had the luxury of choice. He picked up the phone and dialed the number with trembling fingers. It didn't ring for long; a quiet, indistinct voice came through: "Hello, is this Kyle? " He hesitated for a moment, then replied, "Yes... I'm Kyle. I saw your job ad." The response was swift: "Yes, we were expecting you. You can come in tomorrow at 9:00 PM. The hospital is on Palm Street, Building 85. Don't forget your ID." Then the line went dead.
Kyle sat staring at his phone for a few moments, trying to process what had happened. How did they know his name? And why hadn't they asked about his experience or qualifications? A shiver ran down his spine, but he convinced himself it was just a coincidence. Perhaps the ad was aimed at a group of job seekers, or maybe his name had appeared in some database. In the end, he had no other choice. He decided to go the next day, hoping this might be the opportunity he had been waiting for.
The following night, Kyle put on his only blue shirt and his faded black trousers. He walked through the darkened streets, watching the car headlights reflected on the wet pavements. It was cold, and the wind whipped through the dry leaves. The closer he got to Palm Street, the more silent and gloomy the city seemed to become. The buildings there were taller, their windows closed, their lights dim, as if they were silently observing the passersby.
When he reached building number 85, he paused for a moment in front of the main door. The building was unlike any other hospital he had seen: its glass facade was gleaming, almost too clean, without a trace of dust or fingerprints. Above the door, a metal plaque bore the hospital's name:
"Ravenhill Medical Center Hospital — Established in 1963" The name was vaguely familiar, as if he had heard it in an old dream. He pushed the door open quietly and entered the lobby.
The hospital lobby was spacious and unusually bright. The white marble floor gleamed as if it had never been trodden upon. The walls were covered with modern paintings, their colors muted yet somewhat cool. In the corner, a receptionist sat behind a sleek glass desk, wearing a white coat and a surgical mask that covered half his face. There were no patients or visitors in the room; only a heavy silence filled the space.
Kyle walked over to the desk, and before he could say a word, the employee looked up and said, "Hello, Kyle. We've been expecting you." Kyle felt extremely flustered, but tried to appear normal: "Thanks... I'm here for the job." The employee pointed to an open register in front of him: "Here, sign here." Kyle looked at the register and saw his name already written in the new employee column, in neat and clear handwriting. He hesitated for a moment, then picked up the pen and signed next to his name.
"Your shift starts tonight," the clerk said calmly. "The supervisor is waiting for you on the second floor. The elevator's there." Then he went back to his work without looking at him again. Kyle felt something was off about the place: the excessive cleanliness, the silence, the way the clerk pronounced his name, the register with his name already on it. Nevertheless, he tried to convince himself it was just a coincidence, that this was probably the hospital's system.
Kyle walked to the elevator, pressed the button, and waited. The elevator was made of gleaming steel, its doors opening and closing silently. When he stepped inside, he noticed the control panel displayed only floor numbers, no signs or names. He pressed "2," and the elevator felt like it was descending at an unusually slow pace. A large mirror on the back wall reflected his distorted image. For a moment, he thought his reflection was smirking at him, but he ignored it.
When he reached the second floor, he opened the door onto a long corridor lit by cool white lights. The floor was marble, and the walls were decorated with more paintings, this time featuring intricate geometric patterns. At the end of the corridor stood a tall man in a white coat, smiling mysteriously. Kyle approached him, and before he could speak, the man said, "Welcome, Kyle. I'm the night supervisor. Come with me; I'll show you around." Kyle followed the supervisor down the quiet corridors. Everything in the hospital was excessively clean; the smell of disinfectant was so strong it made him dizzy. The doors on either side of the corridor were tightly closed and made no sound. Occasionally, he could hear faint whispers coming from afar, but he couldn't pinpoint their source.
The supervisor stopped in front of a small room with a sign that read "Night Watch Room." He opened the door and gestured inside. "This will be your office tonight. You'll be monitoring the cameras and noting anything unusual. If anything seems out of the ordinary, call me immediately." Kyle entered the room and found it equipped with a large screen displaying images from the hospital's surveillance cameras. On the desk were a notebook and pen, and a wall clock hung above the screen.
