The bedroom felt like a trap waiting to spring. Ren sat on the edge of the bed, checking his equipment one more time while Sarah kept watch at the door. The mirror stayed covered, its surface hidden beneath the heavy curtain, but they could still feel something pressing against the fabric from the other side.
"What time is it?" Sarah whispered.
Ren checked his watch. "Eleven thirty. Thirty minutes until midnight."
The mansion had grown quieter since they'd barricaded themselves in the room. No more footsteps in the walls. No more whispers. The silence was worse than the noise had been. It felt like the entire house was holding its breath, waiting for something.
"Do you think the others are alive?" Sarah asked.
"Henry's smart. Old Hans knows about this stuff. Irene..." Ren paused. "Irene will follow orders. They'll be fine."
But his voice lacked conviction. The mansion felt hungry, and they had no idea how many rules they might have already broken without knowing it.
A soft sound came from outside their door. Not footsteps. Something else.
Crying.
Sarah's head snapped toward the door. "Is that a baby?"
The sound was unmistakable. A infant's wail, high and desperate, the kind that cut through walls and made every adult within hearing distance feel the need to help. It came in waves, growing louder and more frantic with each breath.
"It's not on the rules," Ren said, pulling out the paper and scanning it quickly. "There's nothing about a baby."
The crying continued, punctuated by small gasping sounds. Whatever was out there was struggling, possibly hurt. The sound moved along the hallway, getting closer to their door.
"We can't just ignore it," Sarah said, standing up. "What if it's real? What if there's actually a baby out there?"
"In this place? Nothing here is real."
But even as he said it, Ren felt doubt creeping in. The crying sounded so genuine, so desperate. It triggered something deep in human nature, the instinct to protect the helpless.
The sound stopped directly outside their door.
Then came a soft scratching, like tiny fingernails against wood. The crying resumed, but quieter now, more pitiful. Like the child was weakening.
Sarah's hand moved to the door handle. "We have to check."
"No." Ren grabbed her wrist. "The rules didn't mention it because it's not supposed to be there. It's something else. Something worse."
The scratching grew more insistent. Small, weak sounds, like a baby trying to claw its way through the door. The crying became softer, more pathetic, as if the child was dying just outside their room.
"Please," came a tiny voice. Not quite a cry anymore, but words. A baby that could speak. "Please help me. I'm so cold."
Sarah's resolve cracked. "That's not normal baby crying. It's talking. Something that can talk can tell us what's happening."
Before Ren could stop her, she twisted the handle and cracked the door open.
The hallway was empty.
No baby. No child. Nothing but darkness and the sick green glow that came from the walls. But the crying continued, now coming from somewhere below them, near the floor.
Sarah looked down.
It sat against the far wall of the hallway, maybe three feet tall but wrong in every way that mattered. It had the general shape of a baby, but stretched and distorted like a reflection in a funhouse mirror. Its skin was pale gray, almost translucent, and through it they could see dark veins pulsing with something that wasn't blood.
But its eyes were the worst part.
Where eyes should have been were two perfect holes, so deep and black they seemed to go on forever. No sockets, no lids, just empty spaces that led into nothing. When it turned its head toward them, those holes fixed on their faces with an intelligence that was ancient and hungry.
"Help me," it said in that tiny voice. But its mouth didn't move when it spoke. The words came from somewhere else, somewhere deeper. "I'm lost. I can't find my mommy."
Sarah took a step back, but she couldn't look away from those empty holes where eyes should be. "Oh God. What is that thing?"
The infant began to crawl toward them. Its movements were wrong, too fluid, like it had no bones inside its skin. It left wet marks on the floor where it touched, and steam rose from each handprint.
"I'm so hungry," it whispered, getting closer. "I haven't eaten in so long. Do you have food? Do you have anything warm?"
Ren slammed the door shut and threw the lock. Immediately, scratching started on the other side. Not fingernails now, but something harder. Claws.
"That's not in the rules," Sarah said, backing away from the door. "Why isn't it in the rules?"
"Because it's not supposed to exist," Ren replied. "The mansion is making new things. Adapting."
The scratching stopped. The crying resumed, but now it sounded different. Angry. The pitiful wails became sharper, more demanding.
"Let me in," the thing said, and its voice was no longer small and helpless. It was growing deeper, more resonant. "I know you're in there. I can smell you. You smell warm. You smell alive."
Something heavy hit the door. The wood cracked but held.
"I'm so hungry," it said again, but now the voice came from a bigger throat. "I've been hungry for so long. Please. Just a little taste. Just a finger. Just a toe."
Another impact shook the door. This time they could see the wood splintering around the frame.
"The window," Sarah said, rushing to look outside. But there was no window anymore. Where glass should have been was just solid black stone.
