The door hissed open like a lung exhaling its last breath.
Nolan stepped through into Room Number 2, but what greeted him wasn't the cold or blood or screams…
It was sunlight.
A field stretched infinitely, golden wheat swaying under a blue sky. Birds chirped. A scarecrow stood in the middle, arms wide open like a crucified saint. And at the edge of the field, a farmhouse — white, old, familiar.
Too familiar.
"I've been here before," Nolan whispered.
He began walking, the air thick with a strange sweetness. Halfway through the field, the wheat brushed against his skin like fingers — real fingers.
He reached the farmhouse door and pushed it open.
Inside… silence.
Dust floated like ghosts. Every inch of the house was frozen in time — pictures crooked, a tea kettle rusted on the stove, a rocking chair still swaying.
And on the table: a file.
Police file. His handwriting. His signature.
Case #0411 — "The Whitmore Disappearances."
He stared at the names. All children.
All vanished.
"No trace. No leads. No suspects."
Except there was a suspect.
And Nolan had buried it.
He turned the page — and saw a photograph stapled inside.
The scarecrow.
Except now, its head was turned toward the camera. Its mouth was smiling.
From upstairs… footsteps.
Slow.
Deliberate.
He drew his weapon, but found nothing in his holster. Just like before.
"Natalie?" he called.
No answer.
He climbed the stairs. Each step creaked like a scream. At the top: a single hallway with five doors, all closed… except one.
Inside, a child's bedroom — pink wallpaper, stuffed animals.
And on the bed: himself.
Curled up.
Crying.
A boy. No more than 7 years old.
"I told you not to come back," the boy whispered, not lifting his head.
"Who are you?" Nolan asked.
"The part you tried to kill."
The boy raised his head. Same eyes. Same scar.
"You didn't bury a case, Nolan. You buried me. And now the house wants you."
Suddenly, the walls began to close in — literally. The wallpaper peeled, revealing flesh. The bed liquified. The boy smiled… and disappeared.
And then came the scream — from downstairs.
Natalie.
Or whatever was wearing her voice.
Nolan ran.
The hallway melted behind him. The door to the field was gone. Now, only a spiral staircase leading down.
And etched above it, in rusted iron:
"To move forward, die again."