Horror movie

Within hours, the entire old neighborhood had been sealed off.

The local FBI agents worked quickly to evacuate onlookers and keep the crowd from lingering around the perimeter. The streetlights cast their beams over the curious faces of residents, who strained to see past the makeshift barriers. The team from the Ninth Special Service Division arrived soon after, setting up a more extensive cordon. Black SUVs with the words "Secret Service Nine" stamped on their sides lined the streets, their tinted windows hiding the tense figures inside. Heavily armed agents in tactical gear moved with practiced precision, securing every exit and entrance.

A temporary command center took shape near the edge of the site—folding tables laden with radios, screens flickering with tactical maps, and charts covered in hastily scribbled notes. More vehicles rolled in as the night deepened, bringing reinforcements and specialized equipment. It was clear this wasn't a typical situation.

Among the newcomers was Agent Ivan Petrov. He leaped out of a dark SUV, his coat billowing in the chill wind as he crossed the police line into the camp. The air was thick with tension, the usual background noise of a city at night now muffled by the eerie silence that clung to the old, decaying buildings beyond the barricades.

Fran, a senior agent in charge of the local Ninth Division team, was waiting for Ivan near the command center. He was a stocky man with graying hair and a lined face that spoke of too many sleepless nights. He extended a hand as Ivan approached, and the two men exchanged a firm handshake, their expressions grim.

The division was still reeling from recent upheavals. With their leadership decimated, whispers of restructuring were everywhere, and the prospect of a merger with the CIA loomed over every conversation. But for the moment, they had a job to do. Ivan had been reinstated after the internal investigations cleared his name, his previous experience and unwavering loyalty earning him a significant promotion. Now, he was among the few who could keep the team focused amidst the chaos.

After their brief exchange of pleasantries, Ivan got straight to business. "What's the situation?"

Fran's brow furrowed as he glanced back at the cordoned-off building, its old, moss-covered façade looming over them like a shadow from another time. "One of our agents went missing inside this place about three hours ago," he explained. "We're waiting on reinforcements before we proceed further, but initial assessments suggest this could be a high-level anomaly."

Ivan's gaze flicked toward the old iron gates that barred the entrance to the community, the rusted metal twisted with age. "What about the surrounding area?"

"We've finished the initial sweep and evacuated everyone from the nearby buildings. There are a few mild cases of infection among the residents, but nothing severe—no one's over the 20% threshold." Fran's voice lowered, taking on a more worried tone as he glanced back toward the looming building. The dark windows seemed to stare back, empty and hostile. "But what's inside… that's a different story."

"How long until the backup gets here?"

"Twenty minutes, give or take." Fran sounded frustrated, and Ivan didn't blame him. "With the division under scrutiny, everything's slowed down. Requests for reinforcement are getting bogged down in red tape, and without a permanent director, the usual chain of command is a mess."

Fran fell silent, his face tense as he scanned the darkness beyond the barricades. Meanwhile, Ivan's attention shifted skyward, his sharp eyes catching a brief flicker against the stars.

"…Agent Petrov?"

Ivan shook his head, a slight smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth as he lit a cigarette, the tip flaring briefly in the dark. "I don't think we'll need to wait that long. Something tells me this will be over sooner than you think."

Above them, shadows moved against the glow of the floodlights, flitting through the beams like bats with their wings spread wide. They made a beeline for the ominous structure, slipping between the crumbling edges of the building like silent phantoms.

A muffled thud echoed from above as Batman neared his target, retracting his cape and folding the propulsion units that jutted from his suit's shoulders. He continued forward, using the momentum to roll through a half-broken window, glass shattering in his wake as he entered the dilapidated building.

The Dark Knight landed in a low crouch, boots crunching on the debris-littered floor, his silhouette merging with the gloom. He activated detective mode with a tap on the side of his cowl, the HUD in his visor lighting up with a detailed scan of his surroundings.

"Alright, I'm inside. This should be the fifth floor, right?" Charlie's voice was calm as he maneuvered through the shadows, taking in the decaying interior with Batman's enhanced vision.

"Yes, a perfect entry, sir," came the voice of Friday, his AI assistant, her tone as crisp as ever.

