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Eve drifted into the foyer, the door creaking shut behind her. The house was dark, the walls stained with grainy shadows. And the cold air was quiet, the kind of silence that got under your skin like an itch. She approached the staircase, flicked the nearest light switch, and… nothing. She tried another switch. Still nothing.

Had the power gone out?

She narrowed her eyes; there was just enough moonlight to see—it streamed through the windows, painting dull shapes on the walls, the hardwood. Eve called out, her voice small: “Charlie…?” The house murmured in response, a faint churning in the wind. With measured steps, Eve ventured toward the living room and paused in its doorway. Her eyes were drawn to that barren spot above the fireplace. She’d half expected to see the painting from the basement wardrobe—the chocolate Lab, staring out at the ominous tree line—but the wall was blank. In fact, she glanced around; everything was precisely where she’d left it…

She tried again. “Charlie?” Nothing. “Shylo…?”

She threw a wary glance back toward the foyer. Whispering doubt wormed into her psyche. Was anyone even here? Was this a trap? Was the house trying to drag her back here? Eve ignored these questions—her legs carried her forward. She glided past the fireplace, stepped into the kitchen, and halted in her tracks…

The table was set for six. Place mats, dinner plates, silverware, all laid out with delicate care. The sight triggered Eve to take a reflexive step away, as if she’d happened upon the corpse of a freshly killed animal. Turning, she staggered back into the living room and…

Bzz, Bzz, Bzz…

A vibration in her pocket caught her off guard. It was the phone, the one she’d stolen from the imposter Charlie’s backpack. Without thinking, she pulled it out:

Unknown # calling…

ACCEPT DECLINE

Eve’s trembling finger pressed ACCEPT.

“Eve…?” It was Fake Charlie. “Eve? Are you there?”

Eve remained silent.

“Eve, please, what’s—where…” Fake Charlie stammered. “You can talk to me, just—tell me where you are, please, I—”

Eve ended the call, muted the phone. Slipping it away, she turned back toward the kitchen and…

There, at the table, a shadowy figure now sat. Its back was turned to Eve, and its head was craned forward at a sharp angle—slumped like a puppet whose strings had been punitively cut. And it was motionless, not even breathing. Dead?

A pounding throb of dread shot through Eve’s temples. Every heartbeat screamed: Danger, danger, danger. Inching away, she bumped into a side table and—

The figure, with a sudden gasp, jolted upright as if forced into position by unseen hands. It sat there, pin-straight frozen, for one, two, three seconds, and then, with arachnid speed, it darted rightward, vanishing into the distant shadows. Its chair teetered precariously in its wake, threatening to topple before settling. The sound of bare footsteps scrambled deeper into the house, smacking a lunatic tempo across hardwood until silence, oppressive and suffocating, returned.

Eve glanced to the nearest exit, about to get the fuck out of there, but then…

“Eve,” the real Charlie’s voice, ragged and wheezing, called out from above. “Eve, help…”

All at once, Eve’s emotions whirled into a frantic maelstrom. Her conviction to protect and her instinct to survive battled each other in a vicious back-and-forth street fight. One screamed at her to run up there, do whatever it took to save Charlie, while the other insisted this was all a terrible trick: flee this house, this mountain, never return. Eve slowed her breath, gritted her teeth, and silenced the inner chaos. No more running. Hands balling into fists, she made her way to the foyer. At the threshold, she poked her head around the corner. All seemed clear. Quiet.

But as Eve climbed the stairs, another sound bled down from the darkness above. A faint, muffled whimper. “Charlie?” Heart pounding, Eve entered the upstairs corridor—and as soon as her foot met the floorboards, the whimpering ceased. It sounded like it had come from beyond the corner at the hallway’s end. Slowly, Eve edged forward and leaned around. The white door that led to Alison’s supposed bedroom was half-ajar, revealing nothing but a pitch-black void. From within, labored breathing emerged, weak and stuttering.