"I can hear your hearts beating," the thing said, and now its voice filled the entire room. "Thump thump. Thump thump. Such a lovely sound. I want to make it stop."
The door exploded inward.
What crawled through the opening was no longer baby-sized. It had grown, stretching itself like putty until it was the size of a full-grown person but still shaped wrong. Its limbs were too long, its torso too thin, and those hollow eyes had grown larger, taking up most of its face.
"There you are," it said, and smiled. Its mouth opened too wide, showing rows of needle-sharp teeth that went all the way back to its throat. "I've been looking everywhere for you."
Ren deployed his tentacles, the mask opening with its mechanical grinding sound. But something was wrong. His appendages moved slowly, like they were underwater. The mansion's effect on his powers was getting stronger.
The infant-thing laughed, a sound like glass breaking in slow motion. "Oh, you're special. I can taste the fear in your darkness. It's delicious."
Sarah tried to use her skin manipulation, but her powers felt muted too, barely responding to her will.
"The mansion is learning," Ren realized. "It's adapting to counter our abilities."
The creature began to crawl across the ceiling, its too-long limbs bending at impossible angles. "I've been watching you. Learning about you. You killed my brothers and sisters in the tomb below. That wasn't very nice."
It dropped from the ceiling, landing between them and the broken door. Up close, they could see that its hollow eyes weren't really empty. Deep inside those black holes, something moved. Something that looked like tiny hands, reaching out from an impossible distance.
"But I forgive you," it continued, tilting its head like a curious child. "Because you're going to make such lovely sounds when I start eating. Should I start with the fingers? Or maybe the eyes? I do so love the popping sound they make."
The creature lunged forward with inhuman speed. Ren barely managed to block with his tentacles, but the thing's claws raked across his arm, tearing through the Umbral Gentleman's Attire like it was paper.
Blood splattered across the floor, and the infant-thing's nose twitched. "Oh, that smells divine. More. I need more."
It attacked again, moving faster than anything that size should be able to move. Sarah tried to grab it, but her hands passed right through its body like it was made of smoke.
"You can't touch me," it giggled. "But I can touch you. I can touch you everywhere."
Its claws raked across Sarah's back, leaving deep gouges that burned like acid. She screamed and fell to her knees.
"Such beautiful music," the creature sighed. "Sing for me again."
Ren raised his Mana Gatling, but when he pulled the trigger, nothing happened. The weapon was dead, completely drained.
"The mansion is eating your power," the infant-thing explained helpfully. "Soon you'll be just normal humans. Soft, weak, delicious normal humans."
It began to circle them like a predator, savoring their fear. "Tell me, do you have names? I like to know what my food was called before I eat it."
The thing was playing with them now, drawing out their terror. But that gave Ren time to think. The rules hadn't mentioned this creature because it wasn't part of the original mansion. It was something new, something the Obsidian God had created specifically for them.
Which meant it might not follow the same rules as everything else.
"You're not supposed to be here," Ren said.
The creature paused in its circling. "What?"
"You're not in the rules. You're an addition. An improvisation."
Those hollow eyes fixed on him with sudden intensity. "So?"
"So you don't belong. You're breaking the mansion's own laws by existing."
The infant-thing's smile faltered for the first time. "That's... that's not..."
The room began to shake. Dust fell from the ceiling, and cracks appeared in the walls. Somewhere in the distance, they could hear the sound of stone grinding against stone.
"You're not supposed to be here," Ren repeated, louder this time. "The Obsidian God made you wrong. You're a mistake."
The creature began to scream, but the sound was wrong, distorted. Its form started to blur and shift, like a television losing signal.
"No!" it shrieked. "I belong! I was made for this! I was made to eat you!"
But it was already fading, becoming translucent. The mansion itself was rejecting it, erasing its improvised creation.
"I'll find you again!" it screamed as it dissolved. "I'll find you in your dreams! I'll find you when you're sleeping! I'll find you when you're—"
The voice cut off. The creature was gone.
The room stopped shaking. The cracks in the walls sealed themselves. Everything returned to the mansion's normal state of wrongness.
Ren and Sarah sat in the silence, bleeding and exhausted.
"How did you know that would work?" Sarah asked.
"I didn't," Ren admitted. "But the mansion follows rules. Even evil places have laws. It couldn't let something exist that violated its own nature."
Sarah checked her watch. "Twelve oh five. We missed midnight."
As if summoned by her words, the chandelier above them began to flicker. They looked up instinctively and immediately regretted it.
Faces pressed against the ceiling, dozens of them, their mouths opening and closing like fish gasping for air. And every single one of them was smiling.
"Don't look," Ren said, but it was too late.
The faces had noticed them noticing.
And now they were all laughing.