Chapter 3: Signs of Corruption

Chapter 3: Signs of Corruption

Panic was a physical thing. It clawed its way up Alex’s throat, hot and suffocating, tasting of bile. He slammed the laptop shut again, the plastic clap echoing in the tomb-like silence of the apartment. His heart hammered against his ribs like a trapped bird.

No. It’s not real.

The thought was a desperate prayer. It had to be a glitch. A digital artifact, a compression error, a bizarre shadow that his fear-addled mind had shaped into a human form. His desire, his all-consuming need, was for this to be a mistake.

He shot to his feet, knocking his chair over. The crash was a welcome noise in the suffocating quiet. His eyes darted around the living room, a wild, panicked scan for threats. The Lego castle. The pull-out sofa where Lily had screamed. The dark, yawning maw of the bedroom doorway.

He needed a weapon. His gaze landed on the workbench, a chaotic mess of tools. He snatched a heavy, steel wrench, its cold weight a pathetic comfort in his trembling hand. He was going to scour this apartment. He was going to prove he was alone.

He moved with a predator’s tension, his bare feet silent on the cheap laminate flooring. First, the bedroom. He flicked on the light switch, flooding the small space with harsh, sterile light. He ripped back the closet door. Hangers rattled, a few of his drab t-shirts swaying. Nothing. He dropped to his knees, the wrench held like a club, and looked under the bed. Dust bunnies and a forgotten sock stared back.

The bathroom was next. He yanked back the thin shower curtain. The empty, stained fiberglass of the tub seemed to mock him. He checked behind the door, his reflection in the mirror a pale, haunted stranger with wide, terrified eyes. Nothing.

He completed the circuit, back in the living room. He looked behind the sofa, in the small kitchenette. The apartment was empty. The deadbolt on the front door was still thrown, just as he’d left it. No one had come in. No one had left.

The silence pressed in, heavier than before. The absence of a threat was somehow worse than finding an intruder. An intruder could be fought, could be explained. This emptiness, contrasted with the concrete evidence on his laptop, was a paradox that made his sanity feel like it was fraying at the edges.

He stumbled back to his workbench, his knuckles white on the handle of the wrench. He slowly, deliberately, opened the laptop. His hand shook as he guided the cursor. He played the clip at 1:17.

It was still there.

The shadow-man, the viewer in the doorway. His perfect, silent double. It hadn’t been a trick of the light. It was there, recorded, saved. A piece of objective reality that defied all logic. Lily’s words came rushing back, a torrent of validation and horror. You were just standing in the doorway. You didn't make any sound.

He’d dismissed it as a child's fantasy, but he had been the fool. She had been the only one telling the truth.

The adrenaline began to fade, replaced by a deep, bone-freezing dread. He let the wrench clatter onto the table. He needed water. He needed to think.

He walked to the small refrigerator, his movements stiff and robotic. He opened the door, reaching for the carton of milk he’d bought just yesterday morning, on the way to pick up Lily. His hand stopped. The milk, which should have been fresh for another week, was curdled. A thick, yellowish whey separated from chunky white solids. The sight was so wrong, so viscerally unsettling, that he recoiled as if he’d been burned.

His eyes scanned the counter. The loaf of whole wheat bread, purchased from the same store on the same trip, sat by the toaster. Through the clear plastic bag, he saw it. Not a spot of green or a dusting of white, but a rampant, aggressive colonization. Thick, black fur-like mold covered every slice, so dense it looked like a pelt. It seemed to pulse in the low light, a living, breathing corruption.

A smell, which had been lurking at the edge of his senses, now slammed into him. It was sickly-sweet. The smell of fruit left to rot in the sun, of flowers decaying in stagnant water. It was the scent of life gone wrong, of nature’s processes accelerated to an impossible, horrifying degree. It clung to the air, a faint but pervasive miasma of decay.

He stood frozen in the middle of his tiny kitchen, the pieces clicking into place with the terrible finality of a coffin lid closing. The figure in the video. The curdled milk. The blackened bread. The smell of rot.

This thing, this Echo, wasn't just watching him. It wasn’t a passive ghost or a trick of his mind. It was a presence. An infection. It was actively corrupting his space, warping the very laws of nature around him with its proximity. It was a walking, silent plague that wore his face. The psychological threat had become terrifyingly physical.

He thought of Lily, sleeping here, breathing this corrupted air. The thought sent a jolt of pure, protective rage through the ice of his fear. He couldn’t run. Where would he go? Who would believe him? They’d think he was crazy, that he was unfit to be a father. He’d lose Lily for good.

No. This was his home. His battle. He had to face it.

His fear wasn't gone, but it had a new edge: determination. He was being hunted, studied by this silent mimic. He had to turn the tables. He had to become the observer.

His gaze swept over his workbench, no longer seeing a hobbyist's clutter, but an arsenal. Lenses, circuit boards, batteries, spools of wire. He had a brand new smartphone with a decent camera. He had his old laptop. He had the knowledge to connect them, to create a network, to record.

The entity thrived in the dark, in the unobserved moments when he was asleep and vulnerable. He would take away the darkness. He would fill the silence with the hum of recording devices. He couldn’t fight it with a wrench, but he could fight it with data. He could drag it out into the light.

A new, cold purpose settled over him. He would turn the cameras on himself. He would watch his own home, his own bed. He would stay awake all night if he had to, staring into a screen, waiting. Waiting to see the wrong daddy walk again.