Chapter 4: Whispers in the Code

Chapter 4: Whispers in the Code

The apartment was suffocatingly quiet. The only sounds were the frantic, rhythmic clicks of Leo’s mouse and the low hum of the refrigerator. The metal album he’d put on had finished long ago, and he hadn’t dared to get up to flip it. Behind him, the thing wearing Pam’s skin sat on the couch, a silent, motionless sentinel. Occasionally, it would hum that same tuneless, melodic phrase from the car, a sound that scraped against Leo’s nerves like nails on slate. Every click of his mouse felt like a gunshot in the silence, and he was terrified it would turn those vacant white eyes on him and ask what he was doing.

He pushed the fear down, channeling it into focus. His initial search on the Lowell Textile Mill and the foreman’s office had given him a thread, but it was frayed and old. He needed more. He dug deeper, past the historical society pages and into the grim, digitized archives of old local newspapers.

The official story of the mill’s closure was bland: economic downturn, changing industry. But as Leo cross-referenced dates and names, a darker pattern began to emerge, sketched in the faint ink of forgotten articles. A mill worker who went missing in 1913, presumed to have simply left town. A watchman who suffered a fatal "aneurysm" while on his route in 1935. A building inspector who took a "misstep" from a high window in 1968, when the building was derelict. A college student doing a photography project on urban decay, who vanished in 1987. Her car was found parked outside the abandoned building, her camera on the front seat.

They were all disparate incidents, decades apart, explained away by mundane tragedies. But they all had one thing in common: the Crimson Lofts. The building was a predator with a slow metabolism, feeding once a generation.

The thought made him feel sick. This wasn't a one-time event. They had stumbled into a hunter's blind.

His search terms became more desperate, more aligned with what he had actually experienced. He abandoned official terminology and typed in the language of fear: Crimson Lofts screaming. Lowell Mill shadow. Crying voice in abandoned building.

The mainstream search engines gave him nothing but dead ends and ghost-hunter reality shows. He needed to go deeper. He navigated to the shadowy corners of the internet he knew from his teenage years, the places where rumor and fringe theories festered. He found what he was looking for in a place that looked like a digital fossil: an urban exploration forum, its design a relic of the early 2000s, with a pixelated banner that read “UrbEx Etherea.”

The forum was a haven for people who broke into abandoned hospitals and forgotten subway tunnels, sharing grainy photos and stories of their exploits. Leo’s heart hammered as he typed “Crimson Lofts” into the site’s clunky search bar.

One result. A single thread, started eight years ago. The title was simple: “The Lowell Mill building (Crimson Lofts) - DO NOT GO.”

He clicked. His breath hitched. It was like reading a transcript of his own nightmare, echoed by strangers across the years.

GraveDigger_99 (OP): Went to check out the old Lowell Mill last night. Place has heavy vibes. We were on the third floor, heard a woman crying for help. Sounded like it was coming from the street. We went to the window, and then it was in the hall. Then it was RIGHT behind us. We bailed. Didn't see anything, but the sound… it followed us.

AsbestosKing: Dude, same thing happened to my crew like 5 years ago. Heard the voice. My buddy Dave swore he saw a tall shadow in one of the old offices. We ran so fast I ripped my jacket.

Static_Witch: It’s the third floor. Always the third floor. They call it the Crimson Lofts now, but the blood runs deep. We tried to get EVP readings but all we got was this weird, layered static. It felt… hungry.

Leo’s hands were shaking as he scrolled. He wasn’t insane. This was real. It was a known phenomenon, a local legend among this small, strange community. He felt a dizzying wave of validation mixed with absolute, bone-deep terror. Then he saw it, a sentence in a post from a user named SpecterChaser_12 that made him stop breathing.

…It’s not a ghost. Ghosts are echoes of people. This is different. It’s a sound that pretends to be a person. It’s a lure.

A sound that pretends to be a person. The phrase struck him with the force of a physical blow. That was it. That was exactly it. It was a lie made of soundwaves, designed to prey on the best parts of human nature: compassion, the instinct to help. It had called out, and they had answered.

He kept scrolling, reading every post, absorbing every detail. Most of the users were like the others—scared, recounting their experiences with breathless panic. But one user was different. Her posts were analytical, calm, and probing.

Nyx_Walker: Re: GraveDigger_99, what time did you hear the voice? Was it late? Between 2 and 3 AM?

Nyx_Walker: Re: AsbestosKing, the shadow is a secondary manifestation. A focal point for the auditory phenomenon. It absorbs light and sound, creating a dead zone. Did you notice if your flashlights flickered?

Nyx_Walker: To all: This isn't a simple haunting. It's a parasitic, cyclical entity tethered to a specific location. The cry for "help" is the first stage of its feeding cycle. Responding to it invites it in. Do not engage. Do not acknowledge. Do not enter the building.

Her last post was from three years ago. The thread had been dead ever since.

Leo stared at the username. Nyx_Walker. She wasn't just a thrill-seeker; she was an investigator. She understood. She had put a name to the mechanics of the horror he was living through.

He looked over his shoulder. The thing on his couch had its head tilted, its white eyes fixed on the blank TV screen. As he watched, it slowly raised a hand and traced the shape of its own reflection in the dark glass. It was studying itself. Learning.

A new, more potent fear seized him. The entity was adapting. It had left its nest. What were its new rules?

He had to contact her.

His fingers flew across the keyboard, clicking on Nyx_Walker’s profile. There was an option to send a private message. He hesitated for only a second. What was he supposed to say? Hi, my best friend has been possessed by a predatory sound monster, any advice? He would sound like a lunatic.

But what choice did he have? He was out of options. His logical world had been shattered, and this obscure forum was the only place he’d found any answers.

He began to type, his message a desperate prayer sent into the digital void.

To: Nyx_Walker Subject: The Lowell Mill (Crimson Lofts)

I read your posts in the thread about the Lowell Mill. You said not to engage. You said the cry for help was the first stage.

What’s the second stage?

I think it’s in my apartment. It’s wearing my friend’s face. Please. You’re the only one who seems to understand what this thing is. Please help me.

He hit ‘Send’. The word ‘Message Sent’ appeared on the screen. He slumped back in his chair, his body trembling with the adrenaline crash. Now, all he could do was wait. Wait for a reply from a stranger on a dead forum, while the thing that had stolen his best friend sat ten feet away, humming its terrible, tuneless song in the suffocating silence of his home.