Chapter 3
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Max pulled a shirt from his backpack and shook it out. Wrinkled from being compressed for too long. He should probably hang it up, let it air out.
He looked around for hangers.
The closet door was already open. He walked over, reached inside—
Wooden hangers. The old kind. The ones that left shoulder bumps in shirts if you left them hanging too long.
He frowned. The rental was supposed to come with plastic hangers. He'd seen them in the photos.
He hung the shirt anyway. Turned back to his bag.
The room felt bigger than he remembered. The ceiling higher. He looked up—white paint, water stains in the corner by the window.
Had those been there before?
He pulled out another shirt. Then his spare jeans. Started folding them, placing them in the small dresser against the wall.
The dresser was wood. Dark wood. Scratched on top from years of use.
When had he—
His hands kept moving. Fold. Place. Fold. Place.
The carpet under his feet was brown. Worn thin in patches. He didn't remember the rental having carpet. Tatami mats, maybe. Or laminate flooring.
He put the last shirt in the drawer and pushed it closed. It stuck slightly, swollen from humidity.
The voices started then.
Muffled. Coming from somewhere else in the house.
Max stopped moving.
"—never listen, you never fucking listen—"
His mother's voice.
"—don't start this again, don't you dare—"
His father.
Max stood still, hands resting on top of the dresser. The voices rose and fell in familiar rhythms. A song he'd heard his entire childhood. The melody of resentment and blame.
He should stay in his room. Close the door. Wait for it to pass.
But his feet were already moving.
Down the hallway. The walls were beige. Family photos hung in frames—except when he tried to look at them directly, the faces blurred. Smudged. Like someone had rubbed them out with their thumb.
The voices got louder.
"—your fault, always your fault—"
"—destroyed this family—"
Max reached the living room.
They were there. His parents. Standing in the center of the room, facing each other.
But their faces—
He squinted, trying to focus. The harder he looked, the less he could see. Features that wouldn't resolve. Eyes that were holes or shadows or nothing. Mouths moving but wrong somehow. Blurred at the edges like watercolor left in the rain.
"—can't believe you—"
His mother's voice, but coming from a face he couldn't see.
"—after everything—"
His father, turning slightly.
Max took a step into the room.
They both stopped.
Turned toward him.
Complete silence.
He could feel them looking at him, even though he couldn't see their eyes.
"Max," his mother said.
Her voice was flat. Empty of inflection.
"Max," his father echoed.
They stood there. Not moving. Their faces still blurred, shifting, impossible to hold in focus.
Then his mother spoke again.
"Die."
Just that. Simple. Clear.
Max's breath caught.
"Die," his father said.
They took a step toward him. Together. Synchronized.
"Die."
"Die."
Their voices overlapping now. Soft at first. Almost gentle.
"Die die die."
Faster. Building.
"Die die die die."
Max backed up. His shoulder hit the doorframe.
They kept coming. Slow steps. Deliberate.
"Diediediedie."
The words blurred together. A chant. A hum. Getting louder.
"DIEDIEDIEDIE."
Their mouths—he could see them now, somehow. Wide. Too wide. Moving in unison. Chanting.
Max stumbled backward into the hallway.
They followed.
His heart slammed against his ribs. He turned. Ran.
His feet hit the carpet wrong and he nearly tripped. Caught himself on the wall. Kept running.
Behind him, the chanting continued. Closer. Echoing through the house.
The front door—
He grabbed the handle. Pulled.
Locked.
"DIEDIEDIEDIEDIE—"
His hands shook. He fumbled with the deadbolt. Twisted it. Pulled again.
The door opened.
He threw himself through it—
Into darkness.
Not night. Not outside.
Just black.
His feet hit something solid. He kept running. Away from the voices. Away from the house.
The chanting followed him into the dark.
Fainter now. But still there. Behind him. Around him.
Max ran.
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