Chapter 5: The First Rule

Chapter 5: The First Rule

Returning to apartment 3B was like willingly stepping back into a cage. Alex had bought a bag of cheap salt at a corner store and poured a thick, gritty line across his threshold—a flimsy, superstitious defense that did nothing to soothe the frantic buzzing under his skin. He couldn't stay on the streets forever. He had to face this.

The daylight that had offered a false sense of security before was now a cruel accomplice to the terror. It illuminated the greasy handprint on his bedroom floor, a permanent stain of violation. It revealed the way shadows seemed to cling to the corners of the room, even in the bright afternoon sun. The apartment was no longer just empty; it was waiting.

The entity had learned from the phone call. It no longer needed an external trigger. Now, the attacks were intimate, surgical strikes aimed directly at his frayed psyche. It started with sounds. The faint, muffled sound of his own weeping, seeming to come from inside the closet. He’d fling the door open to find only a few hanging shirts and the smell of mothballs. Later, he heard the soft, familiar click of Mark’s favorite lighter, followed by a phantom whiff of his cologne, a scent that once meant comfort and now only signaled danger.

The illusions were worse. For a fleeting second, he saw the gaunt figure from the window reflected in his dark laptop screen, standing directly behind him. He spun around, a scream caught in his throat, to find only empty air. It was a war of attrition, and his sanity was the front line. It was feeding on him, he realized. The articles he’d read, the forum post about the "hungry shadow"—it all clicked into place. His fear, his despair, his sorrow over his past… it was a feast.

He was sitting on the floor, his back against the wall, staring at the salt line as if it were a forcefield, when the final straw came.

A whisper, clear as day, right beside his ear. It wasn't the dry, sibilant voice of the entity. It was his mother's voice, a perfect, loving mimicry of a woman who had been dead for ten years.

"It's okay, sweetie. Just unlock the door. I'm here now."

A sob of pure anguish tore from Alex's chest. That was a sacred memory, a line that should never have been crossed. The violation was absolute. He couldn't do this alone anymore. His suspicion of Elara was nothing compared to the certainty of the monster in his apartment.

Scrambling to his feet, he vaulted over the salt line and wrenched his door open. He didn't hesitate, pounding on the door of 3A with a desperate, frantic rhythm. "Elara! Please! You have to help me!"

The door opened a moment later. Elara stood there, her calm expression faltering as she took in his wild-eyed, terrified state. The strange charm on her doorknob, with its black feathers and smoky quartz, seemed to pulse with a protective energy he suddenly envied.

"It knows," he gasped, words tumbling out in a broken torrent. "It used my mother's voice. It was in the room with me. The handprint, the phone call—"

"Slow down," she said, her voice firm but not unkind. She glanced nervously up and down the hallway before pulling him inside her apartment and shutting the door. Her home was the complete opposite of his stark, empty box. It was filled with books, hanging herbs that scented the air with lavender and sage, and strange, intricate tapestries on the walls. It felt ancient and safe.

"Tell me everything," she commanded, her green eyes serious. "Don't leave anything out."

He did. He told her about the scratching on the window, the silent Shhh, the whispers at his bedroom door begging to be let in. He told her about the handprint and the impossible phone call where Mark's voice had merged with that of the monster. As he spoke, he watched her face. She didn’t look surprised or skeptical. She just nodded slowly, a deep, weary sadness in her eyes, as if she were listening to a story she had heard many times before.

When he finished, she took a deep breath. "You weren't meant to get this apartment, Alex. The landlord isn't supposed to rent 3B to people who are… vulnerable. He's gotten careless."

"Vulnerable? What are you talking about? What is it?" he demanded, his voice cracking.

"It doesn't have a single name," she explained, her gaze distant. "Some call it the Blackwood Echo. I call it the Whisperer. It's a parasite. Not a ghost, not a demon, but something older. It's tied to this place, and it feeds on strong emotions. Despair, sorrow, terror… they're like wine to it. It studies its victims, learns their deepest fears and traumas, and then uses them to break them down until there's nothing left."

