Page 22 of Don’t Watch Alone

Chapter nineteen

Derrick

The stale reek of dust and mildew hits me the moment I push open the heavy utility door, the metal creaking in disapproval like even it doesn’t want me going down there, and the air that spills out is thick, untouched, almost wet with the kind of rot that comes from too many years of abandonment.

The stairwell beyond is narrow and steep, drowned in a silence so complete it feels wrong, like it’s not just the absence of sound but the deliberate removal of it.

Tony vanished somewhere in this damn mall, and after we turned over every inch of the food court, the arcade, even the creepy-ass shoe department, this shitty stairwell was all that was left—Blaiz told me to check it out, insisted actually, like she knew something that I didn’t.

Part of me is already certain Tony wouldn’t come down here—he’s always been a high-strung little asshole—but when panic sets in, logic gets pushed out the back door without a second thought.

I press the walkie up to my mouth and speak into it. “Jade, you and Blaiz find him yet? Over.”

There’s a burst of static, then her voice crackles through, muffled but recognizable. “No, still nothing. Did you try Eva and Drew? Over.”

“No, but this fucking basement’s giving me the creeps,” I mutter, stepping down the first stair as the chill thickens around me. “There’s mannequins covered in plastic down here. Over.”

“Shit. That’s... creepy as hell. Over,” she says, forcing a laugh that doesn’t do a damn thing to ease the sick feeling churning in my belly.

I don’t laugh back. I just keep going down, each step dragging me deeper into the cold, which isn’t just temperature anymore but something heavier, something psychological, like the place itself is pressing against me, testing the limits of my mind.

When I reach the bottom, the stairwell opens into a huge floor, lit by a few dying fluorescent strips flashing above.

It’s a graveyard—an expanse of forgotten merchandise and busted-down displays—and there they are just like I said: mannequins, dozens of them, maybe more, all wrapped tight in crinkling plastic sheeting, standing in stiff little groups like they’re having some silent funeral.

The plastic dulls their blank white faces, but not enough.

Not enough to stop them from seeming like they’re watching me.

I move past them, my footsteps echoing into nothing, each shift in the light making their shapes ripple like they’re breathing under there, like they’re waiting for something.

I get goosebumps as I walk between them, the feeling so strong I keep glancing over my shoulder because I swear to God they’re moving when I’m not looking.

“Tony!” I shout, the sound bouncing back to me. “You down here, man?!”

Silence answers me. Not even the buzz of electricity, just the kind of quiet that makes your ears ring. Then—something. A sound. A soft drag maybe, or something shifting against plastic deeper in the maze. Not fast. Not random. Not an animal. And not fucking Tony.

Every instinct I have is screaming at me now, telling me to turn around and get the hell out of here.

I spin, ready to run, already imagining the relief of being back in the mall where my friends are and exits…

but then something hits into my skull from behind, burning pain cutting through my head like a blade shoved behind my eyes, and the floor slants violently as I go down hard, everything tilting and spinning and then nothing.

When I come to, my arms and shoulders are on fire, stretched above my head, wrists locked in cold fucking chains, the metal digging deep into my skin that’s already feeling like it is bruising.

My legs dangle. I’m not on the floor. I’m hanging, strung up like meat.

I blink, but my eyelids are stuck, sticky with blood.

Everything’s blurry at first, a smear of gray and shadow and flickering movement.

The mannequins are still here. Of course they are.

But something’s different now. They’re closer.

And some of them—fuck—some of them are rocking.

Not from a breeze. Not from me. From something else.

I try to control my breath, but it’s no use—my chest is pounding and every weak breath rubs against the growing panic in my throat.

“Who the fuck is there?!” I shout.

A laugh answers. Low and slow and dripping with something I can’t name. It’s not a laugh that belongs to anyone with a soul.

“You should’ve stayed home,” a voice rasps from somewhere in the dark, like gravel being dragged across metal.

“What the fuck do you mean?!” I scream back, rage overtaking my senses. “Get me down from here before I rip your fucking throat out!”

He laughs again, slower this time, like he’s savoring this moment. “Guess you’re next.”

There’s a murmur. A mechanical one. Something old and mean coming to life nearby, vibrating under the concrete like a machine that’s been inactive for way too long.

The chain jerks. The pole I’m hanging from moves.

I’m sliding forward. Like I’m on a fucking conveyor belt.

The mannequins drift past at the edge of my vision, their faces flashing in and out of view like ghosts.

The buzzing builds up louder. And then I hear another sound. Sharper. Faster. Metal grinding, spinning, something cutting through the air at high speed.

I thrash. Scream. Try to twist free, but my arms won’t move. My wrists are locked too tight. The end of the belt is coming fast. I see it now—something shining, something moving, something with sharp edges.

Then pain.

A violent, hot fire ignites in my back as something slices into me, ripping through skin, muscle, and bone.

I scream, or try to, but the sound gets lost in the rush of blood in my ears.

Hot wetness pours down my thighs, across my stomach, and the agony is too much, too intense, like lightning inside my body.

My vision blurs. My pulse is intense. Through the haze, a figure steps into my view, tall and thin and wrapped in a shadow.

His grin is huge and stretched too wide, like he isn’t even human.

And then he laughs, high-pitched and unhinged and echoing off the concrete, a sound that follows me into the dark as everything disintegrates.