I didn't scream.
I don't know why.
Something inside me knew that screaming would make it worse. As if the room was waiting for me to panic — to feed off it.
So I lay still.
I felt breath on the back of my neck. Warm. Too warm.
Not comforting. Wet. Like something that shouldn't breathe at all was mimicking how it thought humans do.
The fingers brushing my wrist weren't real fingers.
They were thin. Cold. Bone under skin.
And they twitched, like they were just learning how to move.
My mind repeated on a loop:
Don't look. Don't look. Don't look—
But I looked.
Slowly, like peeling off a bandage. I turned my head—
Nothing.
The bed was empty.
I sat up, gasping.
But the sheets on the other side were indented, like something had just risen.
I ran to the bathroom and slammed the door.
The mirror in there was fogged.
But I hadn't used the shower.
And someone had written something in the condensation with a fingertip:
"You left her."
---
I wiped the mirror clean.
My reflection stared back.
But not just mine.
Behind me, for the briefest second, was a girl.
Shoulder-length black hair. Ash-stained cheeks.
She wore a hospital gown… and her arms were burned.
Before I could react, she was gone.
But my reflection still looked shaken. Pale. Lips slightly open as if still trying to scream.
I wasn't screaming.
Yet.
---
I checked my phone.
Still no signal.
But the date on the lock screen was wrong.
Yesterday was May 4th.
Now it said May 9th.
Five days. Gone.
The battery, fully charged last night, was now at 3%.
And I had photos in my camera roll.
I hadn't taken them.
The first image:
Me, sleeping on the bed.
The same position I woke in.
Second:
Me, standing in the hallway… but the picture was from behind me, like someone was following me.
Third:
A dark image. Almost black. But if I turned the brightness all the way up, I could just make out the faint shape of a face…
Not mine.
No eyes. Just sockets. And a mouth too wide.
The photo was taken inside the closet.
---
The closet door creaked open again. Just a sliver.
I couldn't stop my feet. I walked toward it. Something behind the door whispered:
"Come back. Finish what you started."
The handle was ice cold. I pulled.
Inside was not a closet anymore.
It was a hallway.
A narrow, impossible corridor lined with doors. Dozens. Hundreds.
Each had a number.
616-A. 616-B. 616-C...
And behind every door, a faint sound. Weeping. Screaming. Murmuring. Music.
One door… was humming.
Another… was laughing.
The hallway pulsed, alive.
Then all the doors slammed shut at once—BAM. BAM. BAM. BAM.
Except the one at the very end.
Wide open.
Inside was a hospital room.
And my sister was in the bed.
---
She looked the way I remembered her the night before the fire.
Pale. Tubes in her arms. The dull beeping of machines.
She turned her head. Her eyes met mine.
And she smiled.
"You came back. Just like the room said you would."
I couldn't move. Couldn't speak.
She sat up. Skin peeling from her neck. Hair falling in clumps.
"Do you want to know why the fire started, Mira?" she asked.
I shook my head.
But she answered anyway:
"You lit the first match."
---
I backed out. Ran. Slammed the door.
But the hallway was gone.
I was back in Room 616.
The closet, shut.
The bed made.
And something new was written across the mirror in jagged black ink:
> EVERY DREAM IS A MEMORY YOU'VE BURIED.
ROOM 616 IS YOUR GRAVEYARD.
---
A knock at the door.
Sharp. Three taps.
I ran to it. Heart racing. Hope blooming like a fool.
I opened it.
And myself stood on the other side.
Hair wet. Eyes blank. Blood on her teeth.
She leaned in and whispered:
> "You're not the one who gets out this time."