The Apartment

JP with Jaxx, Trustno1 and Cindy

Agent Powers and Ekaterina followed the others out of the room and towards the elevator. However there was still a good chance for an ambush so they stayed on guard along the way. Ekaterina sent some insects to scout out the area ahead of them just in case.

The hallway stretches ahead like the throat of some great, unseen beast—dark, and unnaturally quiet except for your own footsteps on the threadbare carpet. The building's power has failed, plunging the entire apartment complex into near-total darkness. Your smartphones cast pale, flickering beams of light, cutting narrow swaths through the black void. The walls, painted in some long-faded shade of beige, appear mottled and alive under the dim illumination. Shadows ripple unnaturally as you move, darting like things with minds of their own.

Outside the windows, nothing. No city glow. No moonlight. No streetlights. Just a vast, all-consuming blackness that seems less like the absence of light and more like the presence of something... watching.

Then, the sounds start.

From the apartments on either side of the hall comes an eerie symphony of scratching—sharp and relentless, as if nails or claws are being dragged down wood or plaster. It rises and falls in uneven waves, as if responding to your presence. Interspersed with the scratching is something worse: the low murmur of voices, too muffled to make out specific words, but unmistakably chanting in tones that grow wetter and thicker the longer you listen. The cadence feels wrong, like a song from a dream you can’t remember, a language you shouldn’t understand.

Ahead, the elevator lies shrouded in darkness, its steel doors barely visible in the distance. The way there feels infinitely far, as if the hallway stretches and contracts when you’re not looking.

Then you hear it—a child’s cry, high and broken, somewhere in the hall. It cuts through the oppressive atmosphere like a razor. The sound bounces between the walls, making it impossible to pinpoint. A second sob joins the first, and then another, overlapping until it becomes a chorus of distress. It’s not just crying; the children sound terrified, pleading. Their voices waver, coming from both ahead and behind, each footstep sending their echoes in new, impossible directions.

A sudden thud reverberates from one of the nearby apartments, followed by a skittering sound, like something heavy crawling across a tiled floor.

What do you do?
"Everyone, get a light source if you have one and turn it on." Alyssa flashed her light towards the sound. She didn't want to know what it was, but it was worse to not know.

Agent Powers removes his night vision monocle and stuffs it into his pocket and switches it with his LED head lamp. He also pulled out his spare LED headlight for Alyssa and two small magnetic LED flashlights for Ekaterina and Sartre to attach to the guns or hold with their guns. He said, "Use these for now. I bet these sounds are just illusions to get us to start shooting all around and kill others by accident. My guess is someone using illusions to mess with us or some dark spirits are after something or someone with us. But just so you know I will shoot if there is a threat." Ekaterina attached the flashlight to her mini pump shotgun and it lit up the area of her gun range. She replied, "Wow, these are pretty bright."

Well, that's better than my phone light." Alyssa took the headlight and put it on, turning on the light. Her hope was to drive whatever it was away, and possibly catch a glimpse of it, in the process. In her experience creepy evil things weren't fond of light.

As the light flashed around the room, there was nothing in front of the team standing there, only a long hallway enshrouded in darkness.

"Should we investigate one of these apartments, there are sounds coming from them. And would anybody have any idea why it is completely dark outside, no stars, or streetlights or even moonlight?"asked Sartre.

"Yes," Alyssa responded. "We should knock on doors and make sure they are alright."

Sartre said, Alyssa, "There are several doors, you're going to have to pick one."

"Let's start on the left and work our way out." Alyssa responded
NEW

As the door is opened there is an apartment that is incomplete darkness; oddly enough a battery-powered lamp can illuminate most of the single room efficiency apartment. The bed is off to one side of the wall and the TV is off on the other. There is a bathroom and shower off to the side but the door is closed.

"Anyone think we could find something of value in here?" asked Sartre.

"Never know....let's check it out. Quickly but we should try to be as thorough as possible." Alyssa stated, as she cautiously stepped into the apartment.

When you push it open, a stale, coppery scent wafts out to meet you, faint but unmistakable. The room is a meager efficiency unit—a single room with a kitchenette to the left, a threadbare futon sagging against one wall, and a bathroom door hanging half-open to the right. A tarnished lamp sits uselessly on a scratched table, its cord curling down into nothingness, a cruel reminder of the absence of electricity.

Yet your attention snaps to the sound.

Water. Running water.

It comes from the bathroom, its trickling echo sharp and unrelenting. Your pulse quickens as you move toward the source, the old wooden floor moaning underfoot. The bathroom door creaks louder than it should when you push it open, as if protesting your intrusion.

Inside, the pale light of your flashlights falls upon the shower. The curtain has been yanked halfway back, its plastic stained with streaks of rust-colored fluid. The faucet is on full blast, but it isn’t water spraying from the showerhead—it’s blood.

Thick, red rivulets gush down the walls and pool at the base of the grimy tub, swirling around the clogged drain in languid, viscous eddies. The metallic stench is overpowering now, clogging your senses, as though the air itself is saturated with decay. The sound of the blood hitting the tub is a grotesque symphony of wet splatters and muffled gurgles.

And then, the tiles catch your eye.

Written in blood, smeared with frantic, almost desperate strokes, are jagged, barely legible letters. It takes a moment to decipher the phrase, your brain stumbling over its stark simplicity:

“SHOUT IT OUT LOUD.”

The room feels colder now, a deathly chill emanating from the shower as if the blood itself is alive, exhaling an icy breath. And then, from the depths of the tub, you hear it: the faint, distorted sound of a guitar riff, distant yet unmistakable, like a phantom melody scratching at the edges of reality. It rises for only a moment before fading back into silence.

You glance at each other, your breath visible in the freezing air, the weight of the discovery heavy on your minds. The room feels like it’s waiting for something—an answer, a reaction, or a misstep. The clue is clear, but it’s wrapped in horror, daring you to piece together its meaning while the building itself seems to watch.

"Alyssa, you see anything?" asked Sartre.

"I think I'm seeing what everyone else is," Alyssa pointed at the bloody letters. "Anyone have any idea what that could mean?"