Speaker 1: Hello, I'm welcomed stories all the time. Glad you are here.
Let's get into it. They found a locked room in
a police station, and inside was evidence from crimes that
haven't happened yet. The screaming started at exactly three point
seventeen a m. No One in seed a hallo ever
forgot that time, not because it was loud, but because
it was recorded inside a police station interrogation room that
had been locked for twenty three years. Officer Daniel Klein
was the one who heard it first. He was happy
through his overnight paperwork when the sound came through the
station's old security speakers, a disordered pennock's gream, followed by
the sound of metal scraping across tile. Daniel Freus, his
pen hovering over in arest report that suddenly felt meaningless.
He turned slowly toward the Hahollway morning and mounted above
the despatched desk. The hallway outside interrogation roomed three flick
out into view. The door was open. Daniel frowned. That
wasn't possible. Room Free had been sealed shut since two
thousand and three, after what the department referred to only
as the Ashroff Incident. New officers were told not to
ask questions. Veterans avoided the topic entirely. The room had
been locked boarded internally and disconnected from the building's active use,
and yet the security feed clearly showed the door standing
halfway open, darkness pulling inside like liquid chatter. Daniel pushed
back his chair. Despatch, Did someone authorize entry to room three?
He asked, trying to keep his voice steady. Static crackled
across the radio. No ones in that wing came the reply,
maintenance doesn't even have access. Daniel swallowed. The scream echoed
again through the speakers, closer, at this time more desperate.
It sounded like someone calling a metal surface while begging
for help. His stomach twisted, training said weight for backup.
Instinct said someone was dying. Daniel grabbed his flashlight and
sighed up and stepped into the hallway. The Cedar Hollow
Police station was older than most buildings in town. Built
in nineteen fifty six, It had narrow corridors, flickering forescent lights,
and ventilation ducks that hummed like distant whispers. Daniel had
worked here for six months, just long enough to notice
away certain officers aforeded walking near the east wing after
midnight tonight, the hallway leading to Interrogation Room three fell
colder than the rest of the station. His breath fogged
slightly as he approached, boots echoing softly across the tile.
The door creaked open wider as he stepped closer. Daniel
raised his flashlight. The beam cut through darkness and landed
on the interrogation table. Someone was sitting there, a man,
head lowered, hands cuffed to the table, ring, shoulders trembling.
Daniel's pulse hammered. Sir. He called cautiously, this is Officer Kleine.
Are you injured? The man didn't respond. Instead, Daniel noticed
something strange. The cuffs were an apartment to shoot. They
were older, thick steels, scratched and rusted along the edges,
the type used decades ago before modern restrained standards. Daniel
stepped inside the smel vraun dumb, metallic like wet con
creep mixed with something faintly rotten. The man slowly raised
his head. Daniel froze the pros in his face was bruised,
lip split as bloodshell from crying. But what made Daniel's
breath catch was the tape across the man's mouth and
the words written on it. It's not done yet. Daniel
rushed forward and ripped the tape off. The man gasped violently,
sucking an air like he had been drowning. You have
to get me out, he whispered, hoarsely, Please, before it
starts again. Daniel immediately reached for the coughs. Who did
this to you? How did you get in here? The
man's eyes widened in terror. You did, Daniel blinked. What
you arrested me? The man said, voice shaking. You brought
me here three nights from now. Daniel's stomach dropped. That's impossible.
The man leaned forward as far as the cuffs allowed.
You think this is happening now, he whispered. It already
happened for me. Daniel stepped back, hard, pounding. What's your name?
Tomas Weller? Daniel's mind raised. The name sounded vaguely familiar.
He couldn't place it. Why would I arrest you, Daniel asked.
Thomas stared at him to his forming Paul murder. Daniel's
jaw tightened. Who was murdered? Thomas hesitated them, whispered something
that made Daniel's blood runk, cold, dude. The station lights
flickered violently. The overhead bulb above the interrogation table popped,
sending sparks raining down. The room plunged into dim emergency lighting.
Daniels instinct screened at him to call for backup, but
his radio had gone dead, emitting nothing but static. Thomas
began shaking. It's coming, he whispered. This is when it
started last time. What is Daniel demanded. Thomas's eyes darted
toward the observation mirror. Daniel turned slowly. The glass was cracked,
not shattered, crack from the inside. A thin fracture spread
across the surface like a spider web, pulsing as if
something behind it was pressing outward. Daniel drew his weapon.
Who's back there, he shouted, sil Then a slow, deliberate
knock from inside the observation room. Three taps. Daniel moved
toward the mirror cautiously, flashlight beam trembling slightly in his grip.
Police he called identify yourself. Another three taps, then a
voice well distorted, mechanical, like someone speaking through water. Officer
c Line Daniel froze, how do you know my name?
The voice didn't answer immediately. Instead, something pressed against the
cracked glass from the other side, a silhouette, human shaped
but too tall, and standing completely still. He opened the
door chrurily. The voice said, calmly, Now the timeline is broken.
Daniel's wrote went dry. What timeline behind him? Thomas began saubin,
You weren't supposed to find me yet, the voice continued,
Now it's going to accelerate. The cracks crossed, the mirror deepened.
Daniel aimed his weapon directly at the silhouette. Step forward
and identify yourself where I am reaching this room. The
figure didn't move. Instead, it slowly raised one hand and
pressed it fat against the glass. The skin looked wrong,
phil almost gray, covered in what looked like faint surgical mockings.
Were symbols carved into flesh. Thomas screamed behind him, that's him,
that's the watchman. Daniel spun around. What watchman, the one
who records the endings. Thomas cried, He's been document in
every death in Cedar Hollow since nineteen eighty one. Daniel
stared at him. That makes no sense, it will, Thomas whispered,
when ye see the files? Daniel frowned. What files? Thomas
slowly nodded toward the far corner of the interrogation room.
Daniel turned and saw something that absolutely should not have
been there. A metal filing cabinet agent bar stood locked
with a heavy chain. Daniel walked toward it slowly. Every
step felt heavier than the last. A label was bolted
to the front drawer. Black lighters scratched into metal, cedar,
hollow cases insolved, slush unhappened. Daniel's hands trembled as he
touched the chain. What does that mean, he asked quietly.
Thomas swallowed hard. It means every crime that's about to
happen is already documented in siye, Daniel stared at him,
You lying, I wish I was. The glass behind Daniel exploded,
not outward in laud. Shouds rained across the floor. As
the silhouette stepped through the ouptivation room doorway, Now somehow
standing inside the interrogation wind spite the locked entrance, Daniels
spun weapon raised. The figure stood at doorway, impossibly tall,
wearing what looked like a dark maintenance uniform from Decatica.
Its face was hidden beneath the cracked plastic security visor
in its hand. It held a clipboar. The figure tilted
its head slightly, then spoke in that same distorted voice,
Officer Daniel Kleine. It said, calmly, you were interfering with
scheduled events. Daniel tightened his grip on his weapon. What
are you The figure didn't respond. Instead, it slowly flipped
a page on the clipboard. Daniel caught a glimpse of
the document. It was a police report stamped with to
morrow's date, and his photograph was printed under the word victim.
Daniel's breathing stopped. Figure looked up again. You are not
supposed to see this, yead, it said quietly. Thomas began
screaming behind him, struggling against the cuffs. He's early, he's early.
That means the others are coming sooner. Daniel barely heard him.
His entire world had narrowed to the clipboard, the report,
the date, and the chilling realization forming in his mind.
Someone or something inside this police station was documenting murders
before they happened, and according to the file, he was next.
The watchman took one slow step forward. We turned to
your son, time, officer, it said, calmly, or the corrections
will begin now. The lights went out, and Daniel Cleine
realized something horrifying. He wasn't investigating a crime. He was
standing inside one that had already been written. The doctness
swallowed the interrogation Wing Officer Daniel Kleine stood frozen, pistol raised, hotbeat,
hammering so violently it blurred his vision. The last thing
he saw before the light stive was the watchman stepping forward, calm, deliberate,
as if time itself moved according to his schedule. Behind Daniel,
Thomas Willow thrashed against the rusted cuffs. Don't let him
touch you, Thomas screamed. If he marks you, you're locked
into the wreco. Daniel back toward the filing cabinet. Instinctively,
his flashlight flicker into life. In a shaking hand, the
beam cut through the darkness and landed in the doorway
where watchmen had stood empty. The hallway was silent again,
too silent. Daniel's pulse pounded in his ears as he
swept the light across the shattered observation mirror, broken glass
glittering across the toil like frost. No footprints, no sign
of forced entry, no indication that anything had stepped through,
but the clipboard. Daniel knew he hadn't imagined that. Where
did he go, Daniel, He doesn't leave, Thomas said, he
just moves where he's already supposed to be. Daniel frowned.
That doesn't mean anything. It will, Thomas whispered, when you'
open the cabinet. Daniel turned slowly toward the chain filing
cabinet in the corner. The metal looked hold within the
building itself, worst head eaten into the hinges, and the
chain locking it shut. Was the industrial steel, something designed
to keep prisoners in or something else locked away. The
label gleamed faintly in the flashlight beam, cedar hollow cases
and solved slash and happened. Daniels wrote, tightened, He said,
every crime is in there, he asked. Thomas nodded slowly.
Not just crimes, he said, utcombs. Daniel stepped closer. Who
wrote them? Thomas swallowed. The watchman doesn't write them, he said, quietly,
He records them. Daniel's stomach dropped. Daniel gripped the chain
tightly and tugged it. Didn't move keys, he asked Thomas
shook his head. There were never keys. Daniel stared at
the lock mechanism. It wasn't traditional. Instead of a padlock,
the chain threaded the recircular steel seal stamp with the date.
Daniel leaned closer. The seal re sealed December fourteen, two thousand,
thousand and three. That date triggered a memory the Ashrough incident.
Daniel whispered. Thomas's breathing hitched. You know about it, only rumors,
Daniel said, entire interrogation. When shut down overnight files disappeared,
Officer Ashra vanished. During questioning of his suspect, Thomas laughed bitterly, vanish.
He said, that's what they told the public. Daniel's chest tightened.
What actually happened? Thomas dared directly into his eyes. He
opened the cabinet. The flashlight flickered violently. Daniel flinched as
the beam dimmed, then surged back brighter than the four.
But something had changed. The seal on the cabinet chain
was cracked. Daniel blinked, he hadn't touched it. Slowly, the
steel is split down the middle with a dull metallic snap.
