Amelia didn't remember unlocking the door.
One moment she was staring into Elias Crowe's burning eyes, the next she was falling backward into the hallway as the Warden's room expelled her like a body rejecting poison. The door slammed behind her with such force that the brass nameplate bent inward.
Silence swallowed her scream.
For a second, the corridor looked normal.
Too normal.
Then the lights above her flickered once… twice… and bled into darkness.
The carpet beneath her boots softened.
Warm.
Wet.
Amelia staggered, shining her flashlight downward. The red fibers squirmed like living skin, veins pulsing underneath. Each step made a faint sucking sound, as if the floor didn't want to let her go.
The air thickened.
It smelled of iron, old medicine, and something sweeter beneath — decay mixed with perfume.
She started walking. Slowly. Carefully.
The hallway stretched farther than before, curving slightly, breathing in shallow waves. The walls sweated. Tiny droplets ran downward like tears.
Then she heard it.
A whisper.
Not one voice.
Many.
At first they were soft, like wind brushing paper. Then words began forming.
"Amelia…"
Her stomach clenched.
She turned, sweeping the light across the walls. Nothing. Just peeling paint and cracks like old scars.
She exhaled shakily and stepped forward.
The whispering grew louder.
"Don't leave us."
"Stay."
"He's coming."
A sudden bulge swelled beside her face.
The plaster bubbled outward like skin over bone.
Amelia froze.
A mouth pushed through the wall.
Then a nose.
Then eyes.
A woman's face emerged from the plaster as if drowning upward, her skin chalk-white, hair tangled in frozen strands. Her mouth opened impossibly wide.
"HELP ME."
More bulges formed.
Dozens.
Faces pressed outward, stretching the walls like thin cloth. Men, children, nurses, patients. Their eyes rolled in terror. Their mouths screamed silently before sound finally erupted.
The corridor exploded into noise.
Cries, sobs, prayers, laughter warped into madness.
Hands tore through the plaster. Fingers snapped. Nails bent backward as they clawed toward Amelia. Cold skin brushed her arms. Something tangled in her hair.
She screamed and ran.
The hallway shrank around her.
Walls leaned inward. Ceiling lowered. The asylum tried to compress her into itself.
"DON'T LET HIM EAT."
"YOU FED HIM."
"RUN BEFORE HE LEARNS YOU."
Blood leaked between tiles, warm and thick, coating her boots. Each step became heavier, slower, like moving through syrup.
A child's face surfaced inches from hers, eyes missing, sockets dripping shadow.
"He wears us," it whispered.
A hand grabbed her ankle.
Amelia fell hard. Her flashlight skidded away, spinning wild beams across screaming faces. She kicked blindly until bones cracked and fingers released.
She scrambled up and burst into the nearest ward.
The door slammed.
Silence dropped instantly.
Too instantly.
The room was vast.
Rows of hospital beds stretched into darkness, white sheets glowing faintly under moonlight leaking through cracked windows. Curtains swayed though no wind blew.
Amelia bent over, gasping, tears slipping down her cheeks.
Then she heard it.
A creak.
One mattress dipped slightly.
Then another.
Then all of them.
Slowly sinking.
As if something underneath each bed was rising upward.
The sheets tightened.
Shadows poured out from beneath the frames, pooling like black water on the floor. The darkness thickened, forming shapes that breathed.
The temperature dropped.
Her breath fogged.
A whisper slid across the ward, smooth and delighted.
"He's almost finished tasting you."
The shadows stretched taller.
Standing.
Waiting.
Watching.
Amelia backed toward the door, heart pounding so loudly she feared it would answer the whispers.
Redwood Asylum no longer felt like a building.
It felt like a mouth.
And she was still on its tongue.