Story 1238: Walls That Bleed

The basement reeked of old mold, rusted metal, and dried blood that never seemed to fully dry. Dana and Jace stumbled through darkness lit only by the flicker of a faulty emergency bulb hanging by a single wire from the ceiling.

"Where are we?" Dana whispered, pressing her palm to the cracked concrete wall.

The wall pulsed.

She recoiled. “Jace… it’s warm.”

Jace brought the flashlight to it. Veins. Beneath the plaster. Moving. Like something alive.

Then, without warning, the wall bled.

A slow ooze of thick, black-red liquid seeped down the concrete, the smell metallic and ancient, like a wound reopened after years of healing. Words formed in the blood as it spread:

“YOU SHOULDN’T BE HERE.”

The flashlight died.

A moment of silence.

Then the whispering began.

Dozens of voices, circling, coming from every direction—yet from nowhere. Children. Adults. Some screamed. Others wept. A lullaby echoed through the halls, twisted and off-key.