Chapter VIII: And what do you think he saw?

  A circular parking lot curled like a noose around the center of the facility. Two narrow lanes stretched out from either end, connecting it to the main road. The sky was a roiling mess of clouds—grey and bloated with rain—and the overcast light did little to calm the knot in Nathaniel’s gut.

  He pulled the car into a slow stop in front of what had to be the main station of the Whittaker Police Department. It resembled the one he worked at back home—two buildings connected by a tunnel-like structure in the middle. One was the main office: pale concrete, three stories high, a ring of black windows running along each level like soulless eyes. Etched into the stone above the double doors was the department emblem—a hawk perched on the crumbling remains of a shattered world.

  Next to it stood the holding facility. Taller, wider, less adorned. Just a blank green slab with oversized glass doors and a sign above: Whittaker City Holding Facility.

  Everything looked… wrong.

  The grass was tall and oddly healthy—except at the tips, where a thick black residue clung like soot. Oil maybe. Or something worse. The walkways were splattered with the same filmy stain, and as Nathaniel stared out across the parking lot, the tension in his chest deepened.

  The lot was full. Cars lined every space. But there wasn’t a single person in sight.

  No officers. No inmates. No sounds—no birds, no wind, no crickets droning down for the morning. Just an unnatural stillness. The kind of silence that made the world feel like a painting. Or a trap.

  He glanced at Sarah.

  Her face said everything. She felt it too.

  Nathaniel reached down and slid his Glock 19 from its holster. He racked the slide and checked his sights before sliding it back in the holster.

  Her scowl was sharp enough to draw blood, but she didn’t argue. Instead, Nathaniel reached out and brushed the side of her face.

  “We’ll be fine,” he said. “Just stay close.”

  She hesitated, then nodded and stepped out. Her shoes landed with a soft squelch in a shallow puddle of black water, and the damp began climbing up her jeans. The black liquid was everywhere—coating the grass, streaking the concrete. It looked like rot had begun seeping into the world itself.

  Nathaniel pulled on his black denim jacket and followed her toward the jail. His boots echoed across the pavement.

  “Sarah!” he called. She was already ahead of him, marching toward the front doors.

  “Sarah, wait!”

  But she didn’t. She didn’t even glance back.

  The doors opened with a low groan.

  A wide corridor stretched out before him like the gullet of something ancient and long dead. The lights inside flickered inconsistently, bathing the hallway in an uneasy strobe. To the left, a reception desk jutted from an alcove. Another hallway veered off toward an elevator and a stairwell guarded by a keylock. Department banners and framed photographs lined the walls—black-and-white portraits of past officers, mannequins dressed in uniforms from the 1950s, plaques honoring the fallen.

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  Blood was everywhere.

  It coated the walls like vines. It soaked into the tile. It splashed across the memorabilia, the portraits, the corridors.

  Sarah stood frozen in the center of the hallway, white as ash.

  Nathaniel’s eyes swept the floor. No bodies. No signs of a fight. Just blood. Too much of it.

  His footfalls echoed like hammer strikes as he moved to her side. She clung to his arm, and together, they pushed forward.

  Each door they passed sat slightly ajar, just wide enough to hint at the darkness inside. One led to a locker room. The smell drifting from it made his stomach roll. He kept walking.

  “Let’s avoid that one,” he whispered.

  Eventually, they reached the four-way intersection. At the center was an oval-shaped desk, stacked with papers and a darkened laptop. The hallways to the left and right were completely dark. The one behind them was flickering rapidly now, like something was playing with the lights.

  Every step deeper into the station felt like threading through the eye of a storm.

  As Sarah dropped behind the desk, Nathaniel felt rooted in place. The chair beside her rolled backward—into the dark corridor—and vanished. There was a sound. A soft thud, like it had hit cloth.

  Had he imagined that?

  Sarah rifled through the drawers. He stepped closer and saw the screen: locked. Username: DW1567. Password required.

  “Sarah,” he said.

  She was sweating. Her hands trembled.

  “Look for anything—an ID, a note, paperwork. Anything that might have a password.”

  She rolled her eyes. “We’re seriously hoping it’s on a sticky note?”

  “It’s worth a shot.”

  Her face told him what she thought of that logic, but she kept digging. Eventually, she pulled out a dirt-smeared notebook. Papers and sticky notes spilled everywhere. Some held ticket numbers and shift schedules. Others were worse—drawings, frantic scribbles.

  One note depicted a hallway filled with red eyes.

  Another said simply: “It’s still in the basement. Don’t go.”

  More pages. Mentions of a song. Descriptions like “someone beautifully crying” and “the howls of an old god.” One sticky note—cleaner, more legible than the rest—read:

  Password for WRK COM

  Gaffigan213

  Nathaniel handed it to her. She typed quickly.

  The laptop came to life.

  A desktop wallpaper: two smiling kids hugging a golden retriever. Blood speckled the corners of the screen.

  Derek Walker. Badge number. ID. Nathaniel made note of it, then searched for the system software.

  “Atom Network,” he murmured. It had to be the internal jail database.

  Sarah leaned against him. “Something’s not right… let’s hurry.”

  He agreed.

  The program loaded. Menu options appeared: Work Orders. Diagnostics. Graphs. Incarcerated Persons Records.

  He clicked.

  A list of names flooded the screen. He typed in “Mac Vanderburg.”

  A file appeared. Date of birth. Eye color. Mugshot.

  “Rule Eleven,” Nathaniel muttered. “He pled insanity. Got transferred to Whittaker Asylum.”

  Sarah blinked. “What’s Rule Eleven?”

  “It means he’s not mentally competent to stand trial. They send him to a state-run facility instead of jail.”

  Nathaniel scribbled the address onto a napkin and shoved it into his pocket.

  Then he froze.

  “Nate?” Sarah whispered.

  He didn’t answer. Couldn’t.

  His gaze drifted upward.

  Dozens—maybe hundreds—of legs hung from the ceiling. Pale, twitching, coated in dark fluids. Eyes began to open in the shadows. Limbs jerked and flexed like spider legs rousing from sleep.

  He grabbed her arm.

  “Run.”

  They did.

  Sarah sobbed beside him as they sprinted back down the blood-slick corridor. Doors swung open as they passed, revealing humanoid shapes stepping into the light—twisted, wrong. Their faces were stretched into permanent scowls. Eyes too high. Ears like knives. Some wore officer uniforms, torn and bloodied.

  Others dragged clawed fingers against the tile.

  They hit the lobby in a blur. Nathaniel threw his shoulder into the door, blasting it open. Sarah tumbled down the steps and threw herself into the car passenger seat. He followed, leaping over the hood of the car and diving into the driver’s seat.

  The things poured from the station like a wave of flesh and bone.

  One—wearing a half-torn jumpsuit —paused beside the car. It stared at Nathaniel with human eyes. Brown. Familiar.

  He slammed the gear into reverse.

  They locked eyes.

  Then the car sped away, and the thing disappeared in the rearview mirror. But the image stayed with him, burrowed in deep.

  Brown eyes.

  Olive skin.

  Mac?

  No. That wasn’t possible.

  Was it?