Chapter 5 - Through the Glass
Marcus stopped three steps from the bottom of the concrete stairs, his breath catching in his throat. The rhythmic hum vibrating in his skull grew louder, sounding less like machinery and more like a low, resonant human chant. Through the reinforced wired-glass window of the heavy steel door, a pair of dark, piercing eyes locked onto his. The face pressed against the glass was undeniably Emma’s—fifteen years old, with her hair braided tightly, wearing a light gray sweatshirt identical to the one Chloe was currently wearing upstairs. But there was an ageless weariness in her expression that did not belong to a teenager.
"Dad," a muffled voice echoed through the thick steel, sounding strangely distant, as if it were traveling through miles of pipe rather than a simple door. "You brought the wrong plates."
Marcus gripped the wooden handrail tighter, his knuckles turning stark white. He looked down at his hands, then back at the door. "Emma? How did you get in there? This is insane. Sarah, unlock this door right now!" he shouted back over his shoulder, expecting his wife to be standing right behind him on the stairs.
When he looked back, the stairwell was entirely empty. The dim yellow bulb flickered once, then plunged the upper steps into total darkness. Sarah, Maya, and Chloe were gone. The kitchen sounds above had vanished completely, replaced by an eerie, suffocating silence. Marcus spun back toward the steel door, his heart hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird. Through the glass, Emma was shaking her head slowly, her expression shifting from weariness to deep, agonizing pity.
"They aren't upstairs, Dad," Emma whispered through the glass, her lips barely moving, yet her voice echoed clearly in his ears. "They left through the kitchen. They always leave when the cycle starts."
"What cycle?" Marcus demanded, taking a rushed step forward and slamming his palm against the cold steel door. "Open this door! Who locked you in here?"
"You did, Marcus," a voice answered from the dark shadows of the cellar room, just out of the light's reach.
Marcus whirled around, his back hitting the steel door as a tall figure stepped out from the dim corner near the utility sink. The man had short dark hair flecked with gray, wore a gray long-sleeve henley shirt identical to Marcus's, and had the exact same scar across his left knuckles from a childhood bicycle accident. It was an older version of Marcus himself, staring back at him with tired, haunted eyes. The older man held a ceramic plate in his hands, identical to the one upstairs, piled high with cold spaghetti and a fried egg on top.
"Who... what are you?" Marcus stammered, stumbling backward until his spine pressed painfully into the cold metal door handle.
May you like
The older man smiled sadly, holding out the plate of food toward him. "I'm the one who has to explain why you're eating alone in the laundry room, every single day, for the rest of your life."
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