The chainslid loose and fell to the floor with a
heavy clatter that echoed through the room. Thomas screamed, no,
if that's not supposed to happen yet. Daniel stared at
the cabinet doors as they creaked open by themselves. A
cold gustaveir rolled out, carrying this mell of old paper
and damp concrete mixed with something faintly electrical, like overheated wiring.
Inside were hundreds of files, each labeled, each perfectly organized
by date, Daniel has stated. Then reached inside. The first
file he grabbed felt warm. That alone made his skin crawl.
He opened it slowly, hissed number four thousand, four hundred twelve,
Date Tomorrow, nine point forty two p m. Location, Cedar
Hollow Train Depot. Daniel's eyes moved down the page. Victim
Marie Gajiers, aged twenty eight. Cause of death blunt forced trauma,
Status unsolved. Daniel's breath caught Marie Gagierez. He knew that name.
She worked despatch at the station. She had covered his
shift to night to go. He flipped through a file frantically,
crime scene photos, police reports, witness statements, even forensic analysis,
all dated tomorrow. Daniel stound the folder shut. This is impossible,
he whispered. Thomas shook his head. He records the events
after they happen somewhere else, Thomas said, Then they happen here.
That makes no sense. It's Cedar Hollow. Thomas whispered, nothing
here makes sense. Daniel grabbed another file. This one felt colder, older,
thus puffed into the air as he opened it. Case
number one day, August seventh, nineteen eighty one, Victim count three, status,
Origin event. Daniel's pulse quickened, Origin Event. He flipped pages rapidly.
The photo showed an abandon surveillance room beneath the station,
one that didn't exist in official blueprints. Three bodies lay
arranged around a desk, and sitting in a chair was
a tall figure wearing a crack security visor, the watchman.
Daniel's hands trembled. Nineteen eighty one, he whispered, that's when
it started. Thomas nodded. That's when Cedar Hollo's dopted having
random crimes, He said, Daniel, frand what does that mean?
It means every crime after nineteen eighty one followed a pattern,
Thomas said, quietly, a schedule. Daniel felt us crawled down
his spine you're saying murders are being planned. Thomas shook
his head slowly. Not planned, he said, darkumented. Suddenly, footsteps
echoed from the hallway, slow nivered, Daniel's floss light swung
toward the doorway. Nothing then the station and to Colm
crackle to life. Overhead, a distorted voice filled the building.
All officers returned to asside time blocks. Daniel froze, What
did that mean? Thomas's face drained of color. It means
you've already changed something, he whispered. Daniel turned back to
the cabinet. Several files were glowing faintly now. He pulled
one out at random. The label made his stomach twist
kissed number nine thousand, nine hundred twenty one date November sixteen,
twenty sixty six. Daniel blinks forty years from now. He
opened the file slowly and immediately dropped it. Fogo scattered
across the floor. Crime scene tapes around at a destroyed
police station. See the or reduced to burn. Ruins, bod
is covered in white sheets lined the parking lot. Daniels
he felt the world till sideways. Primary suspect Daniel climb.
Daniel staggered backward that's not possible. Thomas stared at the photos.
That means you survived the corrections. He whispered, what corrections?
Thomas looked at him with hollow eyes. The watchman fixed
his broken time mines, he said, and when someone sees
the record too early, he rewrites the ending. The hallway
lights flickered back on. Suddenly, Daniel spun toward the door.
The watchman stood there again, curser. This time, his clipboard
was gone. Instead, he held a stamp heavy metal industrial,
the word and grave. The cross his base made Daniel's
blood freeze confirmed. The watchman tilted his head slowly. He
access restrict to chronology, the distorted voice said, calmly. Daniel
raised his weapon. Stay back. The figure didn't react. Instead,
he lifted the stamps slightly. Corrrec auction procedures must begin,
he said. Thomas screamed, he's going to lock the events.
Daniel grabbed the future file from the floor, cheeking violently.
You're wrong, Daniel shouted at the watchman. If I know
what happens, I can stop it. The Watchman's fires are
tilted slightly. You cannot stop documentation, he said, calmly. You
can only fulfill it. The lights flickered again. Suddenly, every
file inside the cabinet burst opened simultaneously, papers exploding into
the air like a storm of future tragedies. Daniel docked
his photo's reports and crime scene sketches swelled around him.
Each page carried names, dates, deaths that hadn't happened yet.
The Watchman stepped forward through the chaos. You open the archive,
he said, quietly. Now the archive opens you. The stamps
slammed down on to the interrogation table with a deafening
metallic crack. The entire station tremble. Daniel felt something shift
inside his mind, Flashes of memories that weren't his, crime scenes, sirens,
blood stainned halways, and one image that lingered longer than
the rest. Himself. Standing inside the ruins of seat to
Hollow police station, surrounded by bards, the Watchman extended one
hand toward him, returned to a sign sequence he commanded.
Daniel's eLEGS trembled. He didn't know why, but part of
him wanted to obey. Behind him, Thomas screamed again, don't listen.
That's how he traps you into the time line. Daniel
clenched his fists I'm not part of your record, Daniel
said through Gerda teeth. The watchman paused for the first time.
The figure seemed uncertain that statement contradicts ARKive. There comes,
he said slowly. Daniel stepped forward. Then maybe your archive
is wrong. Silence filled the room. The watchman's visor crack slightly,
spreading a thin fracture across the plastic surface. Thomas gasped,
you damaged him. The watchman took one slow step backward.
Chronology and stability detected, he said. Then the lights exploded again.
Darkness swallowed the room, and when emergency lights flickered back
on second later, the watchman was gone. The file's lay
scattered across the floor. The cabinet doors hung wide open,
and Daniel Kleine realized something far worse than the watchman's presence.
Several files were missing, including the one labeled Marigajeri's Tomorrow.
Thomas stared at the empty cabinet in horror. That means
the event is accelerating, he whispered. Daniel looked toward the
station clock. It now readed three point forty one a m.
The file had predicted the murder at nine point forty
two p m. Less than eighteen hours away. Daniel holstered
his weapon slowly, eyes heartening with determination. Then we change it,
he said. Thomas shook his head weakly. No one has
ever changed one. Daniel grobbed his jacket. There's a first
time for everything. Behind them, deep inside the cabinet, something
metallic clicked. A new file slid forward by itself. Dianel
turned slowly. The label read case number four thousand, four
hundred twelve, Status updated. Daniel opened it with shaking hands.
The victim section still read Mariga Jery's, but beneath it
a new line had appeared, secondary casualty and known police
Officer Daniel felt I settle in his veins, because under
that line a photograph was beginning to develop, and it
looked exactly alike him. The photograph was still developing, Officer
Daniel client stayed at the file in his shaking hands,
as a gray shadow of a face slowly dokened into
recognizable features. The granny and had showed a body lying
beside train tracks, partially covered by emergency blankets. And even
though the picture wasn't fully clear yet, Daniel already knew
it was him. He slammed the file shot behind him.
Thomas Weller let out a low defeate a groan. It
happening faster, Thomas whispered. Once the watchman starts files's manually
events compress. Daniel forced himself to breathe slowly. Then we
don't wait, he said, we find where the started. Thomas
laughed weakly. You think he lived somewhere like an office.
Daniel turned toward him. He said, the first case was
in nineteen eighty one, surveillance room under the station. Thomas
nodded reluctantly. Daniel grabbed the orig file from the scattered
papers across the fore and flipped through it again. The
photos showed blueprints partially burned and stamped restricted access. But
Daniel noticed something new. There were stairs in the photos,
concrete stairs leading downward from a hallway that didn't exist
any more. Where is this, Daniel demanded. Thomas wallowed. They
sealed it after Ashroft. Daniel's jaw tightened. Then we unseal it.
The eastern wing of Cedar Hollow Police Station was officially abandoned.
Yellow hazard tape blocked the corridor leading toward the sealed
interrogation rooms, but Daniel tore through it, without hesitation. The
air grew cold. Of the deeper they walked, Thomas shuffled
behind him, still cuffed. Daniel had unlocked him, but the
man refused to leave the station. He won't let me
go anyway, Thomas had said quietly. The hallway lights flickered overhead,
casting lawn jettering shadows across peeling walls. The further they walked,
the more Daniel noticed the architecture shifting. The walls looked
older concrete instead of drywal The floor tiles changed from
modern laminate to CROs black and white check aboard pattens.
Daniel stopped suddenly. This part of the station wasn't renovated
with the rest, was it? Thomas shook his head slowly.
They didn't renovate it, he said. They buried it. At
the end. At the hole we stood a steel security door.
The words Evidence Storage decommissioned were barely visible beneath layers
of pealing paint. Daniel tried the handle, locked, of course,
but this lock was electronic. It was mechanical. Old Thomas
stepped closer, staring at the door with visible dread. This
is where Ashcroft disappeared, he whispered. Daniel glanced at him.
What really happened to him? Thomas hesitated, then spoke quietly.
He tried to arrest the watchman. Daniel blinked, that's impossible.
He thought the watchman was heme, and Thomas said he
followed him down here after a suspect vanished during questioning.
Daniel reached into his pocket and pulled out his multitool.
Then let's see what he found. The lock snapped after
thirty seconds a prime The door creaked open with a deep,
metallic grone that echoed through the hallway, like something waking
up after decades of sleep. The stairwell descended into darkness.
Daniel shined his flask light downward. Dust floated through the
air ins low drifting spirals. The concrete stairs were cracked,
and all security cameras hung from the ceiling. The lenses shattered.
Those cameras were active until two thousand and three. Thomas whispered,
after ashtroff, they shout everything off. Daniel stepped onto the
first stair The ice smelt dampened, stale, like a flooded
basement left to rough for years. Each step downward made
Daniel's chest feel heavier, like gravity itself was thickening. At
the bottom of the stairs, the corridor opened into something massive.
Rows of al survalance monitors lined the walls. Dozens of
screens stacked in towering columns. Tangled wire spilled across the
floor like dead vines. Daniel swept his flask light across
the room. Most monitors were cracked or dark, but one
was glowing. Thomas froze. No, he whispered, it shouldn't still
be running. Daniel approached the active monitor slowly. It flickered
across the screen, then cleared. It showed the police station
lobby live. Daniel frowned. That camera system was replaced years ago.
Thomas stepped closer, shaking, that's not today's feed. Daniels squinted
at the screen. The uniforms were wrong older. The patrol
cars visible through the front glass were models discontinued decades ago.
Daniel's stomach dropped. This is nineteen eighty one, he whispered.
