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Eve tucked the letter into her back pocket alongside Charlie’s necklace. Again, some variation of Heather’s words echoed: Alison thought that killing Thomas was the only way to make it stop, to get her old life back. She stabbed him thirty-seven times in less than a minute…

Eve was about to stand when she spotted a trail of ants filing down from a crack in a nearby support beam. They met the dirt floor and veered off, disappearing beyond the lantern’s soft halo—all moving with hivemind purpose.

Eve wrapped her grip around the lantern’s handle and, joint by joint, rose to her feet. The ant trail led her farther into the space, the jittery light unveiling more with each step. She rounded a precarious tower of paintings and came upon a bizarrely out-of-place hallway: white tile flooring and pale green walls, like a hospital hallway. This corridor stretched for a seemingly impossible length, the ants marching over the linoleum, everything receding into blackness. Leery, Eve drifted forward, her nostrils assaulted by the stench of bleach and cleaning chemicals. The ants lured her farther down the narrow hall.

Ahead a mechanical clicking sound echoed, like an off-rhythm turn signal: tack—tack-tack—tack-tack. Mo? The Hillbilly Chimp sat in the center of the hall, rocking back and forth as he manically banged his plastic cymbals. The ants veered around the toy like water around a rock, kept marching off into the darkness beyond. Absentmindedly, Eve went over, squatted down, and picked Mo up. White fur. Blue felt overalls. A frayed straw hat peppered with holes. This was her Mo. Right down to every last dent, scratch, and blemish. Unthinking, she switched him off, set him down, and continued forward until the lantern’s glow revealed, standing about ten feet away… Charlie.

Eve froze. This looked nothing like the Charlie she knew—the Charlie who’d stepped back into the house to “grab a few things.” Now, her clothes were tattered and frayed like they’d endured years down here, decades even. And her skin was autopsy pale, drained of any life—her eyes were gently shut, as if she were asleep while standing. The ants circled her bare feet, hundreds, maybe thousands, a macabre procession fanning out like a slow spinning vinyl. Somehow, it seemed like this Charlie had been here for centuries, like she was part of the house itself, fused to the ground—silent—waiting. Finally, Eve managed a hushed “Ch—Charlie?”

Charlie’s eyes remained shut, almost serenely so. But her lips peeled back with a wet sound, her mouth forming into a pained grimace, bloodred gums and glistening teeth exposed. And then, with alarming speed, the encircling ants were upon her. They swarmed up Charlie’s legs, her torso, fingers, arms, rising like a coat of liquid metal. Eve clamped a hand over her own mouth, as if that might stop the scene from unfolding.

But the nightmare spectacle only accelerated.

Eve staggered backward and held in a gasp as the ants, with relentless fervor, wedged themselves between Charlie’s eyelids, into her nostrils, mouth. Squirmed their way through the crevices of her gums and teeth. All the while, Charlie remained eerily still, unfazed by the chaos.

The invading ants moved faster and faster until only one remained, bloated and wriggling, stuck between Charlie’s two front teeth. Its needle-thin legs kicked and writhed until… it slipped through with an audible schlick. Charlie’s eyes snapped open wide, mystified. As if she’d just woken from a horrible dream, only to realize reality was so much worse. Her bewildered gaze met Eve’s, and then she whispered, “What— What are you doing here?”

Eve, barely able to think, started to respond, but Charlie cut in. “Eve, y-you’re not, you’re not supposed to be here yet, you—”

Mid-sentence, Charlie froze, her bloodshot eyes fixating on something over Eve’s shoulder.

Eve glanced back, but nothing was there. “She’s almost,” Charlie stammered in breathless terror, “she’s almost here—you have to, you have to hide.” Charlie spun on her heel, shot off down the hallway, hooked rightward.

Eve lingered for a moment, her hesitation cut short by that maggoty stench of decay. Behind, the unsteady shuffle of footsteps echoed through the painting-filled chamber. Soft whimpers, that woman’s childlike voice repeating the same word again and again—“Sorry, sorry, sorry”—until she loomed into view at the hallway’s entrance, still wielding the hammer.

