(POV Shift: Third Person)
The journey from the second-floor bedroom to the basement door was the longest of their lives. The air grew heavier and colder with each descending step. The sweet, sickly melody of the music box drifted from below, a macabre lullaby that promised not sleep, but nightmare. Ed Warren led the way, crucifix in one hand, a heavy flashlight in the other, sweeping the dark corners. Lorraine followed closely, her face contorted in concentration and pain. She could feel the malevolence emanating from the basement like a physical heat, a furnace of hatred waiting to consume them.
Alex went last. The Spirit Box's response, his own name whispered by the static, had left an icy terror in his veins. But on top of that fear, a layer of adrenaline and defiance began to simmer. It was the same feeling he had before facing a final boss in a video game, a mix of dread and an almost manic euphoria. It was the "ZeroCool_x" state of mind.
"Alex, don't," Lorraine whispered without turning. Her voice was tense. "I can feel her. She's furious. She's identified you. Naming you was a threat. If you provoke her further..."
"I know," he interrupted, his voice firmer than he felt. "But she also knows she can't hide from my camera. The advantage is mine, for the first time. I plan to use it."
They reached the basement door. The melody was clear now, and it seemed to mock them. Ed prepared to open it, but Alex raised a hand to stop him. He approached the wooden door and rested his forehead against it, closing his eyes.
"Well, well," he said loudly, his tone imbued with his stream's sarcasm. "So you know my name. What's up, Bathsheba, are you a fan? Do you watch my streams from the afterlife? I hope you at least hit the 'follow' button. And don't forget to enable notifications so you don't miss any of my investigations."
"Alex, for God's sake, stop!" Ed hissed, scandalized.
But Alex ignored him. He continued his monologue to the door. "Though I have to say, your content is a bit repetitive, don't you think? Clocks stopping at three, nasty smells, the clapping trick... it's very 70s. You need to innovate if you want to grow on the platform of terror."
Lorraine stifled a groan, bringing a hand to her mouth. She could feel the rage on the other side of the door growing like a storm. Ed grabbed Alex's shoulder, but the young man shrugged him off and kicked the door open, revealing the stairs descending into utter darkness, broken only by the sound of the music box.
"Let's see what you've got for us today, 'witch queen'," Alex said, turning on his own flashlight and starting down. "The show must go on."
(POV Shift: First Person)
The basement was a pit of cold and silence, except for the melody. The music box sat on a rotten wooden shelf, its lid open, its tiny ballerina spinning ceaselessly. No strings, no batteries. Pure malevolent will. Ed and Lorraine descended behind me, their faces masks of tension.
I pulled out the transistor radio, my bargain-bin Spirit Box. The hiss of white noise filled the air, a sound strangely comforting in my role as hunter.
"Okay, Bathsheba, games are over," I said, my voice echoing in the confined space. "Let's talk for real. I know you're here. Cat got your tongue, or do you only know how to play with music boxes and pull little girls' feet? Very brave of you."
The temperature dropped sharply. I could see my own breath turn to mist. It was the signal.
"Come on, witch. Chat question," I lied, improvising. "'TacoDestroyer' wants to know if your connection in hell is good or if you have a lot of lag."
Ed's meter began to crackle wildly. The light from the basement's sole bulb flickered violently.
"Oops, looks like I hit a nerve!" I continued, my heart pounding against my ribs. I pulled out the Polaroid, holding it ready. "How does it feel to be a footnote in history? Some bitter old hag who hanged herself from a tree and now spends her time scaring a family. What a legacy!"
A word surged from the radio's static, guttural and full of venom.
...I N S O L E N T...
"Bingo!" I exclaimed. "We have communication! Okay, next question: why me? Am I so handsome that even the dead can't resist? Or does my Twitch HUD interfere with your ghostly vibe?"
...D I E...
"Straight to the point, I like it. But no, thanks. I have to finish this stream." I pointed the radio towards the darkest corner, where the cold seemed to come from. "You know what I think? I think you're scared. Scared of them," I said, pointing my thumb at the Warrens. "And especially, scared of me. Because I see you. I record you. And everyone is going to see how pathetic you really are."
That was the last straw.
An icy wind swept through the basement, snuffing out Ed's flashlight and making mine flicker. The music box slammed shut with a dry thud. The radio static turned into a sharp shriek. And in the dark corner, the blackness began to coagulate.
(POV Shift: Second Person)
There it is. You've provoked her, and she has responded. The darkness folds in on itself, condenses, taking a form your brain refuses to accept. It's the woman from the wardrobe, but clearer, more real. You see the ragged 19th-century dress, the pale, tight skin over her bones, the matted, filthy hair. And her face... oh, God, her face. It's a jumble of fury and decay, with a mouth twisted into a grimace of eternal hatred and eyes that are bottomless pits of blackness.