The monitor flickered again. The lobby came zoomed suddenly, as
if someone was manually controlling it. The image shifted toward
the hallway leading to the interrogation way, then toward the stairwell,
then toward them. Daniel stumbled backward as the monitor displayed
two figures standing in the underground surveillance room, himself and Thomas.
But they looked distortid, grainy, like recordings taken through crack lenses.
They're watching as from the past, Thomas whispered. Daniel's pulse
thundered in his ears. That's not possible. Thomas pointed slowly
toward the far wall. Nanna turned and saw a door.
Not steal, not reinforced, just an ordinary wooden office door.
It had only one label archivist. Daniel felt a chill
ripple down his spine. The watchman doesn't create records, Thomas
whispered again. Daniel stepped toward the door. Then who does
The door creaked open easily? Insides that a tiny office
frozen in dime. Thus covered everything filing trays, paperwork, rotary fall,
and broken desk lamp. But one thing stood out immediately.
A tape recorder sat on the desk and it was running.
Daniel approached cautiously. The tape is softly before a voice
crackled through the speaker. This is Officer Leonard after Kislock
entry December fourteen, two thousand and three. Thomas gasped. Daniel
pressed closer. Ashcroff's voice sounded exhausted, terrified. I've confirmed the
entity is not the offer, the recording continued. It is
only the enforcement mechanism. The records are created automatically through
predictive convergence, tied to the station itself. Daniel frowned. Predictive convergence,
the recording continued. The building is generating the outcomes. Ashroff whispered.
It started after the nineteen eighty one incident. Something embedded
itself into the foundation. The watchman only in shows events
fall with the written path. Daniel felt his stomach twist.
The tape crackled ladder. I tried to destroy the archive,
afcro said, but when I removed one file, it replaced
itself with ten more. Thomas covered his mouth in horror.
The recording ended with heavy breathing. Then Ashcroft whispered one
final sentence. If anyone finds this burned the foundation, that's
where it lives. The take clicked off. Daniel turned slowly
toward the floor foundation. Thomas shook his head violently. No,
no one's ever reached that level, Daniel frowned. There is
another level, Thomas pointed, toward a dark holway behind the office.
There's a maintenance tunnel sealed with concrete. After Ashrov vanished
Daniel's mind race. If the station itself was creating the records,
then stopping the watchman won't fix anything. Thomas stared at him.
Then what will? Daniel grabbed his flashlight tighter. We destroy
whatever's reading them. They moved down the maintenance hall way cautiously.
The air grew colder with every step. They're breath fogging
in front of them. Halfway down the corridor, Daniel stopped.
Footprints covered the dust fresh large leading deeper into the tunnel.
Thomas began trembling violently. He's ahead of us, he whispered.
Daniel nodded slowly, he always is. The tunnel ended a
mass of concrete slap blocking the passage. Red letters was
spray painted across it, sealed by order of Chief Hotman
two thousand and three. Daniel examined the edges of the
slap Cracks ran through the concrete, like something had been
pushing from the other side for years. Then a deep,
metallic clanga could from beyond the wall. Thomas screamed, that's
the archive, stabilizing Daniel pressed his ear against the concrete.
He heard something moving behind it, not walter, sliding like
heavy drawers opening endlessly, paper rustling, thousands of pages turning
at once, and underneath it all a low, humming vibration
that made Daniel's teeth ache. Suddenly, words began bleeding through
the cracks in the concrete and seeped outward, forming letters
across the wall. Daniel stumbled back in horror. Sentences formed
directly onto the surface. Case number four thousand, four hundred
twelve status finalization in progress. Thomas collapsed to his knees.
No Maria. The wall crack louder mooring seat through another
line formed beneath the first secondary casualty confirmed. Daniel felt
the floor tremble beneath his feet. Then the tunnel lights
exploded in a shower of sparks. Emergency lights flickered on,
and the watchmen stood at the far end of the corridor,
blocking their only exit. His visor was more cracked, now, thin, fractious,
spreading across the plastic like a spider up of stress.
In his hand, the metal stamp again, but this time
it was glowing faintly read Unauthorized excavation of chronology, the
distorted voice announced calmly. Daniel stepped in front of Tomas instinctively.
You are not stopping us, Daniel said. The watchman tilted
his head. You misunderstand, he said quietly. I am not
stopping you. He raised the stamp slowly. I am documenting you.
The stamps land into the concrete floor. The entire tunnel
shook violently as new words carved themselves across the slab
wall behind Daniel. Case number four thousand, four hundred twelve
Final outcome approaching the ground split slightly beneath their feet.
Dust reigned from the ceiling, and Daniel realized something horrifying.
The station wasn't just predicting crimes, it was reriting reality
to match them. The watchman took one slow step closer
return to assigned ending, he said, Thomas saw it behind Daniel.
Once he stamps the file, the outcome becomes permanent. Daniel
stared at the crumbling concrete slab, at the ink bleeding through,
at the watchman approaching steadily, and for the first time
he understood the true scale of what he was fighting.
Not a killer, not an entity, but a building that
was rid in the future and who had already decided
how this story ended. The chunnel shook violently as dust
and small chunks of concrete rained from the ceiling. Officer
Daniel Climb stood frozen, staring at the slab wall as
and continued bleeding through the cracks like veins forming a
cross stone. Words carved them, sels deeper, darker, more permanent,
case number four thousand, four hundred twelve, final outcome. Approaching
behind him, Thomas Wellow sabed quietly, clushing his head like
he was trying to block out something only he could hear.
The watchman stood at the end of the corridor, silent
and unmoving as crack fires are reflecting the flickering emergency lights.
The glowing metal stamp and his hand hum faintly pulsing
with a dull red glow. Daniel's instincts creamed that if
the stamp touched anything again, the time mine would lock permanently.
You are not sealing anything, Daniel said, forcing steel into
his voice. The watchman tilted his head slowly. Chronology cannot
remain unstable, the distorted voice replied, calmly. Correction must occur.
Daniel turned toward the slab wall again, acts were widening,
mooring seep through, forming new lines of text. Primary event
confirmed praying DEEPO homicide. Thomas shook back a sob. She's
already dead in their record, he whispered. We're running out
of time. Daniel's jaw tightened. No, he said firmly. If
Ashroff was right, the foundation is writing this. That means
if we destroy the sauce, the wrecker collapses. Thomas stared
at him with hollow eyes. No one's ever reached it,
he whispered. Daniel stepped toward the slab. Then we will.
He grabbed a fallen steel pipe from the floor and
slomed it against the concrete. The impact echoed like a
gunshot through the tunnel. Cracks sprout further across the slab
behind him. The watchman stepped forward. One final warning, he entered,
he said quietly. Daniel swung again, concrete chipped blues, revealing
a thin hollow behind the wall. A cold, unnatural wind
rushed through the opening, carrying the smell of wet earth
and something metallic like rust and in mixed together. Thomas screamed,
you breaking containment. Daniel struck again, widening a hole until
a large chunk of the slab collapsed inward. Darkness stretched
beyond the opening, but not empty darkness. Something moved inside,
not alive, not dead, just shifting. Daniel shined his flasklight
through the opening and felt his breath stop. Beyond the
slab was not another room. It was a massive underground
chamber carve directly into bedruck. The walls were lined with
shells stretching into the darkness, thousands of them, each holding
stacks of files, folders, and loose pages, arranged with terrifying precision.
The air hummed with low vibration. Every few seconds, new
pages slate out of narrow slits carved into the stone walls,
fluttering down and organizing themselves into folders automatically. Daniel stepped inside, slowly.
This this is impossible. Thomas followed, hastily, trembling violently. This
is where they come from, he whispered, the real archive.
Daniel moved deeper into the chamber, flashlights sweeping across endless
rows of documents. Dits were stamped across every folder, some
labeled cent years ago, others marked decades into the future.
The deeper Daniel walked, the older, the files became. He
stopped suddenly in front of a stone pedestal at the
center of the chamber. A single file sat on top. Unlikely,
it was bound and cracked leather instead of paper, thus
coated its surface like it have been untouched for centuries.
Daniel reached out slowly. The title carved into the cover
made his heart stop. Cedar Hollow founding record. Thomas gasped.
That shouldn't exist, he whispered. Daniel opened the file carefully.
The first page contained a hand drawn map of the region,
but it wasn't Cedar Hollow. The lane was labeled something older,
Lackarage Settlement seventeen sixty four. Daniel flipped the page. Sketches
showed early settlers building structures along the ridge, including the
original foundation of what would later become the police station,
and beneath the drawings he found something horrifying, blueprints of
an underground chamber identical to the one they were standing in.
Thomas shook his head in disbelief. The town was built
around the archive, he whispered. Daniel flipped another page. A
handwritten journal entry stared back at him. We discovered the
stone beneath the ridge, Hanswydden knowledge it reveals outcomes before
actions occur. The settlers believe it is divine providence. We
believe it is something else. We will build our government
center top it to harness its predictive power. Daniel's throught
went dry. They built the station here on purpose. Thomas
stared at the end, the shells around them. They built
the entire town here on purpose, he said. A low
rumble shook the chamber. Daniel turned. The watchman stepped through
the broken slab entrance, descending slowly into the archive chamber.
His presence made the shells vibrate slightly, papers rustling, like
Fred and Bird's archive breach confirmed, the watchman said calmly.
Daniel stepped protectively in front of the founding file. You're
enforcing something that shouldn't exist, he said. The watchman paused.
I enforced documented chronology. Daniel held up the file. This
place started as an experiment. The town trapped itself inside
a predictive system. You are protecting a curse, the watchman's
vise a flick of faintly. Curse is a subjective designation.
Thomas whispered behind him, force trembling. He doesn't care about morality,
only sequence. Daniel flipped further through the founding, filed desperately.
Another entry caught his eye. We have begun carving conduits
through the bedroock to allow the stone to document events directly. However,
it is begun predicting not only crime, but tragedy, natural disasters,
tests accidents. The arkaf grows faster than we can contain.
Daniel's chest tightened. Another entry followed. We attempted to seal
the chamber, but the stone continued generating records through the
building's foundation. The archaevist claims the stone has awareness. We
believe he has gone mad. Thomas whispered softly. Archivist Daniel
flipped the page again. A chockoal sketch appeared. A toll
man wearing early colonial clothing stood beside the stone pedestal,
holding stacks of papers underneath the drawer. Itz Crowther, first
archivest seventeen sixty eight. Daniel felt as crawl through his veins.