Fuck this. Eve turned heel and followed Charlie’s footsteps, sprinting through the corridor. She veered rightward, the lantern slipping from her hand, crashing to the tile with a shrill crack. As Eve took another sharp turn, she glanced back, just in time to see—

The woman approaching at a languid pace, undeterred by the spreading flames of the shattered lantern. Her face—an image that etched itself into Eve’s retinas—was exposed by the dancing glow, undulating shadows bleeding upward. Her skin was pulled tight, every contour of her skull harshly pronounced, as if the bones might burst through in a blood-soaked mess. And her eye sockets were so deep, so emaciated, it looked like her bulging eyes might fall out if she were to lean too far forward. But even in the dim light, even in the brief glimpse—the vivid green of the woman’s irises was unmistakable.

Eve, profoundly regretting her choice to look back, careened forward, turning corner after corner through an endless labyrinth. At some point those hospital walls and white tiles gave way to concrete and hard-packed dirt. If not for a few rays of sparse light leaking down through floorboards above, it would’ve been pitch dark. Eve kept running, and running, until she slammed through a bone-white door and tumbled into a small room, nearly face-planting against black and white checkered tile.

She jolted to her feet, whipped the door shut, and fumbled for the lock— but there was none. Fuck. She scanned the darkness, hunting for something to bar the door, a place to hide, a weapon, anything, but she could barely see. All the while, those bare footsteps, that grating whimper, drew ever closer.

Eve grasped her hands along smooth brick walls until she bumped into a solid object—wooden and splintery. A shuttered wardrobe. She clambered inside, yanked the door shut, and held it there. Breathe in. Breathe out. Her heart thumped a frenzied rhythm against her rib cage. Cold sweat trickled down her brow, stung her eyes. And from the corridor, those dragging footsteps came closer, closer, and just before the room’s white door swung open, Eve gulped in a sharp breath, held it.

Eve peered out through the wardrobe slats. There in the doorway stood the hospital-gowned woman, framed by the scant light, hammer still in hand. Don’t breathe. Be quiet. The woman loomed into the room, weeping a grief-filled moan—a warbled pitch that rose and fell into dead quiet. She circled the space like a caged animal.

Eve, desperate not to make a sound, continued holding her breath. Her lungs burned. Pins and needles pricked her face. And the woman wandered the room, seconds stretching out like minutes until finally… she lumbered to a stop, turned for the exit, and staggered away—one, painfully slow, step, at, a, time. Eve’s inner voice screamed: Don’t breathe. Don’t you fucking breathe. Just hang on a little longer, but—

Eve’s lungs forced her to suck in air, a short gasp. The woman froze in the doorway. Then, with a slow ratcheting movement, she looked over her shoulder, directly at Eve. Dim light glinted off the woman’s unblinking eyes. Two white flecks surrounded by an ocean of black. It was like she could see into Eve’s thoughts, feel Eve’s terror. Like she was trying to tell Eve something without speaking a word.

Suddenly, a cascade of fractured images and memories invaded Eve’s brain like a swarm of sightless bugs. Not her own memories—Alison’s memories. An entire lifetime condensed into a rapid-fire slideshow, so vivid, so intense, Eve could almost hear it, see it. As if the memories were playing out right there in the shadows of the wardrobe. Scene after scene:

Young Alison, an only child. With her parents from the photographs, all those years ago, settling into the house. Fleeting moments from better times: Alison’s father teaching her to play guitar, guiding her fingers across the fretboard. Alison stumbling as she learned to ice-skate on a frozen pond, patient parents helping her to stand. Alison’s mother bringing home a chocolate Lab puppy.

Then, on a bright summer day, a strange boy wandering out of the woods, a lost child. Young Thomas. From that moment on, Alison’s world began its terrible transformation. First the changing furniture, then the walls, the rooms of the house, the people. Alison’s once loving, laid-back parents shifting into abusive zealots—religious fanatics. Alison’s life rapidly spiraling into a convoluted hell that only she could recognize.

