Chapter 3: The Stain on the Wall

Chapter 3: The Stain on the Wall

The lock on Leo’s apartment door clicked shut behind them, a sound that had always meant safety, sanctuary. Today, it sounded like a cell door locking. His apartment was his fortress of solitude, a carefully curated space of ordered calm. Books on programming were stacked neatly on shelves, vinyl records of his favorite metal bands were alphabetized in crates, and not a single cable was out of place behind his entertainment center. It was the antithesis of the chaotic grime of the Crimson Lofts. But the moment the thing wearing Pam’s skin stepped inside, the sanctuary was breached. The grime had followed them home.

“Cozy,” it said, its white eyes scanning the room with an unnerving lack of affect. It walked over to his bookshelf, running a single, delicate finger along the spines of his books, leaving no dust trail because there was none to disturb. “You’re very tidy.”

The real Pam would have already flopped onto his couch, kicked her shoes off in the middle of the floor, and demanded he put on a record. This creature stood with perfect posture, an exhibit in a museum of his life.

“Coffee?” Leo offered, his voice strained. It was a test. Pam was a caffeine fiend, but she was famously terrible at making coffee, always using too much water or forgetting the filter.

“That would be lovely,” the entity replied, smiling its empty smile.

He moved to the kitchen on autopilot, his limbs feeling heavy and disconnected. He felt its presence behind him, observing. He fumbled with the coffee grounds, spilling some on the counter. His hands were shaking too much.

“Here, let me.”

Before he could protest, it was beside him, gently moving him aside. With an economy of motion that was both mesmerizing and terrifying, it prepared the coffee. It used the perfect amount of grounds, filled the machine with a precise measure of water, and wiped the tiny spill he’d made from the counter with a damp paper towel. It was performing a simple domestic task with the inhuman perfection of a machine.

“You… you never make coffee,” Leo managed to say, leaning against the doorframe, watching it.

“There’s a first time for everything,” it said brightly, turning to face him. The morning light from his kitchen window caught its eyes, and for a horrible moment, they seemed to shine with their own internal, pearlescent light.

He had to get away from it, even for a moment. “I’m going to, uh, put on some music.”

He retreated to the living room, his heart a frantic drum against his ribs. This was another test. He pulled a record from its sleeve—the same thrash metal band they’d seen last night. The album they had bonded over years ago, the one that cemented their friendship. He placed it on the turntable, the familiar crackle of the needle settling into the groove filling the room.

The first thunderous riff exploded from the speakers. It was chaotic, loud, and cathartic. It was their music.

The entity walked in from the kitchen, holding two mugs of perfectly brewed coffee. It tilted its head, listening to the furious blast of drums and guitars. Its expression didn't change, but he felt a cold wave of dismissal from it.

“It’s very noisy,” it commented, setting his mug down on a coaster with unnerving care. The real Pam would have slapped the mug down on the wooden coffee table, leaving a ring he’d have to clean up later. “Don’t you have anything… quieter?”

The question hit Leo like a physical blow. It was the ultimate rejection, a fundamental misunderstanding of who Pam was. He stared at the creature sipping coffee on his couch, a stranger wearing his best friend’s face, and felt a profound, soul-crushing loneliness. The real Pam was gone. Maybe she was dead. Maybe this thing had hollowed her out completely.

He spent the next few hours in a state of suspended terror, watching it. It explored his apartment with a placid curiosity, examining photos of him and Pam at concerts, on road trips, at birthdays. It looked at the images of the woman whose body it now occupied, its head tilted, as if studying a foreign species.

Leo sat on his computer chair, pretending to scroll through work emails. The TV was off, but its black screen acted as a dark mirror. He kept his eyes fixed on his monitor, but his peripheral vision was locked on the reflection. He saw the entity on the couch, sitting ramrod straight. And just for a second, a flicker in the polished screen, the reflection wavered. The shape on the couch wasn't Pam. It was the tall, thin, light-devouring shadow from the Airbnb, hunched and distorted to fit on his sofa. He blinked, and it was just Pam again, smiling faintly at nothing.

He squeezed his eyes shut, a wave of nausea rolling over him. He was losing his mind.

Then he heard it. Faint. Distant. A whisper that seemed to come from the vents.

Help…

He snapped his head up. The entity on the couch didn’t react, its serene expression unchanged. Was he the only one who could hear it? Was it a memory, or was it happening again? Was it a lure to draw him closer to the thing already in his home?

Desperation clawed at his throat. He couldn’t live like this. He couldn’t sit here and wait for it to decide it was done playing house. The logical, analytical part of his brain, the part he used to troubleshoot broken systems and debug corrupted code, finally broke through the wall of fear. A haunting wasn't a supernatural event; it was an error in the system. And errors had causes. They had origins.

He swiveled in his chair, his back to the creature, and opened a web browser. His fingers, which had been trembling uncontrollably moments before, were now steady as they flew across the keyboard. He didn't know what he was looking for, but he had to start somewhere. He had to start with the source.

He typed the words into the search bar:

Crimson Lofts.

The search results were mostly links to the rental listing, full of the same lies about ‘historic character’. He added more words. Crimson Lofts history. Crimson Lofts weird. Crimson Lofts tragedy.

He clicked on a link to a local city historical society’s archive. An old black-and-white photo appeared on his screen: a grim, soot-stained brick building, far larger and more imposing than the sectioned-off apartment complex it had become. The title read: Lowell Textile Mill, circa 1912.

He scrolled down, reading through the dry, academic text about the city’s industrial past. Then he found a paragraph that made the hairs on his arms stand up.

The Lowell Mill had a dark reputation among its workers. Conditions were notoriously brutal, overseen by a foreman known for his cruelty. The mill was plagued by accidents, and its high turnover rate was attributed not just to the dangerous machinery, but to what many workers called a ‘pervasive sorrow’ that clung to the building. The mill was eventually shut down after a particularly grim incident involving the foreman's office, an event that left a permanent stain on the building’s legacy, both figuratively and, according to local legend, quite literally on the wall of that room.

The foreman’s office. A permanent stain on the wall. The name—Crimson Lofts. It wasn't a marketing gimmick. It was a warning.

Leo stared at the screen, the blue light illuminating the raw determination on his face. He didn’t know what had happened in that office a century ago, but he knew, with a certainty that settled deep in his bones, that he and Pam had slept in that very room. He had brought the stain home with him.