Caleb sat on the edge of his bed, hands pressed over his face, breathing uneven. The morning sunlight filtered through the blinds, but it did nothing to warm him or shake the lingering chill that had settled deep in his bones. His thoughts ran in frantic loops. It's just a dorm. It's just a dorm. Buildings don't… they don't move. Yet the memory of the amber glow, the whispering, the way the scratches seemed to shift—it was too vivid, too deliberate, to be imagination.
He tried to remember the route he had taken through the hall, the positions of the doors, the stairwell, the room that had held that entity. But the layout seemed to shift each time he pictured it. In his mind, the hallway stretched farther, twisted differently. Even the number of doors changed. He closed his eyes and tried to calm himself, but the mental image refused to stabilize. The dorm itself seemed to warp around memory.
A soft thump echoed from the floor above. Caleb's eyes snapped open. His pulse spiked. Not again… not now. Every nerve in his body screamed, and yet, curiosity—persistent, painful curiosity—pushed him to move. He had to understand what he was dealing with, even if it meant confronting the entity again.
Caleb forced himself to stand, legs shaking. He moved quietly across the room, trying to ignore the groaning floorboards beneath his feet. Each creak was a spike of terror, each shadow a potential predator. He reached for the door, hesitated, and then stepped into the hallway.
The air was different now—still cold, but heavier, charged, like static before a storm. Shadows pooled in the corners, but they didn't stretch or twist immediately. Instead, they waited, patient and silent, as if studying him, judging him. Caleb swallowed hard and began walking toward the stairwell, each step measured, deliberate, trying to remain calm.
Halfway down the corridor, he noticed marks on the walls again—scratches, symbols, and shapes that hadn't been there the night before. His stomach knotted. The dorm remembered him. It had altered itself in response to his presence. Every instinct screamed to turn back, but Caleb forced himself onward.
At the base of the stairs, he paused. The tapping hadn't returned yet, and the stairwell seemed empty. Yet he couldn't shake the feeling of eyes on him, invisible but insistent. He took a deep breath and ascended slowly, hand on the railing, heart hammering. With each step, he felt the temperature drop, the metallic scent returning, sharper now, more oppressive.
At the top, the corridor stretched before him like a living thing. Doors lined either side, some ajar, some closed, all warped, twisted, slightly off in dimension and proportion. The far end of the hall was darker than the rest, shadows pooling like liquid. He noticed that the scratches on the walls seemed to form a pattern—an almost linear path leading to one particular door at the end. Caleb's gut twisted. That had to be the room.
He approached cautiously, noting that the air was frigid here, each breath visible in short puffs. The whispers started softly, unintelligible, but he could feel them threading through the hallway, brushing against his skin like icy fingers. The closer he got to the door, the louder they became, overlapping, almost angry. Leave… leave… leave… The sound echoed in his chest, vibrating through his bones.
Caleb's hand hovered over the knob. The door looked the same as before, yet different—alive. He forced himself to breathe, whispering, "I don't want to hurt you… I just need answers."
The door swung open as if acknowledging him, and the room inside greeted him with the same oppressive chill. The scratches on the walls were more intricate now, forming symbols he didn't recognize. In the center of the floor, the disturbed dust had grown, as if the movement within the room had multiplied. And the amber glow pulsed faintly, waiting.
Caleb stepped in. Each footfall sent whispers skittering along the walls. Shadows shifted and curled, forming shapes he could almost identify. A figure materialized slowly in the center—fluid, dark, edges blurred, the amber glow at its core pulsing in rhythm with his own heartbeat. He swallowed hard, chest tight.
The figure moved slightly, tilting as if to inspect him. And then, without warning, it lunged—or perhaps the room itself lunged—and Caleb felt the world tilt, gravity bending, shadows reaching, and the air thickening, as if reality were folding in on itself.
Caleb stumbled back, nearly tripping over the warped floorboards. The figure—or whatever it was—hovered just a few feet away, its edges flickering and pulsing. The amber glow throbbed like a heartbeat, matching his own, and he felt a wave of vertigo. Shadows stretched from the corners, forming distorted shapes that seemed almost human, writhing and twisting in silent mockery.
He pressed his back to the far wall, chest heaving, heart hammering like a drum. The room felt alive, breathing, reacting to his fear. He could feel its awareness probing him, testing him, pushing him to understand something he didn't yet comprehend.
Then the whispers began again, low and deliberate, threading through the air like smoke. They were slower this time, almost hesitant, but their message was unmistakable: stay… stay… learn…
Caleb's mouth was dry, tongue thick against the roof of his mouth. "I… I don't know how," he stammered, voice trembling. "I don't understand!"
The amber glow flared, brightening the room for a heartbeat. Shadows recoiled slightly, and the whispering shifted, forming patterns he could almost decipher. A rhythm, a cadence—like instructions. Caleb realized, with a shiver, that the dorm wanted him to pay attention, to observe, to notice the way it moved, the way it shaped the space around him.
He forced himself to focus. The scratches on the walls weren't random—they were a language of motion, of pressure and absence. Every line, every curve, pointed to a flow, a direction the dorm wanted him to follow. The dust on the floor moved subtly, forming paths, leaving trails that seemed alive, pulsing beneath his feet.
Caleb's fear wrestled with his curiosity. One wrong step, one misread signal, and he was certain the dorm would punish him—or worse. Yet another part of him—a stubborn, reckless part—wanted to follow the patterns, to understand what the dorm was, why it was alive, and why it had singled him out.
