The basement wasn't dark anymore.
It was breathing.
The walls pulsed like a dying heart. Wet. Rhythmic, like it's Alive.
And at the bottom of the stairs—
Dad was standing there.
But not standing.
Hung.
Suspended by black, vein-like tendrils that pierced through his shoulders, ribs, jaw.
His head tilted unnaturally when he saw me.
"Leonard," he said gently.
His voice trembled.
Not from pain.
From effort.
Like something inside him was practicing speech.
"You shouldn't question the structure."
Blood dripped steadily from his bare feet, pooling beneath him.
I wanted to run to him.
Untie him.
Save him.
That's what you expect, right?
Heroic son. Emotional rescue.
But then his stomach split open.
Slowly.
Skin peeling apart like overripe fruit.
And from inside him—
Hands.
Thin, glossy black hands.
They pushed his ribs apart with wet cracking sounds.
Bone snapped like dry twigs.
His spine bent backward.
His face split in half vertically.
And something stepped out.
Tall.
Too tall for the basement ceiling.
Its head scraped the fleshy roof, stretching it.
It didn't have eyes.
Just a smooth, pale surface.
Like a mask unfinished.
"You are destabilizing him," it said.
Not to me.
To you.
Dad's empty body collapsed like a discarded coat.
I didn't scream.
You did.