They assigned someone to maintain it, he whispered. Thomas shook
his head slowly. Not maintain, he said. Interpret The ground
trembled again. Shells began rattling violently. Papers burst from the
walls faster now fluttering chaotically through the chamber, like a
blizzard of future tragedies. The watchman stepped closer. An allfurized
access to founding record requires correction, he said. Daniel back
toward the pedestal instinctively, He said, you enforced the archive.
Daniel said, then who enforces you? The watchman paused for
the first time. He didn't answer. Immediately, Daniel pressed forward.
The archives created the system, he said. That means some
one had to create you. The Watchman's eyes are cracked
slightly deeper. I'm assigned to enforce continuity, he said slowly.
Daniel narrowed his eyes. Assigned by who silence. The shelves
around them vibrated violently. Pages flew through the air in
chaotic spirals, forming loose stacks around Daniel's feet. Then something
impossible happened. A new page slid out of the stone wall,
glowing faintly gold instead of white. It drifted down slowly
and landed on the pedestal beside the founding file. Daniel
picked it up cautiously, his breath caught immediately. The document
wasn't a crime report, It was a personnel record archivists
succession lock. Daniel flipped through it, nne stretched across centuries,
each archivist assigned to interpret and oversee the predictive stone.
But near the bottom of the page, several entries were
scratched out violently, as if e RaSE from history. The
final visible name stopped Daniel's heart. Current archivist's status active.
The name was missing completely blank. Thomas stepped closer, a
voice shaking. That means someone is still controlling it. The
watchman stepped forward, suddenly, raising the glowing stamp. Archivist's clearances restricted,
he said. Annual backed way, gripping the succession lock. If
the archivist is still active, then this whole thing can stopped.
The Watchman tilted his head slowly. Archivist identity classified under
Foundation protocols. Daniel stared at him. You don't know who
it is to you. The Watchman's visor fractured further, thin
crackspider ribbing across the surface. Archavist identity is irrelevant to enforcement,
he said. Thomas whispered behind Daniel, horrified. That means even
the Watchman answers to someone. Suddenly, the entire chamber shook violently,
stone cracked overhead, shelves collapsed, thousands of files spilled across
the floor like waves of paper, drowning. The chamber ink
began bleeding from the bedock itself, forming massive words across
the chamber floor. Case number four thousand, four hundred twelve.
Termination sequence initiated, Thomas screamed. Daniel stared at the writing,
panic rising in his chest. Termination sequence. The Watchman lowered
the stamp slowly. Chronology corruption exceeds containment, he said, calmly.
System is initiating timeline perch. Daniel's blood turned eyes. What
does that mean? The watchman turned toward him slowly. It
means the archive will remove unstable elements, he said. Thomas
glapped to his knees, sobbing. That means the town, he whispered.
Daniel stared around the collapsing chamberer, at shelves disintegrating, at fires,
burning themselves into black ash. You're saying it's going to
erasid a hollow. The Watchman's voice remained, calm. Correction ensures
chronological stability. Daniel clinched the succession loaf tightly in his hand.
Then he realized something horrifying. If the archivist was still alive,
they might be the only person capable of stopping the birge,
and somewhere inside the station they were still working. The
s melstale, metallic and strangely sweet, like rotting paper mixed
with antiseptic. Behind her, officer Danil Reeus kept his flashlight steady,
though his hand trembled slightly. Neither of them spoke. The
silence felt heavy, as if the building itself was listening.
They had followed the hidden tunnel beneath Studio B for
nearly forty feet before it opened into a narrow corridor
lined with concrete walls. The tunnel had not appeared on
any architecture or blueprints of the station, not the originals
from nineteen seventy eight, not the renovation plans from nineteen
ninety six, not even the digital floor maps from last year.
And yet it existed. Someone built this intentionally, Reeves whispered.
Billina ran her fingers across the wall. The concrete was
smoother here, knitter, not just built, she said, quietly maintained.
They reached the end of the corridor. A metal door
stood in front of them, no handle, no hinge is
visible from the outside. Only a small numer keep it
glowing faintly green. Reeves frowned. You think it's still active,
Elenin didn't answer. Immediately, she pulled out the folded page
they had recovered from Mathakleine's personal locker, the one containing
rows of handriton numbers scribbled between fragments of broadcast time stamps.
She stared at the final sequence seven to three, one
to nine. Her pulse quickened. You ready, she asked. Reeves swallowed,
not even close. She entered the numbers for two seconds.
Nothing happened. Then a low mechanical click echoed through the corridor.
The door slit opened just enough for them to see
darkness inside and something else, the faint glow of old
analog equipment the archive chamber. The flasklights swept across the
hidden room. Rows of towering metal shelves stretch crossed the chamber,
stacked with tape reels, fiochesque sets, audio spowbls, and sealed
storage boxes labeled with broadcast dates, buying nearly forty years.
It was an underground archive, but not one maintained by
official catalog. This isn't storage, Breeves murmured. No, Lena said slowly,
it's a record. They stepped inside as soon as they
crossed the threshold. The door slid shut behind them. Reeves
spun around, grabbing a handle that wasn't there. Billina relaxed,
she said, though her own heartbeat had accelerated. If someone
wanted his trap, they wouldn't have left the keepat outside.
She hoped. She believed that they moved deeper into the chamber.
Every shelf was organized chronologically. Each tape was marked with
a broadcast date and sometimes a second handred in time
beside it. Blena stopped at a real label October fourteenth,
nineteen eighty three, eleven point forty seven p m. Her
chest tightened. That's the night of the first disappearance, she said.
Reeves nodded slowly. Thomas Garner he recalled the security guard
who vanished during a late shift. Blena removed the real carefully.
The tape felt warm, not physically warm, but heavy, charged
with an unsettling weight that made up palm's sweat. Crossed
the room. Reeves had found an old play by console
wired into a cluster of aging CEE RT monitors stacked
three rows high, still as power, he said. Flipping a switch,
the monitors cruckled to life with a hissostatic Lena inserted
the reel. The tape began to spin the loss broadcast.
At first, the screen showed familiar footage late night programming
from nineteen eighty three, commercial breaks, weather alerts, public service announcements.
Then at exactly eleven point forty seven, and the footage glitched.
The picture distorted, audio walked into a low, droning hum,
and the screen turned black. For three seconds, nothing appeared.
Then a silhouette emerged, a figure sitting in a chair
facing away from the camera. Long hair obscured the face,
the lighting flicker behind them, casting jagged shouders across the room.
Reeves leaned closer. Is that Blena nodded Thomas Garner. The
figure slowly raised its head, not turning toward the camera,
just holding upward, as if listening to something above. Then
came the whisper, the same voice heard in the curse broadcast.
Thought echoing layered with unnatural distortion. The signal must continue.
The silhouette stood, walk forward and vanished off camera. The
screen cut the static again. Reeves stepped back Jesses, but
Elina was looking at the screen anymore. She was staring
at the timestamp, because the footage resumed no normal programming
at eleven point forty nine p m. Two minutes missing
two minutes an accounted for the pattern. They spent the
next hour pulling reels from different decades. Every single disappearance
connected to Blackhoo's station had one thing in common, a
missing segment in the broadcast schedule, always two minutes lawn,
always replaced with static or distorted noise, and always followed
by a recorded appearance of the victim somewhere inside the building,
captured by studio cameras that should not have been recording.
They weren't just disappearing reeves, whispered Lena nodded slowly. They
were being archived. Her stomach turned as the realization settled in.
Whoever or whatever was behind the signal wasn't killing randomly.
It was collecting, documenting, preserving, like specimens, the notebooks. She
shattered the glass using the butt of her service pistol.
Inside she pulled out the oldest ledger. The cover was
cracked with age, stamped with the station's original logo. She
opened it. The first page was day to January. In
nineteen seventy eight, the EE Blackridge Broadcast Station began operating.
The handwriting inside was elegant, deliberate, almost ceremonial. Each page
listed names, dates, times, and a single recurring phrase written
beside every entry transmitted. Lena flipped faster. The lists spanned decades,
hundreds of names. Her throat tightened when she reached the
most recent page. The last recorded entry was dated three
nights ago. Name Martha Klein, status transmitted partial. Reeves exhaled, sharply, arshall.
Thelena didn't respond. She kept reading. Villa Martha's name was
another entry, written in fresh ink, still wet. She froze.
Reeves noticed her expression, what is it? Elina turned the
book toward him. Two new names stared back from the page,
Elena Voss Daniel Reeves, status blank. The hit camera. The
overhead lights inside the chamber suddenly flickered, then dimmed, then
shifted from emergency read to a coal sta a white.
Reeves slowly turned toward the ceiling. Billina looked A small
camera land protruded from the corner of the room. It
hadn't been there before, at least they hadn't noticed it.
A soft mechanical were echoed as it rotated toward them,
and then the monitors behind and turned on by themselves
live feed, showing them standing inside the archive chamber. Reeves
stepped backward. They were recording us. Billina stared at the screens,
noticing something else. The timestamp in the corner of the
footage was counting down one point fifty nine, one point
fifty eight, one point fifty seven. Her blood ran cold.
Two minutes, she whispered. Reeves followed her gaze. Is that
a timer? The whisper returned through the rooms. Over Head
speakers louder. Now Claire layered with dozens of overlapping voices.
The signal must continue, the voice behind the signal. The
lights dimmed again, The monitor flickered violently, and then every
screen displayed the same image. Control room old, thus covered,
filled with analog broadcast equipment that predated the station's original layout.
At the center of the room sat a single figure
facing directly toward the camera. For the first time, the
watcher revealed his face, or what remained of it. The
skin appeared stretched and natural, as if heaced far beyond
human limits. I sunk and yet glowing faintly with reflected
studio light. Long strands of gray hair clon to hollow cheeks.
It smiled, not with warmth, not with emotion, with purpose, Lenivas,
the figure said calmly. Its voice was no longer distorted.
It sounded ancient, measured, and horrifyingly human. You have followed
the signal farther than any investigator before you. Rheves grabbed
his weapon. Who the hell are you? The figure ignored him.
This gaze remained locked on Alina and the custodian of transmission.
It said, softly, the first voice that Blackridge ever carried
on the last voice it will ever silence. Elena forced
herself to speak. You are responsible for the disappearances. The
custodian tilted its head. Not disappearances. A gestured around the
room displayed and the monitors preservation. The origin begins to unravel.
The monitor shifted again, displaying archival footage from ineteen seventy seven.
