Helena awoke in the hallway.
Or at least, she thought it was the hallway. The lights were dimmer now, flickering like dying stars. The walls seemed farther apart. The air was heavier, like breathing underwater.
Her body ached. Her head throbbed. The memory of the red door and the mirror still burned behind her eyes.
She stood slowly, her hand pressed to the wall for balance. The surface pulsed beneath her palm, like the skin of something sleeping just beneath.
Then she heard it.
A creaking noise—above her.
She tilted her head and stared at the ceiling.
A square panel.
An attic?
Another creak.
Then a voice.
"Why did you open it, Helena?"
She stepped back. Her heartbeat thundered in her ears.
"You let it out."
The panel began to shake, dust falling from its edges.
Then it opened.
Two pale hands gripped the edges and pulled a body down—slowly, almost ritualistically. The figure that emerged had no face. Just smooth, featureless skin where eyes and a mouth should be.
It dropped onto the floor silently.
Helena didn't scream. She couldn't. Her voice had abandoned her.
The thing cocked its head sideways, like a curious child. Then it reached out—not to grab, but to point.
Behind her.
Helena turned.
The hallway was gone.
She was in Room 313 again.
The lights flickered red.
A voice echoed from all sides now—above, below, within the walls.
"You are the door now."
Her reflection appeared in the room's single mirror.
But it didn't move like her.
It smiled.
And whispered, "Welcome home."