PARANORMAL | ❝Nothing is stranger than believing.❞
Cath knows a thing or two about Will Byers. Daphne, on the other hand, knows virtually nothing about Tonya McCarthy. Still, none of that changes the fact that both of them have up and vanished with...
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SUNDAY 6th NOVEMBER, 1983
DARKNESS.
It's in every corner in the labyrinth of corridors, weaving in and out but all looking so clinical, so identical.
The darkness is only ever disturbed by the fluorescent lights, lined along the walls every few metres, blinking and humming in a low buzz. Intermittent bursts of artificial light wash the floor in an ugly glow, and they reflect in the off-white tiles like an atomic flash. There is light, but when the darkness returns, it swallows the room whole. For split seconds there's an inescapable abyss; everywhere you look, black.
Each winding corridor is reminiscent of some twisted experiment performed on and by humankind. Lab rats have paced through here, been dragged through here, and even trapped in here. It's a maze of hell, unimaginable to conceive any life existing here.
And yet, the room erupts into complete chaos when the strong metal door swings open, carelessly thwacking into the side of the wall with a deafening clang. A man sprints through, his once pristine lab coat trailing behind him as he hurdles down the corridor.
He skids at every winding corner — rebounding off the walls, charging head first before re-gaining balance. Right, left, left, right, left. Stopping isn't an option. In the fear that his legs will give way at the slightest loss of pace or being gained on, he continues. Running, and running, and running.
A grimace contorts his face at the million sounds overlapping in his head like static, but most of all, the disconcerting sound and pulsation of his own heart throbbing through his ears. That's the worst part. It's like he's aware of his own panic. And it drowns out the monotone alarm wailing around him, ringing in his skull. The back of his eyes ache from the strobing fluorescent lights, which light up the thick layer of cold sweat on his bald patch. There's also a terrifying voice in the back of his consciousness, and it shakes him by the shoulders and screams:
What have we done? What have we done?
The end is in sight. Doors await him, a way out if he's lucky. He tears towards them, never having been so focused on one purpose ever, and he smacks into them. His hands frantically slap the circular button, the rapid clicking accompanied by no opening doors sending him into a frenzy. Hurry up! — he pleads between wary glances behind his shoulder — hurry up! He hasn't got much time, and if he wants to—
Ding! His brain doesn't quite compute for a moment as the elevator doors open, but the second the crack is large enough, he rams himself through and slams his fist into the close doors button, chest heaving as he's sealed into the metal compartment. He stares ahead through the window at the corridor, enveloped in the flickering lights. Thank God I'm not there, is all he can think. Thank the Lord.