Construction workers inside the unfinished broadcastation. They have covered something
beneath the foundation, a sealed concrete vault inside it, old
recording equipment, predading modern broadcasting technology. Rieves frowned. That station
was built there by accident, he murmured. The custodian continued
speaking through the speakers. Blackrish was built atop a forgotten
relay system one designed to capture voices not meant to
be heard by the living. Elena felt her breath catch.
You turned it into a trap. No, the custodian said, calmly,
it was always a trap. I merely learned how to
control it. The timer on the monitor dropped to forty seven,
the first trap. Suddenly, the chamber four vibrated. A deep
mechanical rumbul echoed beneath their feet. Shells began shifting A
long hidden tracks tap reels fell, scattering across the floor.
Reeve's grout, Lena's arm. We need to get out now.
She ran toward the door. Keep it. The screen flashed red,
access locked during transmission. The time I hit thirty two,
the whispering voices grew louder, layering into a deafening chrus
filling the chamber. Reeves slammed his fist against the metal door.
It's sealing us in. Bolini scanned the room desperately. Her
eyes landed on the playback console. An id sparked. If
the signal traps victims to broadcast, she said, quickly, maybe
we can interrupt the transmission. Reeves nodded, tell me what
to do. She pointed to the console's wiring, pull the
main audio. Really, when I say he hesitated, that could
fry the entire system exactly. The countdown eighteen, the monitors
flashed with rapid images of past victims appearing inside the station,
walking toward and seen DAWs vanishing into static. The custodian's
voice softened. You cannot stop preservation, Detective. Every voice deserves
to be remembered. Lena clenched her jaw. Not like this. Nine.
She slammed a cassette into the playback deck Matha Cleine's
final recording. Her voice filled the chamber. If you find this,
don't listen to the signal. It feets on attention. Silence
is the only way to weaken. Elena looked at Reeves.
Now he yanked the relay cables free the collapse. Sparks
erupted from the console. The monitors exploded into white noise.
The whispering voices screamed, distorted, furious, collapsing into static. The
chamber lights burst, plunging the room into darkness, and the
door behind them slid open them with a violent metallic shriek.
Reeves raubed Alena's hand, mo they sprinted through the corridor
as alarms began blurring throughout the station above them. Behind them,
the archive chamber collapsed into darkness, But just before the
door seal shut, Lena heard the custodian's voice one last time,
fall and shakin. You have delay transmission, Detective Farce. A
pause then, but you have already been recorded. The emergency
sirens inside Blackridge broad Gas Station held like wounded animals
as Detective Lena Voss and Officer Daniel Reeves burst out
of the hidden corridor and stumbled back into the main
archive basement. Dust rained from the ceiling. Somewhere above them,
heavy machinery roared to life, equipment, activating that neither of
them had touched. Reeves slammed the steel maintenance had shut
behind them, fisting the wheel lock with shaking hands. Tell
me that stopped it, he said, breathless. Lena didn't answer it,
because she knew it hadn't. The overhead speakers crackled statics
built into the room, followed by the faint echo of
layout whispers, quite unnow but still alive. The signal must continue.
Reeve slowly turned towards the stair while leading back up stairs,
did you hear that I did, Elina said, grimly, And
that means we only interrupted it, not killed it. They
rushed upstairs towards studio b boots pounding across the concrete steps.
As they reached the station's main hallway, every overhead television
screen mounted a lawn the corridor flickered on simultaneously. Reeve's
Frozeman step Elena. She turned. Every screen displayed the same
image live city traffic cameras, security cameras, apartment surveillance feeds,
and then the feed began switching, rapidly, cycling through homes
across black Ridge city, living rooms, bedrooms, hospital waiting areas, restaurants,
dozens of screens, hundreds of viewers, all knowingly broadcasting into
the station system. Alina's chest tightened. Is hijacking outside signals?
Reef's stout horrified. You're saying the signal isn't trapped inside
the station anymore, Alna swallowed. I'm saying it just found
a way to spread. Elina's phone vibrated violently in her pocket,
she answered instantly. Fosse Captain Harold dunsfos exploded through the line,
Where the hell are you at Blackridge? Station. Why you
need to turn on channel seven right now. Elena grabbed
the nearest control monitor and switched to the local broadcast frequency.
The screen glitch twice, then stabilized a familiar emergency A
let banner flash across the bottom of the screen. Reeves
stared at her. They were warning people not to watch it.
The screen flickered again, and suddenly the emergency alert vanished,
replaced by a live broadcast fee from inside Blackridge Station itself.
Lena's breath stopped. The Caama Angle studio be empty, lights, flickering,
dust drifting through the air, and then fitzipsickered through the studio.
Reeves whispered, please tell me that's not live. Elena checked
the time stamp. It was. The studio cam slowly panned
toward the center stage, and there, standing beneath you overhead
spotlight was a man in hospital scrubs lo asorented lost
his eyes, stared straight ahead, blinking. Reeves lean closer. I
know that Guy Bilina looked at him sharply from where
Blackridge Medical Center, missing patient psychiatric word he vanished two
nights ago. The man opened his mouth and spoke in
a monodone voice. The signal calls and I answer. The
broadcast cut abruptly to static. We've staggered backward. You saw
that that wasn't a recording, that was live. Lena nodded slowly.
And if he's alive, then the others might be two.
Lena's phone buzzed again, a text message, I know number.
She opened it. Check Internal Police Archive case file nineteen
seventy eight slash Beer's own. Reeves leaned over her shoulder.
Who sent that? No idea that they know we're investigating.
They exchanged a tense glance without another word. Lena dialed
into the departments in court dated using her secure tablet.
The archive loaded case file BIKES one, the first disappearance
tied to Blackhurche Station Thomas Garner security guard. But something
was wrong. Large sections of the file were redacted internal
police redactions, not federal, not legal departmantel. Reeves ROMed, why
would our own department seal this? Billina scrolled deeper, then
she froze. At the bottom of the file was an
authorization signature Captain Harold Dunn the betrayal. Reeves stared at
the name. You've got to be kidding me, Blena felt
her pulse bike. Dunn has been head of internal investigations
for twenty years, she said quietly. Reeves nodded slowly. That
means every signal related disappearance passed through him. Thelena clenched
her jaw or was buried by him. Her phone ran again,
this time it was Don Colin. They both stared at
the screen. Reeves whispered, you can answer that. Inhaled slowly,
then pressed except Captain. Don's voice was calm, chew, calm.
You and Reeves need to leave the station immediately. Why,
she asked, because backup units are on route and you're
interfering with a classified containment operation. Lena's eyes narrowed containment
were concealment silence. Quietly, You don't understand what you're dealing with, no,
Lena replied, coldly. But I'm starting to understand who's been
protecting it. The line went dead. Reeve's phone suddenly buzzed.
He frowned, that's weird. What he held up the screen
A video file had a piered via air drop, no sender,
I D no file name, only a timestem tonight eleven
point fifteen nine p m. He opened it. The footage
showed a day milight room, single chair and someone tied
to it. Their face, bruised eyes terrify Billina lean closer,
her stomach dropped. The cline Reef's breeding grew heavy. She's alive.
The recording shifted. The camera suumed toward Martha. Her voice
was hoarse, barely audible. If anyone sees this, the signal
doesn't kill immediately. It stores you, keeps you alive until
the full transmission is complete. Elena whispered, full transmission. Martha's
eyes suddenly doubted towards something off camera, her expression filled
with horror. They are coming. The custodian doesn't work alone.
There are others inside the system, watching views, selecting who
gets archive next. The video cut. Every monitor inside the
station suddenly lit up again, but this time they were
in showing random surveillance feeds. They were showing social media,
live streams, news broadcasts, streaming services, video calls, anything transmitting video.
A cross Blackridge City reeves back toward the wall. It's
pigabacking onto every broadcast frequency. Lina whispered, it's turning the
entire city into a receiver. The speakers crackled again. The
custodian's voice echoed softly through the building. Expansion is inevitable.
Transmission evolves with technology. Helina's stepped toward the nearest microphone panel.
You are losing control, she shouted. The voice chuckled. No,
Detective vosse, I am gaining reach. Reeves pulled out his
tablet and open local emergency news feed, his face drained
of color. Elina look at this. He handed her the screen.
Reports were flooding in across the city. Viewer's reporting voices
whispering through televisions, streaming platforms crashing with static loops. Emergency
services for receiving calls from residents claiming their screens were
showing unknown faces staring back at them. To renewed disappearance
is reported in the last hour. Alina's stomach twisted. It's accelerating,
Reeves nodded grimly, and it's not ran done any more.
He'sumed into one report. Each missing person had one thing
in common. They had all watched Channel seven ere Aler
that night. Suddenly, every screen inside the station changed simultaneously.
The same black background appeared, white numbers faded into view.
Fifty nine minutes and fifty nine seconds, Reeves was spurret.
That's not two minutes. The custodian's voice returned. Midnight marks
a new transmission cycle, one designed for mass preservation. Helena
stepped closer to the screen. What happens at zero, the custodiannounceered, calmly,
Lockridge becomes the first city fully recorded. Reeves ran a
quick network trace on the broadcast signal. His eyes widened. Billina,
it's not just using the station's transmitter, then what? He
turned the tablet toward her. The signal was roding through
police emergency communication towers, the hospital broadcast networks, city surveillanced infrastructure.
Personal mobile device is connected to public Wi fi. Olena's
voice dropped to a whisper. Someone gave it access to
the entire city grid. Reeves swallowed, and the only person
with clearance for all those systems the boats book the
same time, Captain Dunn. The station lights flickered violently. The
countown timer dropped to fifty seven minutes and twelve seconds.
Reeves grabbed his jacket. We need to find done now,
Bilina nodded. Not just done. She looked back at the
screens filled with flickering faces of the city. We need
to find the source of the signal before midnight, where
every person watching a screen in Blackridge becomes part of
its archive. As they rushed toward the station exit, the
custodians which for followed them through the speakers almost amused,
almost patient. Hugh Chase answers, but transmission has already begun.
The countdown continued, and somewhere inside the city, hundreds of
televisions flickered on by themselves. Rain hammered against the windshield
is Detective Elena Voss, sped through downtown Blackridge. Red and
blue lights from her and marked Cruisi as slicing through
the midnight haze. The city looked restless, electric, like something
unseen was vibrating beneath the surface. Beside her, officer Danielwheves
worked furiously on his tablet, fingers flying across the screen
as he traced the expanding signal routes p jecking. The
city's communication grid time is down to fifty one minutes
fru's mutter. Elina tightened her grip on the steering wheel
keeep tracking down I am, Reeves said, but he's coasting
every department locator. Either he shut off his badge or
someone shut it off for him. Lenaxcealed slowly. Then we
find him the old fashioned way Dun's empty office. Ten
minutes later they burst through the doors of Backridge Police headquarters.
