From the crack, a black sludge bubbled up. It smelled of burnt milk and old pennies. Before she could scream, the apartment's intercom crackled to life—though she hadn't touched it.

"Come, deadites," it cooed. "Rise."

The door was gone. In its place, a wall of plaster and hair. And from behind it, three small voices whispered in perfect unison: "We want to play."

The 480p copy of the world blurred. Reality stuttered. Mila turned to run, but the hallway stretched like taffy. The elevator at the end of the hall opened its doors on its own. Inside, a single VHS tape spun in midair, label reading: READ ME.

But the apartment read her . In the elevator shaft, something ancient smiled. It had been waiting for a building full of souls, stacked like firewood, twelve floors high.

She should have ignored it. But the floorboards beneath her feet pulsed once, twice, then split.