The first thing Chris noticed about Ryan Quinn was his exhaustion. The man appeared frail, his thin frame moving with a kind of mechanical numbness, as though every step cost him tremendous effort. They passed each other in the dim, musty hallway, and Chris handed over the missing person flyer he'd picked up from the floor. Ryan gave him a faint, raspy "thanks," his voice barely above a whisper.
"No problem," Chris responded with a polite smile as he followed the limping man upstairs.
Compared to the ground floor, the second floor was even darker and more humid. The peeling wallpaper was marked with strange scratches, and cobwebs clung to the corners like forgotten memories. Ryan Quinn led Chris down the long, narrow hallway to a door at the farthest end. He fumbled with the lock and finally pushed it open, retrieving a large set of keys from inside.
"Fifty bucks for the night. You can pick any room on this floor," Ryan said flatly, his eyes darting nervously towards the back of the room as though watching for something.
"Fifty? That's a little steep, isn't it?"
"You won't find another place to stay for miles," Ryan said, his tone more anxious than annoyed, his gaze continuing to flit between Chris and the room. "You should be thankful."
Chris shrugged. "Alright, but why only the second floor? Is there something wrong with the first and third floors?"
Ryan's demeanor shifted sharply, his eyes narrowing with irritation. "Do you always ask this many questions? The other floors are off-limits. Take it or leave it." He snatched the fifty-dollar bill from Chris's hand and tossed him a random key from the set. "The number's on the key tag. Find it yourself."
Before Chris could respond, Ryan hurried back into his room. Just as the door was about to shut, Chris heard a faint, choking sound from within—a guttural, elderly groan that sent chills down his spine. His instincts screamed that something was wrong. He quickly pressed his hand against the door to stop it from closing.
"Wait," Chris called out.
Ryan spun around, irritation clear on his face. "What now?"
Through the small crack in the door, Chris spotted the back of an old man slumped in a wheelchair. The groaning sounds were coming from him, though his head remained motionless, turned away from the door.
"I'm thirsty. Do you sell drinks around here?"
"No," Ryan snapped, his patience clearly thinning.
Chris feigned a friendly tone. "Come on, no need to get worked up. Just asking a simple question."
The door slammed shut in his face. Alone in the hallway, Chris felt the heavy silence press in around him.
"Something's definitely off here," Chris muttered to himself, glancing at the key in his hand.
Room 208 was directly next to Ryan's. As Chris approached the door, his mind raced with questions: Why is only the second floor open? Who's the old man in the wheelchair? Something felt wrong about this place, but he was too tired to give it much thought right now.
"I'll figure it out later," he sighed, unlocking the door to his room.
As the door creaked open, a waft of damp, moldy air hit his face. The room smelled stale, as though no one had stayed there in years. Dust coated every surface, and the bed felt clammy to the touch, its sheets soggy with age and neglect.
"Great. Just great," Chris muttered, feeling the grime cling to his fingers. He hadn't even had time to settle in when a loud crash echoed from the room next door. It sounded like someone had shattered a dish or a bowl.
Chris pressed his ear against the thin wall, listening intently. The unmistakable sound of Ryan's frustrated cursing broke through the silence. His voice grew louder and more erratic, switching to what sounded like an unfamiliar dialect—definitely not local.
What was even stranger was the sudden rise in the volume of the television. The static sound filled the entire hallway, drowning out everything else.
"What the hell is he doing over there?" Chris whispered, continuing to listen for any clues. But with the TV blasting, it was impossible to discern any meaningful sounds. Frustrated, he finally gave up and stepped away from the wall.
"Whatever. It's none of my business," Chris said, running a hand through his hair. He threw his backpack onto the rickety dressing table, pulling out a small fruit knife, which he tucked into his pocket just in case.
From the moment he arrived, Chris had felt that something sinister lurked beneath the surface of this rundown apartment. Online reviews had mentioned strange smells and bloodstains hidden beneath the peeling wallpaper, but no official records of murders or disappearances had ever surfaced. Yet, Chris knew better than to trust appearances—especially when his eerie phone app had selected this place as a trial site.
"If this is a test, there's got to be something hidden here," Chris muttered, his voice barely audible over the pounding of his heart. He grabbed his multi-tool hammer and started methodically tapping along the walls and furniture, searching for any hollow spots or secret compartments.
The room was decrepit, but it seemed otherwise ordinary—nothing out of the ordinary except for its extreme dilapidation.
"Ryan insisted that the second-floor rooms were safe enough to rent out. If there's anything worth finding, it's probably on the first or third floors," Chris mused, glancing at his phone. It was still a few hours before the trial officially began at 11 PM, but he didn't want to waste time.
Gripping the fruit knife in his pocket, Chris crept toward the door. His hand was on the doorknob when he froze, the hairs on the back of his neck standing on end. His palm suddenly felt clammy with sweat.
Ryan was standing right outside his door.
For how long, Chris had no idea.
Neither of them had expected to encounter the other at that moment, and they both jumped in shock. The door remained half-open between them, the air thick with tension.
"What are you doing outside my room?" Chris asked sharply, his voice filled with suspicion.
Ryan gave a thin, uncomfortable smile. "You said you were thirsty, right? I brought this for you." He held out an old, dented thermos, his hand trembling slightly. His expression was uneasy, as though something else was weighing heavily on his mind.
Chris hesitated for a moment before accepting the thermos. "Thanks," he said cautiously, his eyes never leaving Ryan's face. "You need something else?"
"No, just... don't wander around tonight," Ryan muttered under his breath, glancing nervously down the darkened hallway. "There are no lights in the corridor, and it gets really dark out here. You'd better stay put."
With that cryptic remark, Ryan turned and limped back to his own room, disappearing inside. The door shut behind him with a soft thud.
Chris exhaled a long breath, setting the thermos on the table. His mind was spinning with new theories about Ryan.
The guy's temper is as bad as his limp, but there's something off about him. Sure, he's disabled, but he's physically strong enough to handle himself. Maybe he's hiding something.
Chris felt a chill creep over him as his imagination ran wild. A man with a limp, possibly bullied as a kid, now consumed by inner demons... He checks all the boxes for a serial killer.
Chris shook his head, trying to push away the morbid thoughts. But it was hard to ignore the creeping sense of dread gnawing at his mind.
"If Ryan really is hiding something, then I'm spending the night in the same building as a potential murderer," he muttered, running a hand through his hair. His eyes darted toward the door, half expecting Ryan to be lurking outside again.
What if he stands outside my door all night? What if he's got keys to every room in this place?
Chris tightened his grip on the fruit knife, mentally preparing for what might be a long, restless night in Quinn's eerie apartments.