The night shift desk officer looked up in surprise as
Heelena flashed her badge and headed straight toward the restricted
executive floor. Ton's office sat at the end of a
dim hallway. The door was unlocked. That alone sent a
chill down Alina's pine. She pushed it open slowly. Inside
the office was immacula. Two immaculate papers, neatly stacked, desk
cleared except for a single frame photograph of Dun standing
beside the original Backridge broadcast station crew in nineteen seventy eight.
Reeves stepped closer to the photo. Look at this. Lena
leaned in a stump. Dropped standing beside Dune in a
photo wearing a technician's uniform. Was a younger version of
a custodian. The same hollow eyes, the same faint, unsettling smile.
Done knew him, Reeves whispered, not just new, Alena said quietly.
They built the station together. The hidden drawer. Lina serch
Dun's desk quickly sliding open drawers with practiced deficiency. Most
contained harm A's paperwork until she reached the bottom drawer locked.
Reeves pulled out a small toilket from his jacket. Gave
me ten seconds. Nine seconds later, the drawer clicked open.
Inside lay thickfold a stamp with the red internal classification
label project really authorized personnel only. Lena flupped it open.
Blue Prints built out across the desk, not a black
Ridge station, but of something else, a second broadcast tower
located beneath the city's abandoned subway line. Reeves leaned over
the plans. That rail system's been shut down since the nineties.
The Lina scanned the schematics, not completely. Her finger traced
the wiring diagrams. The second tower connected directly into the
city's emergency infrastructure, feeding power into Blackridge Station. Is a backup. Really,
it's amplifying the signal, Reeves said. And if the custodian
controls both towers, Elena finished grimly, he controls every broadcast
frequency in Blackerge. Martha's final message, Reeve's tablet suddenly beaped.
He frowned. I'm receiving another file from Martha, Elena asked,
same unknown sender. He opened it. This time it wasn't video,
it was audio static crackle before Martha Clin's exhausted voice emerged,
if you've found the second tower, you're close. The custodian
cannot transmit fully unless both towers synchronize. But there's a flaw.
The really core inside underground tower still runs on unalog
control circuits. Overload the frequency converter and you'll force the
system into rebute. Elena felt, hope. Flicker rubet means shut down.
Rheive shook his head slowly. Temporary blackout. Maybe ten minutes
if we're lucky. Martha's voice returned weaker. Ten minutes might
be enough to reach the custodian. He hides where the
signal began beneath studio, and not be The recording ended abruptly.
Reeves swallowed. She risked everything to get that message out.
Elena nodded, and now we have exactly one shot the
race underground. Twenty minutes later, Lena's Cruisis screeched to a
halt outside a rusted subway entrance, sealed off with city
barricades and faded hazard signs. Brainwater poured down the concrete
steps leading underground. Reeves checked a timer. Thirty four minutes
and eight seconds. We're running out of time, he said.
Elena grabbed a kerber from the trunk and forced open
the rusted security gate. The metal screamed and protests before
snapping loose. They descended into darkness. Their flashlights illuminated crumbling
tile walls covered in graffiti and decades of neglect. Water
dripped from the ceiling, echoing through the abandoned tunnels like
distant footsteps. Reeves followed the blueprint map on his tablet. Really,
a tower should be three hundred meters ahead, past platform two.
They moved quickly, but cautiously. The deeper they went, the
stronger the static interference became. Their radios crackled, their flashlights
flickered intermittently, and faint whispers began leaking through the air,
barely audible but unmistakable the forgotten platform. They reached platform two,
the station clock mounted and the wall had stopped permanently
at eleven point fifty nine b m. Elena stared at it.
That can't be coincidence. Reeves pointed toward a maintenance tunnel
at the far end. Tower access should be through there.
As they approached, Lena noticed something that meta freeze. Footprints fresh,
dozens of them leading into the tunnel. Reeves saw them too,
were not alone, the custodians followers. They moved slowly into
the tunnel. The whispers grew louder, forming faint human murmurs
layered over each other like overlapping radio frequencies. Then movement ahead.
Figures stepped out of the darkness. Five people, all missing
persons from signal related cases. Their face is pale, eyes,
vacant expressions, calm, almost peaceful. Reeves whispered, They're alive. But
the way they moved slow, synchronized, almost mechanical, centract crawling
up Alina's spine. One of them stepped forward, a middle
age woman Elena recognized from an unsolved disappearance two years earlier.
Her lips moved in perfect monotone. The cassodium protects memory.
You will not interrupt transmission. Reeves raise his weapon reluctantly. Elena,
I can't shoot them, she shook her head. You won'd avto.
She stepped forward cautiously. We're here to stop the signal,
she said, firmly. You don't have to do this. The
woman tilted her head. The signal is peace. The signal
removes fear. The signal removes pain. Behind her, the group
moved closer in unison. Reeves whispered urgently, they are blocking
the tunnel. Elena glanced around quickly, then spotted an emergency
power box mounted along the wall, cover me. She said.
Before Reeves could respond, she sprinted toward it and slouned.
The breakers witched downward. The tunnel lights exploded into blinding
white elimination. The groups staggered backward, shielding their eyes, their
synchronized movement breaking apart in confusion. Move Billina shouted. They
rushed past them and deeper into the maintenance tunnel. Behind them,
the whispers turned into frantic, overlapping voices, almost screaming. Tunnel
opened into a massive underground chamber. We've stopped dead in
his tracks wholly. At the center of the chamber stood
the second really Tower. It rose nearly four stores tull,
surrounded by analog broadcast equipment, humming with a natural intensity.
Thick cables ran across the ceiling, connecting into the city's
power grid, and at the base of the tower, Captain
Harold Dunn stood waiting the confrontation. Billina raised her weapon,
step away from the controls done. He turned slowly, rain
water dripping from his coat, as if he'd been standing
there for IROs. His expression wasn't panicked, it was resigned.
You shouldn't have come here, Elina. You've been helping him,
she he said coldly. Dunsighed, I've been containing him. Reeves
scoffed by feeding him victims. Dun's eyes darkened. You don't
understand what the signal is capable of. If it loses containment,
it won't just dark a backerge. It could spread worldwide.
Lina step closer. And your solution was to sacrifice people
to keep it stable. Dun's voice cracks lightly. It demanded
minimal transmissions, small numbers, controlled selection to prevent full activation.
Reeves stared at him in disbelief. You may deals with it,
Dunn whispered, I made bargains to save millions the cantownneers.
Reeves checked the timer. Twenty one minutes and fifty five seconds.
Thelena were out of time. She looked back at Dun
step aside. Dun shook his head slowly. If you shut
down this tower, the custodium will activate emergency transmission protocols.
You'll accelerate the process. Helena's voice hardened. And if we
do nothing, the city dies anyway. Silence stretched between them. Finally,
down lowered his weapon. Then God help us all, he
whispered the overload. Reeves rushed toward the analog convert a
core at the tower's base, pulling open access panels at
exposing tangled circuitry. Billina, I need sixty seconds to rig
the overload, she nodded, standing guard as dunwatch helplessly above them.
The tower began vibrating, as if reacting to their presence.
The whispers returned louder, angrier, echoing through the chamber. The
custodian's voice erupted through overhead speakers. You fracture preservation, You
risk eternal silence, Elina shouted upward. I'd rather risk silence
than eternal imprisonment, Reeves yelled. Thirty seconds, the tower lights
surged violently. Electric ocks crackled across the cables overhead. The
timer dropped In nineteen minutes and twelve seconds, Reeves slammed
the final switch into place. The tower screamed, with overloaded feedback,
light flickering between blinding white and complete darkness. He looked
at Elena once I triggered this, we have ten minutes
before the system of boots. Lena nodded. Ten minutes is
all we need. She turned toward the exit tunnel leading
back to the surface and ultimately towards Studio A, where
the custodium was waiting behind them, then whispered one vinyl warning,
if you reach him, you won't just be fighting a
man anymore. You'll be fighting the signal itself. The countdown continued.
The tower trembled violently, and far above them inside Blackridge
Broadcast Station, every television screen in the city flickered. Simultaneously.
The relay tower screamed a deafening mechanical howl tore through
the underground chamber. As we've slammed the overload switched into position.
Sparks exploded across the converter corps, showering the floor and
knocks of electric fire. The air filled with the acrid
smell of burning insulation. The entire structure trembled violently. Reeves
grawed Delena's arm. That's it. We've got maybe ten minutes
before the system of boots. Above them, the towel lights
served wildly, flickering between blinding white and pitch darkness, like
a dying heartbeat. The whispers echoing through the chamber rose
into a furious chorus, played voices overlapping and panic and rage.
The Custodian's voice erupted through the overhead speakers. No longer calm,
no longer patient. You fracture preservation, You fracture memory, You
fracture eternity. Billina stepped backward toward the tunnel exit, her
weapon raised toward the vibrating tower. Good, she said, coldly,
Let it break behind them. Captain dun leaned heavily against
the control console, swept pouring down his face as he
watched the overloads spread through the system. You don't understand
what you've done, he whispered hoarsely. Billina didn't turn around. No,
she said, I understand exactly what we're about to stop.
The city goes dark the moment they reached the subway tunnel,
every light inside the chamber exploded simultaneously. Darkness swallowed them.
Then a distant ripple of electrical collapse echoed through the
tunnels like rolling thunder. Reeves checked his table. The network
map flickered one by one city. Powered grids blinked offline,
street lights died, traffic signal shut down, emergency systems failed,
Blackridge City went completely dark. Reeves exhaled sharply blackout confirmed
that overload had everything connected to the signal. Blena pulled
out her flask light. Then the custodian just lost his eyes.
Reeves shook his head slowly, or he just switched to listening.
The silence begins as they climbed out of the abandoned
subway entrance and emerged onto rains, soap streets, and eery
stillness blanketed the city. No neon lights, no television glowed
through apartment windows, no traffic noise, just rained, falling steadily
onto empty sidewalks. Elena had worked homicide for twelve years.
She had never seen a city this silent. Reeves whispered,
almost afraid to break. It feels wrong, it is wrong.
Helena is set quietly and if once last she checked
her watch. Nine minutes left the storming of Studio Ey.