Kyle glanced at the clock and noticed it was three in the morning, but it wasn't moving. Its hands were frozen, as if time had stopped at that moment. He tried to turn it with his hand, but it wouldn't respond. A shiver ran through him, but he tried to appear calm. He sat down in the chair and began watching the screens.
As he watched the monitors, Kyle noticed that some doors were opening and closing on their own, for no apparent reason. On one monitor, he saw a shadow quickly pass in front of the camera, but when he replayed the scene, he saw nothing. On another monitor, he noticed that a corridor remained lit the entire time, even though no one was in it. He tried to jot these observations down in his notebook, but found that the first page had his name and the date on it, written in a handwriting he didn't recognize.
At that moment, a young nurse entered, carrying a file. She was wearing a white uniform, and her face was pale as if she hadn't slept in days. "Do you need anything, Kyle?" she asked in a quiet voice. "No... I'm just checking the cameras," he replied hesitantly. She gave a faint smile and said, "If you notice anything unusual, don't hesitate to call us. We're always here." Then she left and closed the door behind her.
Kyle sensed something was off about the employees' behavior: their answers were vague, their stares were cold, as if they knew something they didn't want to reveal. He tried to convince himself it was just initial jitters, but his anxiety was growing.
At midnight, the supervisor came in again and sat in front of him. He said in a quiet voice, but with a note of warning: "Kyle, in this place, there are rules that you must abide by. Do not leave the room unless you have to. If you hear strange noises, ignore them. And if you see something that cannot be explained, write it down in the notebook and do not talk about it with anyone."
Kyle hesitated for a moment, then said, "Has anything happened here before? I mean... Why all these rules?" The supervisor smiled mysteriously and said, "Every place has its secrets, Kyle. The hospital is old, founded in 1963, and has seen a lot. Don't worry, you'll get used to it soon." Then he got up and left the room, leaving Kyle alone with his thoughts.
At that moment, Kyle sensed that the words he had heard held more than one meaning. There was something in the supervisor's tone that suggested what was happening here was not just routine procedure, but that there was a secret hidden within the walls of this place.
As the hours passed, Kyle began to feel that time had lost its meaning. The clock on the wall didn't move, the night never ended, and the lights never dimmed. At one point, he noticed that his name was written on every single piece of paper in the room, even on old files. He tried to ignore it, but he couldn't shake the feeling that someone was watching him.
On one of the screens, he saw a door slowly opening, even though he was certain it had been closed just minutes before. He left the room to investigate and found the hallway empty and all the doors locked. When he returned to the room, he discovered that his notebook had been moved and the page on which he had written his notes had been torn out and disappeared.
At that moment, he heard a faint sound coming from the corridor: unintelligible whispers, like an echo of distant voices. He moved closer to the door and put his ear to it. He heard his name called in a faint voice: "Kyle... Kyle..." He stepped back, his heart pounding. He tried to convince himself that it was just his imagination, but the fear inside him was growing.
At the clock's stillness, as Kyle watched the screens, the lights in the corridors suddenly went out. Darkness reigned for a few moments, then the lights came back on, but the image on the screen had changed: a tall man in a black coat appeared, standing in the middle of the corridor, staring directly at the camera. His face was not clear, but his eyes were shining with an eerie light.
Kyle tried to scream, but his voice caught in his throat. At that moment, he heard the door behind him slowly open and felt a cold breath on his neck. He turned slowly and saw a tall shadow standing by the door, reaching out toward him. He froze, unable to move or speak.
Then, suddenly, the screen went dark, and darkness returned. All he could hear was his own rapid breathing and the pounding of his heart. In that moment, Kyle realized he had entered a world unlike anything he had ever known, a world of mystery and terror, where nothing was as it seemed, and where every answer opened the door to a new question.
8Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡfsPCg3i8LY
8Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡdbgoh9N4u6
- FALSE CALM -
Do you know how to give voice to fear?