“Ch—Charlie?” Eve’s voice trembled. Now, every fiber of her being once again screamed: RUN. Yet she continued creeping forward, one foot after the other, until she swung the door open wide. Putrid reek wafted out, hitting her like a wall. A stench so powerful, it dredged up a flash-jolt memory: As a child, walking home from school, she’d accidentally stepped on a dead sparrow. With a wet squelch, her red gumboot burst the bird’s stomach open, unleashing a mess of bleach-white maggots onto the sunbaked sidewalk. The odor was so strong, so foul, she could taste it. Only now, the stench seeping out from that room was somehow worse. More pungent, and…

Someone was standing in the far corner…

It was the woman in the hospital gown, the one from the attic. Alison? She was shaking, a strange movement somewhere between laughter and weeping. She took a halting step toward Eve, then another one. Another. The movements seemed painful, involuntary. The woman lurched to a halt in the room’s center. Now, her gaunt arm was visible, cast in a dim wedge of moonlight. Cold blue veins pulsated beneath pale, almost translucent skin. Tendons seethed and spasmed like high-strung tapeworms. And gripped in her gnarled hand, a familiar hammer. The woman’s voice, almost childlike, quivered unsteadily: “You have to hide. You. Have to. Hide. You have to—”

Eve, finally snapping out of her trance, bolted in the opposite direction. She hurtled down the stairs, nearly falling as she made a beeline to the front door—locked. From the outside? She tried again, yanking back with all her weight. The door didn’t budge.

Panic mounting, Eve darted to the nearest window, but iron bars blocked her escape. She swiveled around: every single window was now inexplicably barred. When? How? There was no time to question the logic. Find another exit. With her back to the wall, she slid deeper into the house, straining to listen. Above, all was quiet. Had the woman even followed?

Right then, the woman’s voice, hushed, leaked down through a ceiling vent, counting: “Fifteen… fourteen… thirteen…”

You have to hide.The realization hit Eve with a sick and sudden lurch: this was a game of hide-and-seek.

“Ten… nine…”

Urgent, Eve cut into the living room. The windows were barred there too, of course. She lunged for the back door—locked. Fuck.

“Five… four…”

Her eyes shot to the basement door, wide open, unwelcoming as ever, but…

“Two… one…”

Those bare footsteps, unnaturally fast, skittered down the upper hall. They moved with a relentless, mechanical pace, like the staccato strokes of a typewriter. They tapered onto the staircase and—

Hide. NOW.

With no other choice, Eve shot toward the basement, scrambling down into the darkness. Pushing off the stairwell corner, Eve tore leftward, her hand skimming the coarse concrete, guiding her through the devouring black. Overhead, footsteps shuddered into the living room and slid to a halt. Eve could picture the woman, outlined in gray light, hammer raised, head tilted, listening for any sign of movement. Fuck. A knot of terror welled in Eve’s chest cavity, expanding like a carnival balloon. She forged ahead, as quietly as possible, until she spilled into an open space. She groped forward. Her eyes narrowed, vague shapes forming in the hazy static: Brick pillars, rickety beds, and… a wheelchair? Wait, what room was this?

Hide.

Ahead, a soft flicker of orange light beckoned. It drew her into a passage so narrow, she had to turn sideways to fit. She shuffled onward, face scratching against insulation, until she broke into a small nook. Was this the spot where Jenny had hidden?

In the far wall was an olive-green door, cracked open—that orange flickering light on the other side. Carved into the door’s center, a cryptic glyph: the circle marked with intersecting lines. Eve reached for the knob and hesitated. Something told her it might not be a good idea, but she glanced back down the narrow passage. No footsteps. No stench. Was the woman still upstairs?

Either way, Eve pushed through the olive-green door and entered a low-ceilinged room filled with dark piles of clutter. Swiftly, she grabbed a nearby rickety chair and wedged it beneath the doorknob. It wouldn’t keep anyone out for long, but at least it would make a sound, warn her.

She turned back to survey the dim interior. Its low ceiling was intertwined with long-dead tree roots, makeshift support beams holding everything aloft—it seemed more like an abandoned mine than a room. And that orange flickering glow, its source hidden, struggled to illuminate the space. Eve drifted forward. Aside from a few pieces of old furniture, countless paintings dominated the room—stacks and stacks of them. They were strewn on the dirt floors, propped against the earthen walls, heaped in the corners. None were hanging.

Eve continued to wander deeper. Maybe there was something here that would make sense of all this madness. But there were only paintings, and each one was more or less the same. Depictions of the house, 3709 Heritage Lane, in different contexts: half-built, fully renovated, abandoned, covered in snow, burned to a crisp. An exceptionally odd one portrayed the windows and doors swarmed with tiny black dots.

Had Thomas’s mother painted all these?