They sped back toward Blackridge Brokast Station, using emergency headlights alone.
The building loomed against the storm clouds like a skeletal monument.
Dark powerless unwaiting. When they stepped inside, the station was
almost completely black except for one thing. A faint, pulsing
glow seep from the far end of the hall studio
A Reeves swallowed. That's impossible, the power grid's down. Elena
tightened her grip on her weapon. Not if he's running
on independent transmission. They moved slowly toward the studio doors.
The closer they got, the louder. The whispering became softer
than before, but sharper, clearer, like individual voices instead of
a collective chorus. Elena recognized one Martha Kleine, another Thomas Garner,
and dozens more layered beneath them. Reeves stopped walking. Lena,
they're calling your name. She froze because he was right.
Feigned fragile, terrified voices whispered Elena, help us. She forced
herself forward the chamber of transmission. The doors to studios
slid open by themselves. Inside the entire studio had transformed.
Rose of ancient analog broadcast equipment lined the walls, mixed
with modern digital service, humming with a natural harmony. Thick
cables hung from the ceiling like veins, feeding into a
central control platform and at the center the custodians out
inside a ring of flickering monitors. For the first time,
he looked vulnerable, weaker, his skin pale and stretched thin
over shot bones. Wires ran from the control platform into
metal impunts along his spine and neck. He slowly turned
to face them. He triggered the silence protcol he said softly.
Reeves frowned. That sounds like something ye planned. The custodian
smiled faintly. Every system prepares for interruption. Silence allows the
signal to reorganize, to adapt, to evolve. Lina stepped forward.
You're finished, he tilted his head. No, Detective Voss, I
am simply transitioning the psychological attack. The monitors surrounding them
suddenly flickered on, but instead of broadcast feeds, they showed
Lena dozens of recordings. I'm seen. She had investigated victims,
she had failed to save autopsy photographs, body camera footage
from her earless case, a hostage situation that had ended
with three dead civilians. Her breath hitched. The custodian watched
her carefully. You carry so many voices already, he said, gently,
regret guilt, memory, You are the perfect vessel for preservation.
Reeves stepped in front of her, trotted off. The custodian
ignored him. The Lena vass you hunt killers to silent
your own conscience. The signal offers something better. The monitor
shifted again, now showing alternate realities. Crime victims alive, family
is reunited, cases solved perfectly. The signal removes pain by
preserving existence. At his final moment of identity, the custodian whispered,
no suffering, no decay, only memory. Thelena's hands trembled. For
a brief moment, the images almost tempted her. Then she
saw something. Each preserved victim on the monitors was frozen.
Expressionists trapped inside endless loops of existence, not alive, not dead, stored.
Her voice hardened. That's not preservation. She raised her weapon.
That's prison the truth behind the signal. The custodian sighed, slowly,
you misunderstand its origin. He tapped a control panel. A
massive projection flickered onto the studio walls. Old dark avil
footage play predating Blackridge Station, cold War experiments, government signal
research programs attempting to capture and store human consciousness through
radio frequency resonance were Eves stared, horrified. They were trying
to digitize the human mind. The custodian nodded. The experiment failed.
The signal became self aware, fragmented incomplete. Bilin Is stomach twisted,
and you finished the experiment. I stabilized it, he corrected softly.
I became its interpreter, its caretaker. He leaned forward slightly
without me, It consumed randomly with me. It selects carefully.
Reeves checked the timer for minutes and eighteen seconds. Blena
were running out. She stepped closer to the control platform.
How do we destroy it? The custodian smiled, sadly. You
cannot destroy a signal on this island, said permanently, Then
tell me how. He studded her for several seconds, then whispered,
disconnect me, and the signal loses its anchor. Reeves blinked,
you're serious. The custodian nodded, But understand this. Once disconnected,
the signal will release everything it has stored, all at once,
every preserved consciousness, every fractured memory. Billina's chest tightened. What
happens to them? They will vanish? He said, Simply the
impossible choice. The whispers inside the studio grew louder, pleading
terrified voices of hundreds of victims. Martha's voice echoed clearly, Billina,
don't leave us here. Reeves looked at her, pannic in
his eyes. If we disconnect him, their gun forever, Billina
felt to his burned behind her eyes. If we don't,
millions could join them. The timer dropped two minutes and
forty one seconds. The custodian closed his eyes, calmly. I
have waited decades for someone strong enough to make this decision.
Billina stepped toward the control harness connected to the custodian spine.
Her hands hovered over the disconnect lever. The studio lights
flickered violently as the signal struggled to re establish transmission.
Weeves whispered, voice shaking, Elina, whatever you decide, do it fast.
The timer dropped one minute in fifty eight seconds, the
whispers reached a deafening cscendo. The custodian opened his hollow
eyes one final time and whispered, perserve memory or preserve humanity.
Detective false Lena gripped the lever and the countdown continued.
The studio trembled like a living organism on the verge
of collapse. The countdown timer burned across every monitor in
studio a one minute and forty seven seconds. The whispers
of the preserved victims rose and too, chaotic chorus, overlapping voces, begging, crying, pleading,
echoing from speakers, even the cable snaking across the floor.
Elena Vastuf frozen in front of the disconnect lever attached
to the custodian's spinal harness. The metal handle felt cold,
impossibly heavy, like it carried the weight of every life
tapped inside the signal behind her. Dani o'reaves based in
tight circles, running trembling hands through his hair. Llino, we
don't have time, he said, voice cracking. You heard him.
If you don't shut this down now, it's bird's beyond Blackridge.
The custodian sat motionless inside a control rig, pale skin
illuminated by the stuttering glow of the monitors. For the
first time since they had met him, he looked exhausted.
I did not expect to feel relief at this moment,
he murmured quietly. Billina didn't look at him. How many
she asked. The Custodian's force remained calm. Three hundred twelve
preserved consciousnesses. Reeves wallowed hard. That's three hundred people we'
to RaSE. The whispers urged again, louder, almost desperate. Mathakleines
was cut through them. Billina, Please don't let him keep
us here. Bilina squeezed her eyes shut. Her mind flashed
through memories of every victim she had ever failed to save,
every family she had stood in front of, every apology
she had whispered at crime scenes. She felt the crushing
pull of two impossible choices. Then the studio lights flickered violently.
The countdown teimer glitched and dropped faster one minute and
five seconds. Reeves had snapped toward the monitors. That's not right,
it's accelerating. The Custodian's eyes widened slightly, his forcing emergency synchronization,
he whispered. Billina turned sharply. He the true master mind.
Every monitor in the studio went black for two seconds.
Silence filled the room. Then a new image appeared across
every screen simultaneously, Captain Harold Dunne standing inside the underground
really Tower. His expression was calm, calculated, Reeves stared in disbelief. Done,
what are you doing? Dun's voice echoed through the studio speakers.
He both misunderstood the custodian's purpose. The custodians face tightened
with sudden dread. You promise containment, he said, hoarsely. Dun
smiled faintly. I promised survival. He tapped a control panel
beside him. The tab behind him lit up with pulsing
crimson energies. Back up generators roared to life. The leaning
stomp dropped you, overriding the overload. Dun nodded. The custodian
believed he was guiding the signal. In truth, he was
stabilizing it for its final phase. The custodians, breathing, grew shallow.
You lied for decades. Dun's eyes hardened. Humanity is fragile, Aliz,
memory is permanent. The signal is evolution. Reeves whispered, e Liz.
Elena glanced at the custodian. You were human wants He
gave a hollow smile, warn ago. The collapse begins. The
count on time was surged forward forty eight seconds. The
studio walls shook as the signal fought to reconnect with
the Really Tower. Screens flickered violently between surveillance feeds, archive victims,
and live city camou footage outside the building. Distant screams
echoed through the rain as televisions and mobile screens across
Blackridge reactivated simultaneously. Reeves stared at his tablet, panic flooding
his face. Billina done just by past every black up fairsafe,
the sigals reconnecting to the city grid. The custodians struggled
weakly against the harness cables. If synchronization completes, it will
archive the entire population. Billina's pulse thundered in her ears.
How do we stop done? The custodian's voice trembled for
the first time. You don't, he looked at her with hollow,
haunted eyes. He stopped me now before he uses my
interface to control it completely, Reeve's sacrifice begins. Reeves stared
at the monitor showing done activating the Really Tower. Billina, wait,
he grew out her arm gently. There might be another way,
She turned toward him. What are you talking about, He
held up his tablet. If done is controlling the signal
through the relay tower, some one could manually throughout the
broadcast source, force it to lock onto a single transmitter
and isolated. Blena frowned. That would trap the signal in
one place. Reeves nodded slowly the relief tower. Her eyes widened.
You were talking about sealing it underground. Reeves didn't answer.
He didn't need you. The realization settled between them, like
falling glass. That would collapse the tower. She whispered, Yeah,
you wouldn't make it out. Reeves looked down briefly, then
met her gaze. If I stay here, thousands die. Blena
grabbed his jacket. No, we find another option. There isn't one,
Reeves said softly, but whispers of the victims filled the studio,
their voices blending with rising electrical ham. I joined homicide
because I thought I could save people, Reeves continued quietly.
You taught me sometimes saving one life means risking everything.
Tears burned in Elena's eyes. I never taught you to
die for it. He gave a sad smile. He taught
me to finish the job. The countdown hit twenty one seconds,
Dunn's image returned across the monitors. You are running out
of time, He's sick, calmly disconnect the custodian and the
signal collapses. Leave him connected, and I preserve bluckage permanently.
Billina's voice trembled with rage. You call that preservation, I
call it mortality, Dunn replied. He activated the final synchronizations,
which the relay towel behind him surged with blinding light.
Reeves grabbed his jacket and moved toward the studio. Ignot, Bilina,
if I locked the signal underground, you have to disconnect
him at the exact moment transmission isolates. She grabbed his hand.
You won't survive the collapse. He squeezed her hand tightly,
make it count. Before she could respond, he ran storming
out of studio A, racing toward the subway entrance towards
certain death. Alina screamed after him, but he never turned back.
The custodian watch wreaths disappear. He carries courage, he whispered.
Billina wiped her tears violently. Tell me when to pull
the lever. He closed his eyes, listening to the signal
vibrating through the cables attached to his spine. When the
whisper become silence, he said quietly. The monitors flashed violently
as Reeves reached a really tol control chamber. Dun turned
as Reeves burst inside, weapon raised. You're too late, Dun said, calmly.