Not with a loud bang. Not with a gruesome scene. But with a small
idea... Sown in the mind, left there to fester. It begins with a memory.
Just one memory, shifting slightly... then another... then everything.
It starts with doubt. Then sorrow. Then the question for which you find no answer.
You do not attack them. You rearrange them. You rearrange their thoughts, their feelings, and even their very selves.
Until they reach that point...
Between what happened...
And what they must do.
There,
where the mind ceases to understand,
and begins to fear.
Where the heart quickens,
where the silence turns predatory,
and where the illusion becomes the only truth.
Do not let them linger there for long.
For those who understand...
survive.
And I do not want them to survive.
Sender:
Dr. [Name Illegible]
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There was no pain upon returning, only weight. A colossal heaviness crushing the chest, as if the air had suddenly curdled into a suffocating, viscous liquid. Consciousness did not flood back; it seeped in with agonizing slowness, drop by drop, piercing the nebulous darkness that had swallowed him.
The first thing Kyle perceived was neither place nor time, but the smell. A strange odor, starkly different from the pungent disinfectants and sterile over-cleanliness that had choked him when he first entered the room. This was an older scent—the smell of stagnant dust undisturbed by wind for decades, laced with a metallic tang akin to dried blood or ancient rust.
He tried to move his fingers, but the motion froze halfway. His body lay sprawled on a cold floor—a chill so biting it pierced the thin fabric of his shirt and settled into his bones like fine needles of ice. The sound that had filled his ears moments ago—the sound of frigid breaths and a door creaking open—had vanished. In its place stood an absolute silence. Not the silence of peace, but the silence of a void; the kind that makes you doubt your own sense of hearing.
He opened his eyes with immense effort, as if prying up lids made of stone.
The darkness was not as total as he had expected. There was light, but it was a sickly light. The screens that once lined the wall, which moments ago displayed hospital corridors and imagined nightmares, were now pitch black, reflecting his pallid face like a dark mirror. The sole source of light flickered from a small red button at the bottom of the control panel—a weak, intermittent blink: Blip... Blip... Blip. A slow, steady rhythm, like the pulse of a dying heart.
Kyle propped himself up on his elbows, pushing his upper torso off the floor. The room spun for several seconds, a light vertigo making the corners of the desk appear to tilt at jagged angles. With a trembling hand, he felt his neck—the spot where he had felt those cold breaths. His skin was dry; no marks, no wounds, not even an unnatural chill. Was he dreaming? Was everything he saw—the man in the black coat, the opening door—merely a hallucination born of exhaustion and hunger?
He crawled slowly until his back hit the side wall beneath the desk. He drew his knees to his chest, trying to gather the shattered fragments of his mind. His logical brain screamed at him to move, to find an explanation, but his body refused to respond, weighted down by a primal fear of the unknown lurking just beyond his sight.
A long time passed as he sat there, staring into nothingness. Perhaps minutes, perhaps hours. In this place, as his intuition had whispered before, time was nothing but a cruel joke. He slowly raised his gaze toward the wall clock hanging above the dead screens. The clock that had been frozen at three in the morning.
His eyes narrowed, trying to focus in the gloom. The hands were gone. The clock wasn't just stopped; the glass was shattered, and the face was entirely void of numbers and hands, as if an angry hand had wiped time out of existence. Only a hollow circular frame remained, encircling a faint white stain on the wall. A shiver raced down his spine. This was no technical failure.
Gathering his strength at last, he stood up. His joints popped in the eerie stillness, a sound so loud it made him flinch and look around in terror. No one. The room was a small tomb of dead technology.
He approached the desk. The notebook where he had been writing—the one with the torn, vanished pages—lay on the floor now, sprawled wide open. He bent to retrieve it. The pages were blank. Entirely white. No name, no dates, not even the faint blue lines he remembered. Just thick white paper, rough to the touch beneath his fingers.
"This is impossible..." he whispered in a hoarse voice. His voice sounded foreign, muffled, as if the walls were devouring the sound waves the moment they left his mouth.
