Lance Wilson.

As consciousness seeped back into my awareness, I found myself on the bustling snack street once more, a stark contrast to the desolate road I had just wandered, where the eerie procession of a white wedding had unfolded. The street was alive with the chatter and laughter of the crowd, yet the solemn parade was nowhere to be seen.

Touching my forehead, I discovered it damp with a sheen of cold sweat. The encounter had felt so vivid, too potent to dismiss as mere fancy. Anchored in the thrum of life around me, I inhaled deeply, savoring the fragrance of humanity that filled the air.

A peculiar sensation fluttered within my lower abdomen, prompting me to press gently against it. The sensation subsided, leaving no trace of the anomaly I had felt moments before. A curious thought crossed my mind, suggesting that the life within reveled in the brief encounter with its enigmatic father. I chuckled at the notion, deriding myself for entertaining the idea of harboring resentment towards a man so fleeting in my life.

With a shake of my head, I banished the absurd thought. "Why dwell on a phantom?" I mused, resolving to rid myself of this unwelcome burden at the earliest.

Intent on acquiring a box of instant coffee from the store, to economize on my daily indulgence, I reached into my pocket. Among the expected contents, my fingers brushed against an unexpected item—a slip of paper. Extracting it, I found it inscribed with a message in a bold, timeless script that spoke of a certain elegance and strength.

"Go to the bookstore on the corner and procure the comic hidden at the very bottom of the second row. Ensure you read it before the stroke of midnight tonight and then consign it to flames. Lance Wilson."

Lance Wilson. The name resonated with an odd familiarity, tinged with an inexplicable foreboding. "A peculiar name for a peculiar man," I thought, wondering at the odd connection between the name and the disquiet it stirred within me.

I returned the note to my pocket, pondering its instructions. "Since when did spirits take an interest in books?" I mused, half-amused and half-bewildered at the thought. Yet, curiosity outweighed my skepticism, leading me to the doorstep of the indicated bookstore.

Hesitation gripped me as I stood before the entrance, the shop's guardian—an elderly woman with a stare that could curdle milk—seeming on the verge of conjuring spells to ward off unwelcome spirits. Gathering my courage, I stepped into the shadowed confines of the bookstore.

It was a quaint, narrow space, a treasure trove of second-hand books and academic texts, its shelves towering to the ceiling and casting the room in a dim, mysterious light. The atmosphere was charged with a quiet, ancient magic, as if the stories contained within whispered secrets of times long past and worlds unseen.

As I navigated the cramped aisles, the note's peculiar instructions echoed in my mind, guiding me towards an unknown fate, entwined with the mysterious Lance Wilson.

Admitting to myself that my nerves were frayed and the very act of stepping into a bookstore sent shivers down my spine felt almost comical, yet the events that unfolded thereafter confirmed it wasn't the bookstore that harbored darkness, but rather the comic book Lance had compelled me to purchase.

Despite my trepidation, curiosity won the day. Following Lance's cryptic instructions, I acquired the book, swiftly exchanging some petty cash for the book, and retreated to the sanctuary of my dormitory.

A glance at my watch revealed the hour nearing eight. Lance's directive—to delve into the book's mysteries before midnight—loomed over me like an enchanted decree. Thankfully, the tome appeared manageable, a brief escape into fantasy.

No sooner had I turned the opening page than the shrill of my phone pierced the evening's tranquility. It was my counselor, inquiring about my recent absence from classes. A quick fabrication of illness served as my shield, promising a note of leave to stave off further inquiry.

With a heavy sigh, I set aside my phone, the counselor's skepticism evident. It seemed my tale of ailment was all too common among the student body. Hastily penning the leave note, I concealed the book beneath a stack of textbooks.

The counselor's office, situated in the shadowed corner of the first floor of another dormitory, felt a world away from the vibrant life of the campus. The dormitory's lower levels, repurposed for administrative and club activities, lay dormant at this hour, their corridors cloaked in silence.

Darkness had claimed the sky by the time I reached the office, its interior light a beacon in the gloom. The unlocked door invited me in after my unanswered knock, revealing an empty room adorned with scattered documents and the soft glow of a sleeping computer.

With thoughts of the book waiting for my return, I resolved to leave the note and head by to my dorm room. Yet, as I turned to leave, the door slammed shut with a finality that chilled the air. The room, devoid of any breeze, harbored no rational explanation for this. My hand met the immovable handle, confirming my fears of entrapment.

In the stillness of the office, a solitary bead of sweat traced its way down my spine, the silence now a tangible presence as I took a step back, the weight of unseen eyes upon me.

In the silence of the counselor's office, a delicate symphony of "tick" and "tick" began to weave through the air, accompanied by the soft, distressed murmurs of a child's voice. It sounded urgent, a plea for action I couldn't decipher. Yet, rather than deciphering the child's cries, I found myself ensnared by the rhythmic ticking, a sound both mesmerizing and mysterious.

Where was it emanating from? The office, though modest in size, was segmented by baffles for each counselor, creating a labyrinth of hidden corners. Driven by an insatiable curiosity, I found myself inching towards the source of the sound, towards a corner veiled in shadow.

As I approached, a glimpse of fabric caught my eye—a fragment of a skirt. My pace slowed, trepidation mounting with each step, until the full horror of the scene before me halted me in my tracks. My breath caught in my throat, words strangled by an invisible force.

There, sprawled on the cold floor, was a woman. Her body twisted in an unnatural pose, a red skirt pooled around her like a bloom of blood. Her arm was raised, a deep, crimson gash on her wrist marking the rhythm of life fleeing her body, each drop a ticking echo in the silence.

Her eyes, wide open, bore the torment of panic, despair, and fury, distorting the beauty that once was. The sight rooted me to the spot, a scream trapped within me, as the child's voice crescendoed into a wail of desperation.

Then, the unthinkable happened. The corpse's head began to turn, a ghastly grimace etched on her face, her neck emitting a gruesome "click." My mind ceased to function, entranced by the horror as her eyes locked onto mine, the corners of her mouth curling into a grotesque smile.

"Help...life...ah..." The words, choked and fragmented, reached out to me, a plea from beyond. My paralysis shattered, a scream erupting from me as I spun towards the door, only for darkness to envelop me, my consciousness slipping away.

In that fleeting moment before oblivion claimed me, I lamented, "This time, Lance probably won't come to save me..."

A voice, tinged with annoyance yet oddly comforting, pierced the fog of my unconsciousness. "Girls these days just don't take care of themselves. Forget about being beautiful, look how low her blood sugar is!"

Blinking open my eyes, I was greeted by an overpowering white light, so intense I had to shield my eyes once more. The nagging continued, a tether pulling me back to the waking world, hinting at a rescue I had deemed impossible.