She rises, floating inches from the ground, and a smell of tomb and damp earth hits you like a physical wall. Lorraine cries out a prayer. Ed raises his crucifix, which begins to smoke as if touching acid. The entity pays them no mind. Its empty eyes are fixed on you. She has chosen you.
This is your moment. The primary objective.
You raise the Polaroid camera. Your hands tremble so violently you almost drop it. You frame the horrendous apparition in the small viewfinder. Your thumb presses the shutter button.
FLASH!
A blinding flash of pure white light floods the basement for a split second, burning the impossible image onto the chemical film. The sound the creature emits is not a shriek. It's a tear in the fabric of reality, a wail of pure, profaned fury. She has been seen. She has been captured.
She lunges. She doesn't float. She hurtles forward with unnatural speed, her clawed fingers extended, not towards the Warrens, not towards the crucifix, but directly at you. Towards the camera that betrayed her, towards the face that mocked her.
Time seems to slow down. You see the rage in her non-face. You know you can't fight her. You can only run.
"HIDE!" you scream, your voice high with panic. "GET UP! CLOSE THE DOOR! I'LL DISTRACT HER! I'LL LET YOU KNOW!"
You don't wait to see if they obey. You turn and run. You take the basement stairs two at a time, the witch's shriek at your heels.
(POV Shift: First Person)
I scrambled up the stairs, listening to the thunderous thud of the basement door slamming shut behind me. I knew Ed had closed it. It wouldn't hold her for long. I ran down the hallway, without a clear plan, just pure survival instinct. I was "kiting the boss," drawing "aggro" away from the important NPCs. What a stupid thought to have while running for your life.
CRASH!
A picture frame flew off the wall and shattered against the opposite wall, inches from my head. She was coming. I could feel the cold pursuing me, a wave of pure hatred at my back.
I glanced at my HUD. A new bar had appeared below my viewer count. It read: [SANITY: 42%]. It was dropping rapidly. My vision started to tunnel, the edges darkening. Panic clouded my judgment. The pills!
As I ran for the living room, I reached into my pocket, pulled out the vial, and popped one of the pills into my mouth, dry-swallowing it. The effect was almost instant. It wasn't a feeling of calm, but rather like a clarity filter was applied to my brain. Panic receded to a manageable level. The tunnel vision disappeared. The [SANITY] bar jumped to 65%.
"That's right, keep coming, grandma!" I yelled, more to keep my own adrenaline up than for her. "A little exercise will do you good!"
CRACK!
The dining room table split in half as if an invisible axe had struck it. I swerved into the main living room. My objective was the girls' room. The salt line. It was the only "safe zone" we had established. I had to get there.
I gripped the Polaroid tightly. The photo was developing, a gray-white smudge slowly revealing itself. That was the proof. The victory. If I survived to see it.
I felt her right behind me. I didn't need to turn around. The cold was so intense it burned the skin on the back of my neck. I heard a dragging whisper, like dry leaves on concrete.
...I... will... get... you...
I dashed for the main stairs. I took them two at a time, my feet slipping on the old treads. Behind me, I heard the sound of claws scraping wood. She wasn't floating now. She was crawling, scuttling after me like a monstrous spider.
I reached the second-floor hallway. The bedroom door was ten meters away. It looked like a kilometer. My sanity bar plummeted again.
"Almost there, almost there!" I gasped, to myself, to the chat, I don't know.
Five meters. I could hear her wheezing breath. Three meters. The smell of the grave was overwhelming. One meter. I reached out for the doorknob.
With a final burst of effort, I lunged forward, crossing the door threshold just as I felt an icy, tearing pain in my ankle. I shrieked and tumbled to the floor inside the room, across the salt line.
I turned in time to see her hand, a claw of black, bony fingers, recoil from the threshold as if it had touched a high-voltage wire. A hiss of fury and pain emanated from the hallway. The salt line glowed with a faint bluish light. It worked.
I scrambled backward, away from the door, my heart threatening to burst from my chest. I was safe. For now. My ankle burned with cold. I looked down. Five red marks, like frostbite, circled my skin.
I was trembling uncontrollably, but a demented grin broke across my face. I held up the hand holding the Polaroid. The image had fully developed.
And there she was. In all her hellish glory, captured by the flash. Her face twisted in fury, her eyes black as coal.
I had the proof. I had won the battle. But as I stared at the door and listened to the unnatural silence of the hallway, I knew the war had just escalated to a level even I, in my wildest mockery, could not have imagined.