He turned toward the door. The door he had seen opening in the darkness before losing consciousness. It was now shut tight. Its metal handle gleamed coldly under the faint red pulse from the control panel.
He walked toward it with hesitant steps, as if treading through a minefield. Every step required a conscious decision. He reached out, his fingers visibly trembling, to touch the cold handle. He turned it.
The door opened with suspicious ease, without a single creak.
What met him outside was not the corridor bathed in the bright, sterile white lights he had seen upon arrival. The hallway was drowned in a dim gray light of unknown origin—perhaps from distant windows at the ends of the wards, or perhaps it was the very color of the air in this place. The long corridor stretched before him like the gullet of a sleeping beast.
The marble floor that once shimmered like mirrors was now coated in a fine layer of dust, as if years had passed since a janitor's foot had touched it. The paintings of complex geometric shapes hung askew on the walls; some had plummeted to the floor, their glass shattered.
Kyle took one step out of the room, then stopped. The silence here was heavier. No hum of air conditioners, no drone of electrical devices, no sound of a distant elevator.
"Is anyone here?" he called out, slightly louder this time. The words left his mouth and traveled down the long corridor, but found no echo. There was no reverberation. The darkness swallowed his plea as if it had never been uttered.
He moved slowly, hugging the wall, his eyes scanning the space frantically for any movement. The doors on either side of the hallway were all closed. He ran his hand along the wall as he walked; the texture of the paint was coarse and peeling in places, vastly different from the smooth finish he remembered just hours ago. How could a building age this rapidly?
He reached the spot where the supervisor had previously stood. Emptiness reigned supreme. He looked at the floor, searching for any footprints in the dust—perhaps his own from earlier, or the supervisor's. Nothing. The layer of dust was level, soft, and untouched. As if he were the first living being to walk here since the dawn of time.
He felt an overwhelming urge to weep, to scream, or to laugh hysterically. The isolation was tightening around his neck like a noose. He remembered the elevator. It was his only hope. He had to get to the ground floor, to the lobby, to that strange masked clerk. Any human face, no matter how cryptic, was better than this nothingness.
He began to run. At first, it was a light jog, then it escalated into a frantic sprint, the sound of his footsteps slamming against the floor, shattering the oppressive silence. He reached the end of the hall, where the steel elevator doors stood.
He mashed the call button violently—once, twice, ten times. The button did not light up. He heard no motor. He pressed his ear against the cold door, listening for any movement in the shaft behind it. Silence. Only a thin draft of cold air whistling feebly through the cracks.
He recoiled, gasping, his breath escaping in thick white plumes. The air had suddenly turned frigid, a biting winter frost. He looked around, lost. The corridor stretched behind him—long, gray, and infinite.
And as he stood there, frozen by cold and fear, he noticed something he had overlooked in the dark. On the wall opposite the elevator was a large glass bulletin board, its corner cracked. He approached it slowly, drawn by a morbid curiosity. The board was cluttered with old papers—internal memos, shift schedules with yellowed edges and curled corners. His eyes fell on a paper pinned in the center by a rusted tack.
He leaned in until his nose nearly touched the grimy glass. It was a list of staff on duty for the month of "December." He scanned the names quickly, searching for anything familiar. Then, his heart skipped a beat. At the bottom of the list was his name: Kyle.
But what made him recoil in silent horror was not the presence of his name, but the date written in bold at the top of the page.
It was not today's date. Nor was it even this year. The year written on the paper, which looked old enough to crumble into ash, was: 1963 AD.
He felt the ground tilt beneath him. He took another step back, his back hitting the rear wall. The only sound he heard now was not from the outside, but the thundering of his own heart against his eardrums, and his ragged breaths which sounded deafening in this silent tomb. He looked again at the long, dark corridor he had come from. The shadows at its end seemed to lengthen, crawling toward him with an agonizingly slow, imperceptible crawl, like an inkblot expanding in water.
