Chapter 8
The heavy white door swung shut with a muffled, echoing thud that rattled the picture frames hanging on the hallway walls. The sudden movement was so fast and violent that it kicked up a small cloud of grey dust, swirling in the air between the two brothers.
David dropped the journal, the leather-bound book hitting the hardwood floor with a sharp slap. He raised the steel crowbar instinctively, his knuckles whitening around the grip.
"Did you see that?" David breathed, his eyes wide as he stared at the blank, unbroken surface of the white door. "Did it just close by itself?"
"I told you," Mark said, his voice dead flat as he clutched his bruised wrist. "It's not just a room, Dave. It's watching us. It interacts with us."
David took two cautious steps forward, lifting the crowbar like a weapon. "Step back, Mark. Let me handle this. We're tearing this frame out right now. I don't care about permits, county codes, or property values. We're ripping this wall down to the studs."
"Wait!" Mark warned, grabbing his brother's shoulder. "Don't touch it yet. Look at the doorknob."
David paused, lowering his gaze. The brass doorknob was no longer shiny. A thick layer of heavy, black corrosion was rapidly spreading across the metal, eating away at the brass like acid, turning it into a dull, jagged mass of burnt iron. A faint hiss, like escaping steam, rose from the metal surface, accompanied by the smell of burning copper.
Suddenly, from the other side of the door, the sound of faint, rhythmic tapping began. Tap. Tap. Tap. It was steady, deliberate, and paced precisely like a human knuckle rapping against wood.
"Open the door, David," a voice echoed through the hallway.
Both brothers froze. It wasn't the voice of their father this time. It was Mark’s own voice—smooth, calm, and entirely devoid of emotion, speaking from the interior darkness.
"That's... that's impossible," David stammered, stepping back a full pace, his eyes darting between Mark and the white door. "That sounded just like you."
"I told you it mimics us," Mark whispered, his heart pounding a frantic rhythm against his ribs. "It takes whatever is inside our heads and throws it back at us. When I looked in there, it wasn't an empty room. It's a corridor. A corridor that connects to every place we've ever tried to forget."
David swallowed hard, his grip on the crowbar trembling slightly. "We need to get out of this house. Right now. Grab Buster and get to the car. I'm calling a demolition crew at sunrise, and we're bringing a bulldozer through the front living room."
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"We can't leave," Mark replied, pointing down at the floorboards near the door.
David looked down and gasped. The grey dust from the room had spread out, forming neat, intricate patterns across the wooden floorboards, spelling out a single word in bold, jagged letters: WELCOME BACK.
