EPISODE 4
The air was thick — too thick.
Helena gasped, clutching her chest as the walls around her breathed in unison, expanding and collapsing like the lungs of a sleeping giant. Shadows bled through the wallpaper, swirling across the crooked floorboards as if trying to reach her.
She was no longer in the hospital.
The room behind her had become a hallway — long, twisted, impossible. The ceiling arched too high, the floor sloped downward like the throat of a beast. There were paintings on the walls — moving paintings.
Each one showed her.
In different moments.
As a child… crying at her mother's funeral.
As a teenager… watching the same house burn in the distance.
As an adult… standing outside Room 313.
But the strangest one was at the very end: her hanging from a staircase, eyes wide open, staring at something just out of frame.
"No," she whispered. "This isn't real."
She turned around — the hallway had closed behind her. No way back.
Then she heard it.
Creak. Creak. Creak.
Footsteps on stairs.
But not hers.
She followed the sound, forced by a mix of dread and obsession. The hall narrowed until it opened into a grand staircase — spiraling, ancient, alive. Each step groaned as if in pain.
She gripped the banister. It pulsed under her fingers like a heartbeat.
From above, a voice called down:
"Helena... come see what you left behind."
She froze.
That voice — familiar.
It was her brother. But he had died fifteen years ago.
"Daniel?" she whispered.
No answer.
Just the sound of breathing… not from above. Behind her.
She turned.
A faceless figure stood at the base of the stairs. Wrapped in a hospital gown. Blood smeared across its chest in the shape of the number: 313.
It raised a hand — and pointed up.
She ran.
Up the stairs, through the dark, deeper into the house that whispered her name with every breath it took.
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