And deep within that corridor, very far away at the edge of his vision, a single light flashed. Not the light of a lamp... but a flash like that of an old camera. Once. Then the darkness returned.
Kyle froze, unable to even blink, waiting for the next flash. But the corridor remained plunged in its terrifying stillness, staring back at him as he stared into it, waiting to see who would move first.
The flash faded, but its afterimage remained burned into Kyle's retina like a white dot refusing to vanish. He didn't wait for another. He pushed his body away from the wall, driven by a primal survival instinct, and bolted away from the elevator and that cursed list bearing a date of the long-dead.
Mid-run, he heard a sound. It wasn't a whisper this time, but a metallic clang, as if a medical tray had hit the floor. The sound came from a side hallway to the right, where the examination rooms were located.
Kyle froze, his breath coming in hitches. Should he run? Or face it? Curiosity, laced with terror, urged him closer. He crept forward, hugging the wall, until he reached the corner. He peeked around slowly.
There, under a flickering neon light that emitted a maddening hum, he saw someone. A man in blue medical scrubs, kneeling, gathering shards of glass and surgical instruments that had spilled from an overturned metal cart. The man was muttering rapid, unintelligible words.
"Y-you?" Kyle's voice came out brittle.
The man jerked violently, as if an electric current had jolted his body. He spun around with manic speed, his eyes bulging behind thick spectacles with a cracked left lens. He was a man in his fifties, his hair disheveled and his face slick with a film of cold sweat despite the frigid air.
"Don't look at the camera!" the man hissed, pointing a trembling finger toward the upper corner of the ceiling. "It doesn't record... it eats... it eats time!"
Kyle took a step back, raising his hands pacifyingly. "I'm Kyle... I'm the new employee... or so I think. What's happening here? Who are you?"
The man laughed—a dry, hysterical laugh that sounded like a cough. "New employee? We were all new... before the previous cycle. I am Dr. Simon. Neurosurgeon... or I was, before the door locked."
Simon crawled closer, still eyeing the walls suspiciously. "Did you see the date? Did you see the lists? They are recycling us, Kyle. We are spare parts... we are mere specimens."
"What are you talking about?" Kyle asked, trying to extract a shred of logic from this madness. "Where is the exit? The elevator is dead."
Simon stood up, brushing the dust off his knees, and a sudden, chilling gravity took over, contradicting his previous delirium. He leaned in until his face was inches from Kyle's and whispered: "There is no exit as long as the Cold Room is running. The engine pulses there. The temperature drops, and they need the cold to persist."
"The Cold Room?"
"The organ preservation vault... at the end of the East Wing," Simon said, his eyes gleaming with a strange fervor. "My colleague... Nurse Emma... she went there to check the temperature hours ago... or maybe days. She never returned. I hear her voice sometimes in the pipes. We must stop the cooling. If we stop it, perhaps the system will release the doors."
Simon's words weren't entirely rational, but they were the only lead available. "Take me there," Kyle said with forced resolve.
The two walked side by side through the twisting corridors. Simon walked with a limp, stopping every few meters to ensure the way was clear, while Kyle tried to ignore the bulletin boards whose texts had shifted into cryptic warnings: "Fear is Fuel" and "Do Not Wake."
The closer they drew to the East Wing, the more the temperature plummeted. The air became jaggedly cold; a thin rime of frost began to coat the door handles and internal window frames. The floor transitioned from dusty marble to a slick, damp surface.
"We are close," Simon whispered, his voice trembling from both cold and dread. "Do you smell it? The scent of iron... the scent of life."
They stopped before a massive steel door, unlike any other in the hospital. It was encased in a thick layer of white frost, featuring a large handwheel like
those on submarines or bank vaults. Above the door, a faded blue metal plaque read in bold letters: "COOLING & ORGAN PRESERVATION ROOM – DANGER: EXTREME SUB-ZERO TEMPERATURES."
A sound emanated from behind the door. Not the hum of cooling fans, but a wet... squelch... squelch. As if someone were churning through a pool of viscous mud.
