The rain had stopped hours ago, but the air still smelled like wet concrete and rust. Zara lay awake in bed, eyes fixed on the faint cracks that ran along the ceiling of Dorm 304. Sleep wouldn't come, not tonight.
It wasn't the storm that kept her awake.
It was the voices.
They'd begun faintly, like wind slipping under the doorframe. A breath here, a sigh there. But in the past three nights, they had grown bolder—more intentional. They followed her from the kitchen to the hall, sometimes even into the shower. Always soft, always just beyond the range of comprehension.
But tonight… she swore she heard her own name.
She pushed the blanket off her legs and sat up. Cain was asleep in the armchair by the window, head tilted, the soft rise and fall of his chest in the dim light. His presence should have been comforting, but lately, he'd been a puzzle she couldn't solve—holding something back, skirting questions, deflecting when she brought up the tape they'd found.
The voices came again. This time, they were closer.
Zara stood and tiptoed toward the hallway. The dorm was silent except for the hum of the old refrigerator. She pressed her ear against the wall.
Whisper. Whisper. Whisper.
Her heart stuttered.
She couldn't make out the words, but the tone was almost… pleading. She followed the sound toward the far end of the hall, where a broom closet stood half-open.
The whispers stopped.
She hesitated, fingers curling around the doorframe.
Inside, a faint draft stirred the hanging mops. And there, at the back of the closet floor, was something she'd never noticed before—a small, square outline in the linoleum.
A trapdoor.
Cain's voice startled her.
"What are you doing?"
She spun around. He stood behind her, barefoot, shadows carving his jaw.
"You didn't hear it?" she whispered.
"Hear what?" His tone was neutral, but his eyes flicked to the trapdoor too quickly.
"The voices. They're coming from down there."
For a moment, neither moved. Then Cain stepped forward, kneeling. He hooked his fingers under the edge and pulled. The hatch lifted with a groan, revealing a narrow set of wooden stairs descending into darkness.
A smell rose from below—musty, damp, tinged with iron.
Cain grabbed a flashlight from the hall table. "Stay here," he said.
"Not a chance," she shot back.
The basement was nothing like the rest of the dorm. The walls were bare concrete, slick with condensation. Rusted pipes snaked overhead, dripping occasionally onto the floor. But what unsettled her most was the clutter—boxes, clothing, photographs, and trinkets scattered as though abandoned mid-use.
She picked up a book from the floor. The cover was worn leather, the spine cracked. Inside, the date read 1971.
"Cain…" she whispered. "These things… they're old. Really old."
He was standing a few feet away, staring at something nailed to the far wall. She moved closer and saw a row of Polaroid photos.
Every one of them was taken in this basement.
And in each photo… the same man stood in the background.
Cain swallowed. "We should go back upstairs."
"No," Zara said, her pulse pounding. "What aren't you telling me?"
He didn't answer. Instead, he walked to the far corner and began moving boxes. Behind them, another door waited—wooden, locked with an old padlock.
The whispers returned. This time, both of them heard it.
Zara froze. "Tell me you heard that."
Cain's knuckles whitened around the flashlight. "I did."
The voice was faint, but words formed now. Zara… Zara…
She stepped toward the door, compelled by a force she couldn't name. Cain grabbed her wrist.
"Stop."
"What's in there?"
His gaze wavered. "If I tell you… you'll never see me the same way again."
Her heartbeat thundered in her ears. "Try me."
He closed his eyes briefly, then opened them. "When I first came here, I heard the whispers too. I followed them. I found something on the other side of this door that's been here longer than either of us. And… it knows our names."
Before she could respond, the padlock clicked. Slowly, without either of them touching it, the door swung open.
The air that poured out was colder than ice.
Inside, the room looked wrong, as if the angles didn't quite add up. The walls bent subtly inward, yet stretched upward into shadows that the flashlight couldn't penetrate.
On the floor lay a single rocking chair, its wood splintered with age. It creaked… even though no one sat in it.
Then the whispers surged, filling the room. This time, they formed a single, unmistakable word:
Mother.
Zara stumbled back. Her breath caught in her throat. The voice hadn't been distant—it had been right next to her ear.
Cain reached for her, but she stepped away, her mind reeling.
"Why would it call me that?" she whispered.
Cain's expression was unreadable. "Because, Zara… this place remembers you. Even if you don't remember it."
The chair stopped rocking. Silence swallowed the room. And in the dim, she thought she saw a shadow detach itself from the wall and crawl toward her.