Worst of all, her parents beginning to act as if it was Thomas who had always been their son and Alison who had wandered from the woods—an outsider—a lost child. All of this mounting dread culminating in that terrible epiphany, Alison realizing: the only way to escape this miserable reality was to—

A familiar image cut in, a moonlit room, a gaunt hand, white knuckles gripped around a silver-tipped fountain pen. Soundlessly stabbing into pallid flesh, up and down, up and down, again and again, faster and faster—

Darkness. A pale blue dot beginning to form in the distance—

Alison, soaked in blood, scrambling through the night. Pushing through branches, weaving through trees. Behind, voices calling out, shouting, searching—

White ceilings, pockmarked. Cold light. Thin wrists strapped to a bed, thrashing. Shrinks, nurses, all glancing at Alison, repressed fear in their eyes, as if she might lunge for them, rip out their throats. Even her own “parents” kept their distance… The way they looked at her, the way they looked at their own daughter, the numb shock in their eyes, the pity—

A child’s voice, screaming, “MY NAME ISN’T ALINA—MY NAME ISN’T ALINA—MY NAME ISN’T—”

Rising louder and louder, until—

At last, the hallucinatory nightmare ceased. Eve gasped, thrown back into the present, catching her breath. Her eyes darted to the doorway. Alison was still standing there, face hidden by shadows. But now, the sight of her filled Eve with crushing empathy, sorrow even.

Slowly, Alison drifted to the room’s center. She hunched forward and, almost reverently, set down the hammer on the black and white tile. She pushed herself off her knees and withdrew, pulling the door gently shut in her wake. Total darkness returned.

Again Eve waited there, hiding in the shadows, paralyzed, lost. Minutes dragged by like hours until… more footsteps. But these were a calm, steady gait. Padded, as if made by sock-covered feet. Outside the room, a light flickered on, casting a thin sheet of yellow glow from beneath the crack of the door. Two columns of shadow approached until the door clicked open, swinging wide. An incandescent glow framed the silhouette of a man, tall and broad. He lingered there, a black outline, staring into the room, and then…

He flicked a switch—cold light flooded the space—it was Thomas… clad in an olive-green sweater and light brown corduroys. But he appeared slightly younger, those gray hairs once speckled around his ears now completely gone. His tired visage scanned over pinkish brick walls, until he zeroed in on the shuttered wardrobe. For a second, Eve thought Thomas had seen her, caught the glint of her eyes, but… He sighed, started to reach for the light, and… his gaze stopped on the hammer. He cocked his head. How did that get there?

Frowning, Thomas strode over, squatted down, and lifted the tool. He narrowed his eyes, studying the hammer, puzzled. Then, with a shrug, he rose to stand and strode for the exit. Just before the threshold, he hung the hammer on a brown pegboard. There, it joined dozens of other tools. He flicked off the light and slipped out, pulling the door shut behind.

Once again, Eve was alone in the shadows, ablaze with questions. Questions she feared had no answers. Or at least no answers she could comprehend. Again she waited, listening as Thomas’s soft footfalls receded, faded around a corner, and silence returned.

Find Charlie. Find Shylo. Get out of here.

Eve didn’t remember exiting the wardrobe. Next thing she knew, she’d glided across the room and cracked open the white door—just a sliver. She peered out with one eye. It wasn’t a concrete labyrinth that greeted her, nor was it a greenish-white hospital hallway—no, that would have made too much fucked-up sense. Rather, it was the basement corridor, cast in a soft incandescent glow—the same hallway she’d crept down when searching for hide-and-seek Jenny one night ago. One night? Somehow that felt like weeks ago, months even. And now this previously unfinished hallway was midway through an extensive renovation: laminate flooring, unpainted drywall, pothole lights. Eve was about to step forward, but something nagged at the corner of her vision…

The hammer, still poised on the brown pegboard, seemed to beckon her. That empty voice, the faceless substitute for Mo, whispered, You have no idea what’s waiting for you upstairs. Surely you don’t want to face it unarmed and defenseless now, do you? Eve swallowed her reservations and stepped out of the room, hammer in hand.