Simon looked at Kyle with wide eyes. "Emma is inside. I am sure of it. We must open it."
Kyle gripped the frozen wheel; its sub-zero surface burned his palms. "Help me," he grunted, pulling with all his might. Simon joined him, and together, they threw their weight into it.
The door let out a harrowing shriek—the sound of metal agonizing as it broke free from the accumulated ice. The wheel turned slowly, then the door swung open with a powerful inward gust of air, dragging with it a cloud of dense, freezing fog that lashed their faces.
Kyle and Simon stepped inside, the white vapors blinding them for a moment.
As the fog cleared, the room revealed a sight that literally turned Kyle's blood to ice.
The room was vast, its walls lined with metal racks from floor to ceiling, intended for containers and organs. But the racks were shattered and empty. The cold here was unbearable, searing the skin and making every breath a jagged pain.
In the center of the room sat a large metal autopsy table. And upon it... or what remained upon it... was something the mind could not immediately process.
It wasn't a single corpse. It was a gruesome, artistic "pile."
Someone—or something—had dismantled a human body with diseased surgical precision, then reassembled it entirely wrong. Arms were stitched where legs should be with thick, coarse black thread. The ribcage was splayed wide like a broken birdcage, and stuffed inside were organs that did not belong to this frame... hearts... more than three human hearts, frozen, packed into the thoracic cavity like a biological engine.
The blood was not liquid. Due to the extreme cold—nearing thirty below—the blood had flash-frozen as it spilled, forming jagged crimson icicles that hung from the table's edges like melting candles frozen in time. The floor around the table was a lake of congealed blood that resembled shattered red glass.
"Emma..." Simon whispered, falling to his knees, his voice strangling.
Kyle saw what Simon was looking at. The head. It was not in its natural place. It had been carefully placed on a metal tray beside the mangled torso, the face turned toward the door, eyes wide and frozen in an eternal stare of terror, a layer of frost coating the lashes and blue lips.
But the true horror was not just in the corpse. It was on the walls.
Written in frozen blood across the surrounding white walls, in broad, chaotic strokes, were phrases repeated dozens of times: "THE COLD PRESERVES THE SOUL" — "DO NOT WARM ME" — "I STILL FEEL EVERYTHING."
Kyle took a step forward, mesmerized by the sheer depravity of the scene, and his foot crunched on something hard on the floor. He leaned down to pick it up. It was a surgical scalpel; the handle was not only stained with blood but snapped from the sheer force of the grip once held upon it.
Suddenly, amidst the silence of death and frost, a sound occurred. It didn't come from Kyle, nor from the weeping Simon. The sound came from the table.
From within the open ribcage stuffed with frozen hearts. Thump... Thump... A slow, heavy pulse shifted the frost-laden, broken ribs. The hearts were not entirely dead. The cold hadn't killed them... it had preserved them in a state of perpetual agony.
Kyle recoiled, bumping into Simon's back, his eyes fixed on the open chest that had begun to shudder with agonizing slowness.
"She's alive..." Simon muttered, his voice stripped of all reason. He began to laugh and cry simultaneously. "I told you... the Cold Room doesn't kill... it only prevents death!"
Before Kyle could drag him out, the steel door slammed shut behind them with a colossal force. The electronic locks whirred into place, sealing them inside with the mangled body and the hearts that began to beat louder and louder in the frozen dark.
8Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡYCWm9KHeV4
ـــــــــــــــــــــــــــــــــــــــــــــــــــــــــــــــــــــــــــــــــــــــــــــــــــــــــــ
"I am writing this letter for whoever finds it in this place.
I am no longer sure if I am even still alive, or just something trapped inside this place, or this entity... or whatever it may be called.
You will certainly lose your mind here.
I should never have agreed to that ridiculous thing.
As I took one step after another, I always wondered: when will my end come?
But now...
I believe it is very close.
Because he is coming for me.
I... I can feel his footsteps.
I am afraid."
— Anonymous
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8Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡidI1QOhUYH
8Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡrHsxOKPs2g
and then Add to home screen.