Slowly, carefully, he stepped forward, following the patterns in the dust. The amber glow pulsed brighter with each step, and the shadows shifted to accommodate his path. The whispering grew clearer, forming syllables he could almost recognize, a crude form of communication. Observe… learn… follow…
Caleb's mind raced. If the dorm was communicating, if it was teaching, then maybe it wasn't purely hostile. Maybe it was trying to show him something. But the fear that had gripped him since the first night didn't ease. The dorm's awareness was overwhelming, omnipresent. He could feel it watching every movement, every hesitation, judging every thought.
He reached the center of the room, where the amber glow pulsed brightest. The figure shifted closer, edges flickering and stretching. Caleb held his breath, daring not to move too quickly. The glow seemed to pulse in response to his heartbeat, slower when he hesitated, faster when he panicked.
And then he saw it—a series of symbols etched faintly into the floor, previously hidden by the dust. They formed a pattern, intricate and deliberate, radiating outward like a map. The figure moved closer to the symbols, almost as if guiding Caleb's attention.
He knelt down, squinting, tracing the lines with his fingers. The air hummed, vibrating gently against his skin. Each touch seemed to awaken something in the room, the amber glow pulsing brighter, the shadows twisting in response. Caleb realized, with a jolt, that this wasn't a room trying to scare him. It was trying to teach him—to communicate through patterns, light, and movement.
But before he could process it further, the room shuddered violently, the shadows lashing out like dark tendrils. Caleb yelped, stumbling backward, nearly losing his balance. The figure surged toward him, and the amber glow flared to blinding brilliance. The whispers became a deafening roar inside his head, a chaotic cacophony of syllables, pressure, and intent.
And then, as suddenly as it had begun, the room went silent. The shadows retreated, the amber glow dimmed, and the dorm returned to its oppressive stillness. Caleb sank to his knees, heart hammering, chest heaving. He didn't fully understand what had just happened, but he knew one thing with certainty: the dorm had marked him. It had acknowledged him. And whatever it wanted from him, he would have to pay attention—or it would not be kind.
Caleb's hands trembled as he stood, dust-covered fingers tracing the glowing symbols on the floor. The figure hovered nearby, edges flickering, pulsing softly in response to his movements. He could feel it watching, waiting, its awareness pressing against him in waves. Every instinct screamed to run, but a part of him—an insatiable, reckless part—wanted to push forward, to understand.
A sudden shift in the shadows made him jump. The walls seemed to stretch, bend, and fold in on themselves. Caleb felt as though he were inside a living, breathing organism, and the amber glow was its heartbeat. The whispering returned, slow, deliberate: follow… understand… learn…
Caleb forced himself to focus. He traced the patterns etched into the dust, moving carefully, deliberately, allowing the dorm to guide him. Each step resonated with the pulsing glow, the shadows adjusting to his path. His fear was still there, gnawing at him, but it had taken a backseat to a burning curiosity.
As he followed the patterns, the figure approached, its form solidifying slightly, edges sharper. Caleb felt an almost magnetic pull toward it, as if the room itself was urging him closer. The amber light pulsed brighter with every step, and the whispers grew clearer, forming syllables he could almost recognize. Observe… remember… respond…
The floor beneath him shifted subtly, lines of dust rearranging themselves to form a circle around the figure. Caleb realized it was some sort of boundary, a space that the dorm had created specifically for this interaction. Hesitation gripped him, but he stepped into the circle.
The figure reacted instantly, pulsing brightly, the amber light flaring, illuminating the walls and revealing previously hidden scratches and symbols. Caleb's eyes widened. They weren't random; they were diagrams, sequences, a kind of map—a guide. The dorm was teaching him, communicating, showing him something vital.
But before he could study them fully, a sudden, violent tremor ran through the room. Shadows lanced out like tendrils, and the amber glow flared with blinding intensity. Caleb stumbled backward, nearly falling. The dorm seemed to test him, pushing, pressing, its awareness probing every hesitation, every heartbeat.
"You… want me to learn?" he shouted, voice trembling. "I—I'll try!"
The whispers responded immediately, not in words, but in sensation: a vibration that ran through the floor, up his legs, into his chest. The glow pulsed rhythmically, like a heartbeat in sync with his own. Caleb's fear mingled with awe; the dorm wasn't just aware—it was intelligent, deliberate, capable of teaching and guiding, but also punishing.
The amber light began to condense, forming shapes he could barely comprehend: symbols overlapping, moving, shifting, almost like a language in motion. Caleb tried to memorize them, tracing them with his fingers, letting the sensation of the dust and the light imprint on his mind. He realized that understanding this language might be the key to surviving, to navigating the dorm safely.
Time seemed to stretch. Each pulse of light, each whisper, each shadowed movement pressed itself into Caleb's consciousness. He felt dizzy, overwhelmed, but determined. He had been chosen, marked, and now the dorm expected something from him.
When the tremors subsided, the figure receded slightly, the amber glow dimming but still pulsing softly. Caleb was left standing in the center of the circle, trembling, sweat and dust covering him, mind racing with fragmented comprehension. He understood enough to know that this was only the beginning.
He had survived the encounter, but the dorm had not finished with him. It had introduced him to its rules, its language, and its presence. And Caleb knew, with a sinking certainty, that he would have to return, observe, and learn—or risk becoming a permanent part of the dorm's endless, whispering halls.