Don't Look Back

Gene moved through the maze of narrow alleys, twisting and turning, his every step cautious as he scanned the decaying surroundings. The buildings here seemed to lean over him like old men, their brickwork and concrete crumbling from years of neglect. Above, the sky was a dull, overcast gray, casting a murky light that made every shadow seem to shift and writhe. Despite the unease building in his chest, he checked the map again, his fingers steady as they traced the path he'd memorized. He took another turn, skirting a broken chain-link fence before he finally saw it—the rusty iron door described in the intel, half-hidden in the shadows of an abandoned courtyard.

Gene paused in front of the door, glancing down at the worn slip of paper in his hand, checking the details one last time. The address matched. He had found the place.

Gene was a field agent of the Ninth Special Service Division, though not a high-ranking operative. He was a standard investigator stationed in Pine City, someone whose duties often involved checking out minor disturbances and rumors—far removed from the glamour of field operations.

Yet, the Ninth Division was in turmoil these days. Their leadership had been decapitated, metaphorically speaking, after the bombshell revelation that their former director, Commander Ross, had been a traitor. The news hit like a sledgehammer, shaking the organization to its core and sending ripples far beyond their closed doors.

With the CIA launching an independent investigation, the Ninth Division's activities had come to a screeching halt for a few days. But even amidst political backstabbing and power plays, the situation on the ground was too dire to ignore. The spreading infections, the increasing chaos—it was clear that someone needed to step up. The hiatus couldn't last, and soon, the division's operations began to resume, albeit in a limited capacity.

However, much still remained in flux. The director's chair sat empty, and rumors flew about a possible overhaul of their entire operation. Some whispered of a merger with the CIA's special branches to tighten control, but for now, it was all speculation.

For a lowly investigator like Gene, these high-level chess moves meant little. Whether merged or restructured, he would remain a foot soldier—his orders coming from the same shadows, even if the faces behind those shadows changed.

After a brief, unusual reprieve, Gene was back on duty, and this was his first assignment since returning to the field.

A few days ago, a courier had reported something odd in this neighborhood—bizarre hallucinations, unsettling noises, and a general sense of unease that hung in the air like a bad smell.

The courier had been too frightened to enter the building. He had only left a package in the lobby's delivery box before fleeing, his words later conveying a visceral unease about the place, as if the very air had been charged with something foul and unnatural.

Due to the division's internal chaos, there had been a delay in dispatching agents. It wasn't until now that Gene was sent to investigate.

In Gene's experience, such reports often turned out to be false alarms. Most cases ended with some simple explanation—a prank, a trick of the mind, or a misinterpreted event. But being part of the Ninth Division meant leaving no stone unturned, no matter how small or inconsequential it seemed.

Before coming here, Gene had done some homework, uncovering that the building itself had a reputation as grim as its appearance.

The rundown complex was a haven for society's castoffs—thugs, petty criminals, human traffickers, con artists, and ex-convicts. It was a place where people who had slipped through the cracks gathered, living out of sight and out of mind.

Such locations often posed a higher risk of infection, as desperation and criminality festered among the residents.

Even so, it wasn't this that truly set off Gene's instincts. The foreboding feeling gnawed at him as soon as he entered the dilapidated building, making the hair on his arms stand on end.

The lobby was dimly lit, the air stale with a lingering smell of mold and decay. The walls were stained with water damage, patches of discolored wallpaper peeling away to reveal crumbling plaster underneath. In the corner, an old, rusting elevator waited, its metal grille twisted and worn.

Gene pushed the call button, and after a few unnervingly long seconds, the elevator creaked and groaned to life, descending from some distant floor. He couldn't help but notice that the sound echoed strangely, as if the old building itself was moaning in protest.

When the elevator doors finally slid open, revealing the cramped, poorly lit interior, Gene hesitated for just a moment before stepping inside.

"Welcome."

A mechanical female voice crackled from a hidden speaker, and Gene's hand twitched instinctively toward his sidearm, almost drawing it before he realized it was just a recording.

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

The recording continued, the cheerful tone strikingly out of place in this decrepit environment. It made him think of those old amusement park rides where friendly voices guided you through haunted houses. But this wasn't any kind of thrill ride—just an ancient, malfunctioning elevator in a condemned building.

The floor indicator lit up as the elevator climbed slowly past each level. First floor. Second floor. Third floor.

"...And most importantly, be sure to stay away from Room 567."

Gene's stomach tightened at the warning. The cheerful tone made it even more jarring, sending a fresh wave of unease through him. It was the kind of message that had no business being part of a standard building announcement.

The elevator shuddered to a stop on the fifth floor, and the doors groaned open.

Gene stepped out, but just as the doors began to close behind him, the voice crackled again.

"Oh, and one more thing..."