As Eve crept forward, her eyes caught a painting with people in it. She crouched down for a closer look. It was a family of four. Stiffly posed like American Gothic in front of the house—a severe-looking older couple with two children. Boy and girl. The father, a bleak smile on his face, was nearly the spitting image of Thomas—right down to his perfect teeth. The mother, red hair tied back in a tight bun, looked one tunic away from joining a nunnery. The daughter looked a lot like Jenny, but she appeared sad, hopeless even.

And the boy had Thomas’s eyes, his brown hair.

This had to be his family, painted when he lived here as a kid. Thomas, his “sister” Alison, and their parents. Eve was about to move on, but then… she squinted. Young Thomas looked out of place, like he was painted there after the fact by a lesser artist. His dimensions weren’t quite right. His arms were just the slightest bit too long, his mouth the slightest bit too wide. Even his texture looked off. Eve pressed the tip of her thumb against his face. His paint felt different from the rest—cheap, acrylic, cold. Unnerved, she pulled away her hand, leaving behind a pinkish smear where young Thomas’s jaw used to be. It looked gory—a mangled, lopsided grin.

Turning back, Eve started toward the source of the light. She rounded a stack of empty picture frames and came upon a red gas lantern. It was nestled in a corner, hissing and flickering. Eve was too distracted to question who had turned it on. Next to the lantern were two wooden crates, stacked on top of each other. Eve glanced over her shoulder, back at that olive-green door, listening. No sound. Careful, she knelt down and peered into the first crate. It was filled with painting supplies. Brushes, solvents, palettes. She set it aside and looked into the next box.

This one was filled to the brim with glossy four-by-six photographs. Snapshots of the family from that painting, but here, they looked like different people entirely—relaxed, happy. The father had a full beard, neck tattoos, and a friendly smile. The mother’s red hair was pixie-cut short, and her green eyes had an impish sparkle to them. As for the daughter, she had bright green eyes just like her mother, and her bubbly energy radiated a joy that shone in every frame. Eve continued sifting through, picture after picture. Young Thomas wasn’t in any of them…

Eve lifted one closer to her face, squinted. In this image, the two parents and the daughter were gathered around a campfire. Behind them, a red gas lantern—identical to the one here—cast its warm glow over a checkered picnic table. To the table’s left, the father was hunched forward, tuning an acoustic guitar. He wore a baggy black T-shirt featuring a white circle, crisscrossed with lines of differing lengths—the very symbol Alison had allegedly carved into the banister. Below it:

RING OF EYES

Judging by the jagged font, it was some kind of heavy metal band logo. All in all, he looked nothing like a Puritan who, according to Thomas, “didn’t like hobbies.”

Eve continued scrutinizing the image. The mother, wearing a Black Sabbath hoodie, was taking a swig from a beer, giving a sidelong look at her husband, a loving glint in her green eyes. Standing between the parents was a girl who looked about fourteen years old—Alison? With her long black hair and vibrant green eyes, she was the one taking the photo, holding up the camera for a three-person selfie. She clasped a free hand over her mouth, caught in the midst of laughter. At the trio’s feet, blurry and out of focus, a chocolate Lab, tail wagging. Buckley?

Eve sifted through more. Beach days. Metal concerts. Hockey games. Parties. Why wasn’t Thomas in any of these photos? Not a single one. He wasn’t even present for the family portraits.

Eve dug to the bottom, and her fingertips grazed a crumpled ball of paper. She pulled it out and flattened it against her thigh. It was a note—one that Alison had presumably written to herself—hastily scrawled in black pen:

You are not who they say you are.

Thomas “Faust” is not your brother.

He has been living (trapped?) here since long before the house was built, before the trees were planted. He changed your memories. Warped your family. Forced himself into your life.

Despite what everyone around you says—your name is NOT Alina. It is ALISON. Alison Faust. Your father is Elijah and your mother is Vera. The religious zealots who replaced them are not real. They are MIMICS. They may look like your parents, but they are not. Never forget that.

Thomas, or whatever force controls him, wants to drive you mad, wants you to stay locked up here forever. He’s making you see things, making you doubt your own sanity. (What are his motives?) He’s pulling you into a labyrinth that you might never escape.

It’s like quicksand ; the more you fight the charade, the worse it gets.

There’s only one way to stop it: You have to play along, wait for the right moment, then make Thomas angry (or afraid?). Do something extreme, something that will make his mask slip. Make him show his true face—then you strike.