Her words validated everything he’d feared. The entity wasn't just a random haunting; it was an intelligent predator, and he was its chosen prey.

"So what do I do? How do I fight it?" he asked, a desperate sliver of hope igniting in his chest. She knew what it was. She must know how to stop it.

Elara's expression grew grim. She stepped closer, her voice dropping to an intense whisper. "You don't fight it. You starve it. You give it nothing. But more important than that, there is one rule. The first and last rule of this place, the only one that truly matters." She locked her eyes on his, her intensity so fierce it felt like a physical force. "You can never, ever, invite it in."

"Invite it in?" Alex repeated, confused. "It's already in! The handprint—"

"That was a piece of it," she interrupted. "A projection. A taste. It can manifest shadows, create illusions, slip whispers under the door. But for it to truly get in—into your space, into your head—it needs permission. An invitation. It can be verbal, like saying 'come in.' Or it can be an act of will, an emotional offering. Opening yourself up to it. It tricks people. It will mimic a loved one, a child, a person in distress. It will do anything to make you open the door."

The memory of the whispers—let me in—slammed into him. It hadn't just been a threat. It had been a request. A question.

A fragile sense of control began to settle over him. He had a rule. A defense. It wasn't much, but it was more than he’d had an hour ago. He had a weapon. "Okay," he breathed, nodding. "Okay. I understand. Never invite it in."

"Good," she said, though the worry never left her face. "Now go back to your apartment. Don't engage with it. Don't speak to it. Be a stone. Be boring. Eventually, it may lose interest."

He felt a surge of gratitude so strong it almost brought him to tears. "Thank you, Elara."

He went back across the hall, his steps surer than they had been all day. He had a rule. He could survive this. He closed his apartment door, locked it, and leaned against the solid wood, taking his first real breath in what felt like an eternity.

BANG BANG BANG!

A frantic, desperate pounding erupted from the door, so violent the entire frame shuddered. Alex leaped away, his heart seizing in his chest.

"Alex! Please! Let me in!"

It was Elara's voice, but it was shredded with terror. Gone was the calm, knowledgeable woman from moments ago. This was a voice of pure panic.

"Alex, it's after me! I saw it in the hall! Oh god, please, open the door!" she shrieked, her fists hammering against the wood.

His mind reeled. A test. It had to be a test. The Whisperer was mimicking her, using the trust she had just built to trick him. He squeezed his eyes shut, repeating her words in his head. It will mimic a person in distress. Don't invite it in.

"Go away!" he yelled, his voice shaking.

"No, Alex, it's me! I swear!" she sobbed from the other side. "It knows I helped you! You have to let me in! Please!"

He was torn. What if it was real? What if helping him had made her a target? Could he condemn her to whatever was out there, all to save himself? His hand hovered over the doorknob, his resolve crumbling under the weight of her terrified pleas. He had to be sure.

He crept forward and peered through the peephole.

What he saw turned his blood to ice. It was Elara. Her face was pale, streaked with tears, her eyes wide with genuine horror as she glanced frantically over her shoulder down the empty, dim hallway. It was her. It was really her.

Relief and guilt warred within him. He was about to throw the bolt when his gaze drifted downwards, to the floor at her feet.

In the distorted fish-eye lens of the peephole, he could see her shadow, cast long and thin by the weak hallway light.

But it wasn't alone.

Stretching out from behind her, seamlessly joined to her own shadow at the heels, was a second one. It was a grotesque silhouette of impossible angles—unnaturally tall and gaunt, with long, spindly limbs and a featureless head. It was the distinct shape of the thing he had seen outside his window. It clung to her like a monstrous parasite, a puppet master pulling the strings of the terrified woman at his door.

Elara hammered on the wood again, her voice a desperate, broken plea. "Please, Alex! Before it gets me! Let me in!"