In an instant, Pew's ears went silent.
The world seemed to vanish, the bustling festival fading like a dream.
A low, hollow hum lingered, hypnotic, blurring the line between reality and illusion. Was the crowded expo real, or was this empty silence the truth?
Pew moved his arm, fingers brushing a rough, cold concrete floor. The chill sank into his bones. He'd felt this before—returning home after a month-long event, touching his cold apartment walls, the place lifeless, dead.
A jolt hit him.
Pew opened his eyes.
A dim light flickered, buzzing faintly. He was in a cramped storage room, ceiling low, corners so dark he couldn't stare long. A half-open wooden door stood ahead.
An unexplainable dread gripped him. He took a deep breath. "Alright, guess we head out that door."
Steeling himself, Pew muttered, "Surprise!" and pushed the door.
He knew horror games. This was prime door-opening scare territory. One exit in a creepy room? Classic setup.
Squeak.
The door groaned open. No jump scare, just a narrow corridor. A weak wall lamp glowed on the left, barely lighting the path. At the end, a window flashed with lightning, rain pattering outside, mixed with that eerie hum, making Pew feel like the last soul alive.
"What?" he said, thrown off by the calm. "Nothing?"
He stepped forward.
Click.
"Holy shit!" Pew jumped as the door slammed shut behind him.
Streaming live for YouTube, his audience's comments flooded in:
"LMAO, scared by a door!"
"Sneaky door slam, instant kill!"
"This game's vibe is bleak."
"So cramped, it's suffocating."
"Live here long enough, you'd lose it."
"Something's off, but I can't pin it."
"Sam Harper's psych horror strikes again."
Pew steadied himself, leaning close to the wall. The paint was rough, cracked with age, almost too real. He crouched, inspecting the wooden floor—dusty, worn, like it'd been walked on for years.
"Damn..." he whispered. "These graphics? Best I've seen. This isn't a game—it's another world."
The oppressive vibe, tight space, and hyper-real visuals spiked his blood pressure. A vague panic clung to him.
Sam Harper's atmosphere control was unmatched.
Pew exhaled shakily. "Alright, let's find this villa's secrets."
Thud, thud, thud. His shoes echoed on the wood.
The corridor was dim. A niche on the right held a potted plant and a digital clock reading 11:59 PM. As he neared the corridor's end, a faint radio crackled around the corner:
"...On the murder day, the father grabbed a shotgun from his trunk..."
"After lunch, while my wife was in the kitchen, I shot her in the head..."
"Ugh, brutal," Pew grimaced, picturing the bloody scene.
He reached the corner. On his left, a cabinet held a bottle of tranquilizers and three photo frames: a man, a pregnant woman, and their young daughter, smiling warmly, a family soon to be four.
Pew set the photos down as rain pounded harder outside.
Turning right, another narrow corridor led to a slightly wider entrance hall. The radio on a cabinet continued:
"...Last month, a family of three was brutally murdered..."
"The suspect used a rifle and a meat cleaver, killing his daughter, then his pregnant wife in the bathroom..."
"Police found him in his car, repeating his wife Lisa's name, claiming a demon possessed him..."
"He's confirmed mentally ill, pending further processing..."
The radio cut to static.
Squeak. Squeak.
The chandelier above swayed, creaking with no breeze. A chill shot from Pew's feet to his scalp.
"No, no, no..." He twisted his neck, glancing at the photos. The man, his daughter, his pregnant wife.
Goosebumps erupted.
The live stream chat exploded:
"What the hell? That's twisted!"
"This is the crime scene?"
"Kids and a pregnant wife? Sick!"
"Sam's lost it with this plot."
"Pew's heart rate's at 120!"
"This is messed up."
Pew's heart pounded. No jump scares yet, but Sam's setup—rainy night, haunted house, dim lights, swaying chandelier—sent his blood pressure soaring. A faint blood smell hit him, real or imagined. Something seemed to lurk just out of sight, maybe behind him.
Sam knew imagination was scarier than any monster. The house whispered: There's a ghost. It's here. It's watching.
When would it appear? No clue. What was it? No idea. Where? Maybe the next door, corner, or mirror reflection.
It'd come, unexpected, in ten minutes or ten seconds.
"Freakin' hell!" Pew's goosebumps wouldn't quit. The constant tension was suffocating.
"My chest's tight," he muttered. "Gotta get out."
The front door wouldn't budge. He hurried across the hall, pushed open a wooden door, and found stairs leading down. Without hesitation, he descended and opened the next door.
He looked up.
Same corridor. Dim wall lamp. Lightning outside. Potted plant. Clock at 11:59 PM.
Dead silence.
Pew froze. The chat went wild:
"Is the stream glitching?"
"We're back at the start?"
"YouTube's servers suck."
"No, wait! This ain't a glitch!"
"Pew's heart rate's spiking!"
"What's happening?"
Pew's voice trembled, proving it wasn't a glitch. "I'm... back?"
His breathing hitched. He'd walked this corridor already. Why was he here again?
"No, no, guys..." Heart rate at 130, he stepped forward, panic rising. "I'm back. This place is freakin' me out."
He sped up. Same potted plant, same clock, same drugs, same photos. The radio repeated the murder report. The chandelier creaked.
Down the stairs, through the door—again.
Same corridor. Dim lamp. Thunderstorm. 11:59 PM.
"Gift crab! Shit!" Pew yelled. "Three damn times! How do I get out of this freaking house?!"
The endless loop was a fear factory. Each cycle fed his dread, vines of terror choking his heart.
The corridor seemed unchanged, but details shifted. The clock's screen had more scratches. Medicine bottles were messier, pills scattered. Cockroaches crawled, multiplying. In the photos, the man's eyes grew wilder, the wife and daughter's smiles drooped, almost tearful.
"The blood..." Pew's fingers numbed. "It was faint before, but now it's strong, coming from the corner."
His head buzzed. He forced deep breaths.
"I feel this corridor changing," he said. "The cozy vibe was fake. Each loop peels back the truth of this haunted house."
"Dammit..." he cursed. "Sam Harper's a psychopath."
Sam wasn't chasing cheap scares. He built a world where your mind betrayed you, pushing you to terror's edge.
Pew was a driver on a cliff road, the path behind collapsing, forced to speed toward doom.
Sam's genius was psychological horror—crafting an atmosphere that made you kill yourself with fear.