Gene froze, the words hanging in the stale air as he strained to listen.

"... don't look back."

And then, silence.

A chill slid down Gene's spine, as though a cold wind had blown through the narrow hallway. His fingers twitched, and he resisted the urge to turn, his instincts warring against each other.

But humans are strange, perverse creatures. The more you tell someone not to do something, the stronger the compulsion becomes. Despite the warning echoing in his mind, Gene felt his head begin to turn almost of its own accord, his eyes drawn over his shoulder like a magnet.

Behind him, the elevator doors were slowly closing, the indicator above counting down the floors.

Gene let out a shaky breath, a nervous laugh bubbling up. "God, get a grip," he muttered. "Spooked by a damn recording."

But as he turned back, his words died in his throat, his breath catching painfully.

A woman stood in front of him.

She was impossibly close, her face mere inches from his own, and Gene jerked back, his muscles tensing. He was certain the hallway had been empty a second ago, but now she was right there, her breath cold against his skin.

Her face was ancient, deeply lined with age, her skin dry and brittle like old parchment. But it was her eyes that chilled him most—they were hollow, reflecting his own startled expression back at him. Her lips stretched into a smile, but it was wrong, frozen in place, like a mask held in place by invisible strings.

Gene stumbled back, gasping as he realized she wasn't alone.

More figures filled the dimly lit hallway—men, women, all standing stock-still, their faces twisted into that same unnerving smile. They stood shoulder to shoulder, lining the walls as if waiting for him, their eyes fixed on him with unnatural intensity.

"You will spend a pleasant and fulfilling afternoon here..." The earlier message rang in his ears, taking on a macabre tone as he absorbed the surreal scene before him.

Gene knew then that this was far from a routine investigation. He had to get out—he had to get out now.

He spun toward the elevator, his feet pounding against the floor as he sprinted. But the damned thing seemed to move slower than ever, and as he frantically pressed the call button, those smiling faces remained fixed on him, their expressions unchanging.

When the doors finally slid open, he practically threw himself inside, hammering the close button over and over until the grating doors shut, cutting off the sight of those eerie smiles.

He stood there, panting, his sidearm in hand, every muscle in his body coiled tight. He watched the floors tick down on the ancient display, counting each second with a sense of desperation.

But as the doors opened, he felt the icy grip of dread close around him again.

He stepped out into a hallway identical to the one he had just left.

The fifth floor.

He hadn't gone anywhere.

"You will spend a pleasant and fulfilling afternoon here..." The voice in his mind felt like a mockery now, a taunt in the darkness.

Gene realized then that he hadn't left. He never left. He turned back toward the elevator, but even as he did, another whisper clawed its way into his mind.

"Don't look back."

It was too late. The moment he turned, the elevator was gone. In its place was a long, empty corridor, stretching out into the gloom, a mirror image of the hallway he had been walking down.

But not quite identical.

Because now, at the far end of the corridor, stood a small figure.

A little girl in a black dress, her pale skin almost glowing in the dim light. Her delicate features might have been considered beautiful in another context, but here, her presence was wrong—deeply, profoundly wrong. She licked a brightly colored popsicle, her head tilted as she stared at him with wide, ice-blue eyes.

She was too still. Too composed.

Fear clamped around Gene's heart like a vice, every instinct screaming at him to run. He turned his head again, trying to escape the sight, but found himself face-to-face with the old woman once more.

And this time, those smiling figures were no longer standing still.

They moved, their steps awkward and jerky, their bodies bending at strange angles as they shuffled forward. Their smiles remained plastered in place, eyes unblinking, as they advanced with a slow, dreadful purpose.

Gene backed away, his fingers gripping the pistol tightly, but he found himself unable to pull the trigger. His whole body felt like lead, his mind sinking into an abyss of terror.

A door creaked open nearby, and in his panic, he dashed inside, slamming it shut behind him. He locked it hurriedly, the metal bolt sliding into place with a finality that offered a momentary sense of safety.

But only for a moment.

As his breathing slowed, he remembered something critical.

"Stay away from Room 567."

The door number flashed through his mind, and his heart plummeted.

Just before closing the door, he had seen the faded numbers painted above the frame.

Room 567.

Gene froze, the realization clawing at his mind like a cold hand.

"Don't look back," the voice whispered one final time, but he couldn't stop himself.

He turned, slowly, every joint creaking with dread, to face whatever horror waited behind him in the room.

The dim light revealed shapes and shadows, objects twisted into unnatural forms, things that should not exist.

As he took in the scene before him, his pupils shrank to pinpoints, his mouth falling open in a silent scream. His body stiffened, every muscle locking into place as his mind shattered under the weight of what he saw.

Time seemed to freeze, trapping him in that moment of absolute, unrelenting terror.

(end of bonus chapter)