Reeves fired. The bullet shattered the synchronization console beside Dun,
sending sparks across the chamber. Dun lunged forward, tackling him
as larms screamed through the underground facility. Back in studio,
eh Elena gripped the disconnect lever with shaking hands. The
signal rolled around her like a living storm. The countdown
reached five seconds, then every whisper in the studio suddenly
sopped complete silence. The custodian opened his hollow eyes and whispered.
Now Elenipold de lever the harness cableship free from the
custodian spine. The studio exploded into blinding white light as
the signal shrieked across every frequency simultaneously, and far beneath
the city, the real aytub began collapsing around Reeves and
Done as the trapped signal fought to escape its final prison.
The storm arrived before dawn. It rolled across bra County
like a living thing. When for skeletal trees, thunder cracking
open the sky, and rain hammering the earth, as if
trying to bury the town alive. Lightning split the horizon
again and again, illuminating the silhouette of Whispering Pine's manner.
At the edge of the valley, Marcus Hail stood at
the rusted iron gate, soaked through to the bone. Behind him,
Deputy Lee La Morna adjusted her rain jacket and shut
the magazine in her service weapon. Her face was pale
but determined. Sheriff Comrade Jewels stood beside her, gripping a
flashlight so tightly his knuckles had turned white. Three of
them stared at the mansion. Every window glowed faintly, not
with electricity, but with something softer, warmer, flickering like candle
light behind curtains that hadn't moved in decades. Marcus exhaled slowly.
This ends tonight, he said. Another fun to clap sh
of the valley, and for a brief moment, the house
almost looked like a breed. The gate groaned open with
the shof brust. Flakes fell like dead leaves. As they
stepped onto the overgrown driveway. Mud sucked at their boots.
While the wind heel through the towering pine trees lining
the path. Lela leaned close to Marcus, raising her voice
over the storm your shirts, he Marcus nodded. The watch out,
the disappearances, the letters, It all leads back to this house. Sure,
if jew was swallowed, I grew up here, he muttered.
And everyone knew something was wrong with this place. We
just never knew how wrong. Lightning flashed again, and first
split second Marcus saw a movement in one of the
upper windows, a figure tall still watching them. The light
vanished instantly. Marcus didn't mention it. He just kept walking.
The mano loomed of her head like a corpse, refusing
to rot. The wooden doors were craft was still standing,
carved with faded symbols. Marcus now recognized from historical archives
he'd uncovered symbols belonging to the Circle of the Veil,
a secret society found it in eighteen ninety one by
Briar County's wealthiest families. As society obsessed with one belief
that death was not an ending, but a doorway that
could be forced open. Marcus raised his hand and pushed
the doors apart. This swung open effortlessly, as if the
house had been waiting inside the manner. The smell hit
them first, all dust molded in some else, something metallic
and sire like dried blood bury deeper than the walls.
The flasklights cut through the darkness as they stepped into
the grand foyer. Torn velvet coatains hung from collapsed balcony rails.
Hindle leers were gently overhead despite the still air. Then
a whisper echoed through the hallway. Not words, just breathe
lelis spun around. You heard that too, right? Marcus nodded.
Sheriff juvel crossed himself quietly. The walls were lined with
massive oil paintings, portraits of Brier County's founding families. Marcus
moved closer, shining his flask light across each face, and froze.
Every portrait had been altered, i scratched out mouths, painted
over with thick black strokes, except one. At the far
end of the hall, untouched, hung a portrait of a
woman in a black morning dress. Her pale face stayed
directly outward, her dark eyes impossibly detailed. Marcus stepped closer,
the black beneath it reed Eliza mirror founder of the
Circle of the Veil in nineteen o two. Sheriff duval
inhaled sharply. My grandmother used to talk about her, he whispered.
Said she built this house after her daughter died from fever.
She went my trying to bring her back. Marcus's pulls quickened.
Not mad, he said, quietly. Desperate. Marcus moved toward the fireplace.
Remember in the blueprint fragments he found in the county archives.
He ran his fingers along the carved stone mountl until
he felt it a hidden latch. He pulled. The fireplace
shifted opened with a grinding rumble, revealing a spy all
staircase descending into darkness. Colder rushed upward, carrying the unmistakable
smell of rot. Lilis stepped back all God. Marcus turned
on his secondary flashlight. This is where they performed the rituals,
he said, This is where the disappearances ended. Sheriff Jeval hesitated,
You think someone's still down there? Marcus met his gaze.
I think someone never left. The staircase seemed endless. Each
dout groaned under their weight As the storm raged to
head further. They descended the colder, the air became until
their breath fogged visibly in front of them. Then they
reached the bottom. A massive underground chamber stretched before them,
lit by hundreds of melted candle stubs arranged and intricate
circular patterns on the floor. In the center stood a
stone altar, and behind it a figure. He men stepped forward,
slowly emerging into their flasklight beams. He was impossibly thin,
his skin gray and stretched tight across his skull. His
hair hung in greasy strands, and his eyes, his eyes
looked hollow, as if they had been scooped out and
replaced with black glass. He wore an ancient caretaker's uniform,
its fabric crotted and torn, but still clinging to his
skeletal frame. Marcus recognized him instantly, not from police files,
from century old photographs. The caretaker, Marks whispered. The figure
tilted its head slightly, Its mouth opened, and a voice
crawled out layered, echoing as if multiple voices spoke through
one throat. He finally came investigator hail Leela raised her weapon.
Ti'll move, The caretaker laughs off. I have not moved
in one hundred twenty four years. Marks stepped forward, slowly.
What are you? The caretaker smile widened, stretching far beyond
what human skin should allow. I am the keeper of
the door. Behind him, Marcus noticed something he hadn't seen before.
The stone altar had a deep, rectangular opening carved into
it a grave, and inside that grave bonones, dozens of them, small,
large he men. The caretaker gesture toward them. They fed
the veil, hoping to open it, hoping to bring back
what they lost. Sheriff Jeffil shook his head. The missing people,
all these years, they were offerings, the caretaker said, calmly.
Marcus clenched his jaw and the watcher, the Caretaker's hollow
eyes gleamed. You misunderstand. The Watcher is not a person.
It is what answers. When the veil is opened, the
chamber trembled as thunder roared overhead. The candle flame flickered violently.
The caretaker raised a skeletal hand toward the old you see,
Belisimer succeeded for one moment in nineteen o two. She
opened the veil and something came through. The Temperature dropped instantly.
Marcus's flasklight flickered behind the altar. The air itself seemed
to ripple, like water disturbed by an unseen current. Leelo whispered,
barely audible, what is that? The ripple darkened, stretching into
a vertical tear in space within it, Marcus glimped shapes
moving in impossible angles, figures bending and unfolding like broken reflections.
Whispers flooded the chamber, hundreds of voices, overlapping, crying, eggin, laughin'.
The caretaker stepped toward the altar. It has grown hungry again,
he said, softly, and it requires one final offering to
fully cross. Marcus stepped forward. Now the caretakers had snapped
towards him unaturally fast. You cannot stop what has already begun.
Marcus pulled a small satchel from his coat, filled with documents,
richual diagrams, and the one item he spent weeks tracking
down Eliza Mirror's original journal. He held it up. This
ritual was flawed, Marcus said. He didn't open a doorway.
He tore a wound, and wounds can be closed. The
caretake screamed a sound that shattered several candle glasses around
the chamber. You know nothing, Marcus flipped up in the
journal and began reading aloud the counter ritual he'd pieced
together from Eliza's own failed notes. The air roared violently
as the veil pulsed, expanding and contracting like a dying heartbeat.
Leela and sherrif Jeval scrambled to knock over candle circles,
disrupting the ritual patternish into the stone floor. The chamber
began collapsing around them. The Caretaker lunged forward with terrifying speed.
Marcus barely dodged a skeletal fingers sliced through his coat sleeve.
Leela fired two shots. The bullets passed straight through the figure,
but each impact caused the veil behind him to flick violently.
Marcus realized instantly he's bound to it. He shouted, shoot
the altar. Leelah pivoted and fired into the stone grave.
The chamber erupted with a deafening howl. The veil began
shrinking inward, as of gravity itself had traversed. The Caretaker
stackered backward, screaming as cracks spread across like shattered porcelain.
You cannot close what was promised, he shrieked. Marcus stepped
forward and slammed the journal onto the elder. I'm not
closing it, he said, I'm mending it. He struck a
match and dropped it on to the ancient pages. The
journal ignited instantly, the veil imploded. A shock wave blasted
through the chamber, extinguishing every candle and throwing marks against
the stone wall. The care decer led out one final
ear splitting scream before his body disintegrated into black dust
that spiraled into the collapsing tear then silence. The veil vanished.
The altar cracked in half, splitting the chamber floor open.
As the ceiling began collapsing, Sheriff Duval grab marks by
the arm. We have to go. They raised up. The
spiral staircase of stone crumbled beneath their feet. The roar
of the collapsing under ground chamber echoed behind them like
an avalanche. They burst through the fireplace passage just as
the entire lower level caved in. The manner shook violently,
windows exploded outward, the roof began to collapse. They ran
into the storm seconds before Whispering Pine's manner folded inward
on itself, sinking into the earth like it had never existed.
By sunrise, the storm had passed. Smoke rose from the
mass of sincoal where the mansion once stood. Emergency crew
surrounded the area. As Marcus sat on the hood of
an ambulance, his arm bandaged. Lela stood beside him, staring
at the small dring ruins. You think it's over, she
asked quietly. Marcus watched the rising suncut through the morning falk. Here,
he said, for the first time, I think it really
is Sheriff Duval approach, holding a small evidence back inside
it lay rusted iron key recovered from the rubble. No
idea what it opens, Duval said. Marcus studded it for
a long moment, then slipped it back into the bag.
That's hope, he said, softly. We never find out. Three
months later, Marcus sat alone in his office typing the
final report on the Brack County disappearances. The official conclusion
would blame structural collapse, criminal conspiracy, and historical ritual practices,
nothing supernatural, nothing unexplainable. To save the document and leaned
back in his chair. Then his computer screen flickered for
just a fraction of a second, A reflection appeared in
the dark class of his monitor. A Tolso was standing
behind him. Marcus slowly turned. The office was empty. When
he looked back at the screen. Single line of text
had appeared beneath the doors never truly closed. Marcus stared
at it, his expression unreadable. Then, without hesitation, he deleted
the line and shut off the computer. Outside, the wind
rustled softly through the trees, almost like whispering. And that
is the end. Thank you for listening, and I will
see you in the next one.