The air inside the storeroom had grown heavy and stagnant, smelling of ancient dust and the metallic tang of a tomb.
As Vicky lost his footing, the frantic scuffle of his boots kicked up clouds of grey grime that had settled over decades.
He tumbled backward, his heavy frame colliding with the rotted chemical workstation with a bone-jarring thud.
SHATTER!
A crystalline explosion echoed through the hollow room as a large gallon of formaldehyde plummeted to the floor. The pungent, acidic stench bit into the air, stinging Arjun's nostrils like a swarm of hornets.
A sound emerged from Vicky's throat that was neither a scream nor a groan; it was the raw gasp of a man meeting his end.
A massive, jagged shard of glass had driven itself clean through the center of his left palm, pinning his hand to the floorboards.
Deep, dark-crimson blood erupted from the wound, pulsing out in thick, rhythmic spurts. The parched wood of the floor drank the liquid greedily, the stain snaking through the cracks like a living thing.
"Arjun... I... I can't feel my fingers... help me!"
Vicky's voice was a frantic tremor, his face drained of all color until it was the shade of damp ash.
Arjun took a single step forward, but his "Sigma" instinct—that cold, calculating predator inside him—screamed a warning.
He watched as the pool of blood was unnaturally drawn toward the base of the weathered wooden mannequin, defying gravity as it climbed up the splintered timber feet.
Suddenly, the overhead bulb flickered with a violent pop and died.
The only light remaining was the dying, orange glow of Vicky's flashlight on the floor and the occasional, jagged flash of lightning from the broken ventilator.
Arjun felt the very molecules of the air freeze. His breath billowed out in thick, ghostly clouds of white vapor.
"Don't move, Vicky," Arjun whispered.
His voice was a flat, icy monotone that carried more chill than the room itself.
Instead of reaching out to save his friend, Arjun retreated into the velvety darkness of the corner, blending into the shadows. He wasn't being a coward; he was being a survivor.
He realized that empathy was a trap, and Vicky was already the bait.
Then, a sound vibrated through the floorboards—a sickening crunch-snap-squelch.
It sounded like dry branches being snapped, but with an added wetness that turned Arjun's stomach.
Under the erratic pulse of the lightning, he saw the mannequin's rigid wooden skin begin to ripple. It was softening, turning into something translucent and fleshy.
Fibers of wood were knitting together to form raw muscle and blue, bulging veins. Rahul was emerging from beneath the wood as if he were donning a suit made of his own flayed remains.
The mannequin's fingers, once stiff and immobile, began to curl. Iron-black claws, sharp as obsidian razors, tore through the softening wood.
Suddenly, in the empty pits where eyes should have been, two embers ignited—a malevolent, burning red light.
The entity snapped its neck to the side with a series of sharp, rhythmic cracks—clack, clack, clack. It locked those burning red orbs onto Vicky's trembling form.
"Arjun! The door! For God's sake, open the door!"
Vicky shrieked, clawing at the floorboards with his good hand, his wounded palm dragging a thick trail of gore behind him.
Arjun's gaze shifted to the heavy iron bolt. His mind worked with the speed of a guillotine—if he turned his back to unbolt that door, he would be exposed.
Vicky was no longer his friend; he was a shield, a temporary distraction.
Then, from the wet, newly-formed lips of the creature, came a voice. It was a sound like dry leaves skittering over a grave:
"Vic...ky... do you... remember... the silence? When you... turned... the key... and left me... in the dark?"
The mannequin's arm lashed out like a whip. Before Vicky could even draw breath for another plea, those cold, iron-hard fingers clamped around his throat.
With a sickeningly effortless heave, the creature hoisted Vicky's entire body five feet into the air.
Vicky's eyes began to bulge, his face turning a bruised purple, and his legs kicked uselessly against the air like a moth pinned to a board.