While the other players dispersed to carry out their assigned tasks, the female dean stopped Lucas alone and handed him a pale yellow rating form. Her fingers were thin, almost skeletal, and her nails had a strange green hue. Her smile seemed plastered on, hollow and devoid of emotion.
"After you go to the back kitchen," she said, her voice sweet but flat, "follow the order and give your ratings in order of preference."
Lucas looked down at the form. It was a list of different locations in the orphanage: kitchen, basement, dining room, playroom, nursery, chapel. There were spaces next to each for comments and a rating out of ten.
"What exactly am I rating?" he asked, raising an eyebrow.
"The experience," the dean replied, then turned to leave without explaining further. Her heels echoed down the long hallway, fading like a breath held too long.
Lucas frowned. The "experience?" That didn't sound normal. But in a place like this, nothing was normal.
He followed the scent of damp wood and something metallic down the corridor toward the back kitchen. The corridor was dimly lit, and the wallpaper peeled like old scabs. The lightbulbs overhead flickered as if protesting their own existence. With every step, Lucas felt the temperature drop.
When he arrived, the kitchen door creaked open with the soft groan of rotting hinges.
Inside, the kitchen was empty—at first glance. Dust-covered cabinets lined the walls, and pots hung from hooks, swaying gently even though there was no breeze.
Then came the sound.
It was soft at first—bare feet slapping lightly on cold tile.
Lucas turned slowly.
A girl stood behind him. She looked to be about seventeen, wearing a white dress that was so faded and dirty it had turned an unhealthy gray. Her long black hair was dripping wet, plastered to her face and shoulders.
But the worst part?
She had no eyes. Just two empty sockets that leaked a slow stream of dark water, staining her pale cheeks.
Lucas' heart slammed in his chest.
The girl stepped forward.
He took a step back, instinctively reaching for the blessed charm Nathan had slipped into his pocket earlier. But something stopped him.
The girl was... crying.
And not the wailing, screaming kind of ghostly horror cry. It was soft. Broken. Like she was genuinely in pain.
"Are you... hungry too?" she asked, her voice a whisper, rough like wind scraping over old stone.
Lucas felt an odd pang in his chest. He'd encountered ghosts before—vengeful, cruel, terrifying. But this girl felt different.
He nodded slowly. "Yeah… I guess I am."
She moved toward the counter and picked up a rusted tray of food. Mouldy bread. Rotten meat. A half-full bowl of congealed soup.
She pushed it toward him.
"Eat," she said. "Then you'll stay. Stay with us."
Lucas didn't touch the food. He looked into her face, into the emptiness where her eyes should have been—and felt something deeper than fear. He felt sorrow.
"Who hurt you?" he asked gently.
The girl's shoulders trembled. She dropped the tray, and it shattered into splinters and sludge. A piercing scream tore from her throat, and the kitchen went dark.
Lucas was thrown backward by a sudden force. He slammed into the cabinets, breath knocked from his lungs.
Then silence.
Cold silence.
He blinked, and she was gone.
Lucas stood shakily, heart hammering. The lights flickered back on slowly.
And then he saw it—etched into the floor in front of him. A message, written in dripping red:
"Help me."
Lucas stared at it, feeling an icy dread crawl up his spine.
---
Elsewhere in the orphanage, Trevor and Caleb had their own troubles.
Trevor was fixing broken playroom furniture, trying to act normal despite the giggles echoing from the dolls in the corner. Caleb, meanwhile, was cleaning the chapel floor when the crucifix turned upside down all on its own.
The entire building was alive in some terrible way.
But back in the kitchen, Lucas steadied himself and opened the rating form. He gave the kitchen a 1/10—not because it wasn't horrifying, but because he wanted to make sure no one else would be lured into this place unprepared.
He left the kitchen quickly, looking over his shoulder several times.
As he moved down the hall toward the dining room, Lucas pulled out his phone. No signal. Of course.
The dining room was large and dimly lit, with a long table running down the center. Silverware was laid out neatly, far too neatly, like mannequins posed for a dinner they'd never eat.
He stepped in slowly.
Then he saw her again—the eyeless girl, sitting at the head of the table now, holding a teacup in her blood-stained hands.
"Sit," she said.
Lucas did.
He had no idea why. Something about her presence overrode his better judgment. Or maybe it was the need to understand.
"You can see me," she said suddenly.
Lucas blinked. "What?"
"You can see me without fear. Most scream or run. But you ask me questions."
She smiled then, and for the first time, her face was not terrifying. It was sad. Deeply human.
Lucas asked, "What happened to you?"
"I was locked in the basement," she said quietly. "I wasn't alone. We were all punished. For sins we never committed."
Lucas's fists clenched beneath the table. "Who did it?"
"The matron. The one you call the 'dean'. She feeds off us. She needs us to be scared, to stay."
Lucas felt sick.
"How do I help you?" he asked.
The girl looked up. Her empty eyes wept again.
"Remember me," she whispered. "Don't let me fade."
Suddenly, a loud crashing sound tore through the dining room, and when Lucas looked again, she was gone.
The teacup shattered at his feet.
He left quickly, his mind racing.
Was this the intimate contact the title of this task referred to? Not a physical touch—but a soul's cry for connection? For acknowledgment?
He checked the form again.
He filled in the rest quickly, rating each room based on threat level, danger, and spiritual presence.
When he reached the final entry—"Chapel"—he hesitated.
Trevor had gone there.
Lucas ran.
---
The chapel was freezing.
Candles burned on their own. The altar had symbols carved in languages Lucas couldn't understand.
Trevor stood in front of the altar, frozen in place. His eyes were glassy, like he was in a trance.
Lucas shouted his name—but nothing.
Then the eyeless girl appeared again.
She reached out toward Trevor, as if trying to warn him.
"She's coming," she whispered. "Run."
The doors slammed shut behind Lucas.
The walls trembled.
And the dean emerged from the shadows, her form shifting grotesquely like a spider unfolding.
"You've learned too much, Lucas," she said, voice layered with many voices.
"But now, you'll stay."
Lucas stood his ground. "I won't. And I'll make sure no one else does either."
He pulled out the charm Nathan gave him.
It began to glow.
The ghost girl raised her hand—and the light from the charm intensified, forming a protective circle around Lucas and Trevor.
The dean screamed and retreated, writhing.
Trevor collapsed, unconscious.
Lucas caught him and dragged him out just as the chapel burst into flames—spiritual, not physical, but blazing with the fury of lost souls.
Outside, the orphanage was silent again.
Lucas sat beside Trevor, panting.
And then the girl's voice echoed once more, soft and fading.
"Thank you... for remembering me."
---
Later, when they regrouped, Lucas said nothing about what he saw.
But when asked to describe the task, he simply replied:
"Sometimes, the scariest thing isn't the ghost itself. It's knowing someone was left alone, forgotten, and crying in the dark."
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