As a veteran of the asylum system, Charlie had access to real-time alerts for abnormal events across the globe. But until recently, he'd been cautious about sending his heroes far beyond Riverton City, fearing it would leave his base vulnerable. This was why so many of his earlier missions had clustered around Riverton.

He'd even joked to himself that the city could become the new hotspot for superhero activity—a place where heroes and villains clashed in the streets, attracting alien invasions like a beacon in the night.

But now, with the ability to station heroes at various points around the globe, Charlie could extend his influence beyond Riverton's borders. He kept a few heavy-hitters like Spider-Man stationed in Riverton, ensuring the city remained safe, while he sent other heroes to investigate critical disturbances in distant locations.

As Batman moved deeper into the building, a voice suddenly crackled through his comms, filling his ears with a disorienting, tinny echo.

"Welcome. Dear guest, welcome to this community. We hope you enjoy a pleasant and fulfilling afternoon—just be mindful of a few simple guidelines…"

Charlie's brows furrowed. The audio didn't match anything on his system's logs, and in detective mode, no sound source appeared on his HUD. Even stranger, the voice seemed to come from every direction at once, making it impossible to pinpoint.

"Friday, can you identify where that voice is coming from?"

"No clear source, sir," Friday replied. "It could be a form of interference, or it may be directly affecting the hero's auditory perception."

Charlie's mind raced as he analyzed the situation. He'd encountered enough opponents with psychic abilities to know that auditory illusions were a common trick among those who could manipulate the mind.

"…and most importantly, stay away from Room 567."

Hearing the warning, Charlie immediately switched gears. "Friday, mark the location of Room 567 on my HUD."

The thrill of the forbidden beckoned to him, the lure of a hidden danger too enticing to ignore. In the safety of his virtual control room, Charlie had no reason to hold back.

"As you wish, sir."

A red marker appeared in Batman's field of vision, highlighting the door to Room 567. The label glowed ominously against the decaying walls.

"Oh, and one more thing… don't look back."

Without a second thought, Charlie twisted Batman's head, scanning the corridor behind him.

All he saw were the closed elevator doors, their metal surface gleaming dully in the dim light.

He let out a breath, but as he turned back, his gaze locked onto a face that hadn't been there a moment before.

An elderly woman stood inches from him, her face so close he could see the texture of her wrinkled skin. Her eyes were empty, reflecting Batman's own visage, and her lips were pulled into a smile that seemed stitched in place, unnatural and unnerving.

Charlie's eyes darted past her, taking in the full scene. A dozen more figures now lined the corridor, their expressions identical—men and women, their faces frozen in eerie, rictus grins.

A gust of cold air swept through the hallway, lifting Batman's cloak and sending it rippling like the wings of a great nocturnal predator.

The scene before him screamed danger. Without hesitation, Charlie initiated the attack sequence. Batman surged forward, his right hand darting out from beneath his cloak to seize the old woman by the shoulder.

She recoiled, trying to pull away, but Batman's grip shifted, catching her arm with the precision of a machine. A strange, bluish light flickered in her eyes, and she tensed, her frail body suddenly surging with an unexpected strength.

But she was no match for the power of Batman's suit.

With a grunt, Batman hoisted her off the ground. The motors in his gauntlet hummed as he used her momentum to swing her upwards, slamming her against the ceiling. Her spine cracked the plaster, sending chunks of debris tumbling down like dust from an old tomb.

She hit the floor with a thud, groaning as she lay crumpled on the ground.

The other figures in the hallway remained rooted in place, their hollow smiles unchanging as they stared at Batman with unblinking eyes.

Batman's silhouette merged with the shadows, the shattered light fixture above casting erratic flashes across his armored form.

He met the staring figures with a hard, unyielding glare, his eyes cold and calculating beneath the cowl.

For a moment, the air seemed to crackle with tension, as if whatever strange force animated the figures was testing the Dark Knight's resolve.

Charlie couldn't help but chuckle inwardly. This was why Batman would never work as a protagonist in a horror movie.

Because if Batman was the one facing the monsters...

... you'd never be sure who was supposed to be scared—the creatures or the man who hunted them.