Chapter 4: The Confrontation

The next few nights after the tapping incident felt like an eternity for Elliot. He couldn't shake the memory of the sound—its rhythmic persistence gnawing at the edges of his mind. It haunted him, growing louder in moments of silence, a phantom that followed him through the hospital's halls, into his home, and even his sleep.

His body was running on fumes, each day blending into the next in a haze of exhaustion and anxiety. He couldn't focus on his patients, couldn't escape the vivid memory of Henry lying still, his trapped mind crying out through the tapping. The thought alone sent a deep chill through him.

On the third night after the incident, Elliot found himself back at the hospital, returning to Henry's room with a sense of dread and strange anticipation crawling beneath his skin. His legs felt heavy as he approached the door, his heart pounding against his ribs. Through the glass, Henry lay motionless, the rhythmic hum of the machines the only sign of life.

But life was a lie, wasn't it? Henry wasn't living—he was surviving, barely, trapped inside a body that had become a prison. The tapping had been his cry for help, hadn't it?

Elliot's hand hovered over the cold metal door handle. The air in the hallway felt thick, stifling. Something was off. It wasn't just the memory of the tapping. The atmosphere itself seemed denser, almost suffocating, and the hospital's usual fluorescent lights flickered overhead, casting strange shadows on the floor.

He opened the door slowly, the hinges groaning as if resisting his intrusion. The room was as dark as before, illuminated only by the soft glow of the machines. Henry's pale figure lay still on the bed, frail and sunken, as though the very life had been drained from him. But tonight, there was a new presence in the room—something heavy and oppressive that hadn't been there before.

"Henry," Elliot whispered, his voice catching in his throat.

He moved closer, heart pounding, his mind replaying the tapping over and over again. Would it happen again? Was Henry still there? The tapping had been a lifeline, a bridge between them. If Henry could tap, then there was hope.

Tap… tap… tap.

The sound came again, faint but unmistakable. Elliot froze, fear creeping up his spine. It wasn't just the tapping that unnerved him this time; it was the way it sounded—slow, hesitant, almost struggling. Elliot's skin prickled with fear as he stepped closer to the bed. The tapping continued, but it felt different now, weaker, as if whatever force had driven it before was losing control.

"Henry... are you still there?" Elliot's voice wavered.

The tapping stopped abruptly. The silence that followed was deafening, thick with an unnatural tension. Then, out of nowhere, Henry's eyes snapped open.

Elliot recoiled, his breath catching in his throat. Henry's eyes were no longer the warm, intelligent brown that Elliot remembered. Instead, they were glassy and unfocused, staring straight ahead with an eerie intensity. His pupils were wide and dark, and though he was looking at Elliot, it felt as though he was looking through him.

"Henry?" Elliot croaked, fear clawing at his insides.

Henry's hand twitched, his fingers curling slightly against the bed. The movement was jerky, unnatural, and a horrifying realization crept into Elliot's mind—this wasn't Henry anymore. The air in the room seemed to shift, growing colder, as if the very walls were closing in around him.

Tap... tap... tap.

The tapping returned, but this time it didn't come from Henry's hand. The sound echoed through the room, filling the air with an unnatural cadence. It seemed to be coming from everywhere—the walls, the floor, the machines. Elliot backed away, panic swelling in his chest. The tapping grew louder, faster, and with it came a low, guttural whisper that sent chills through his bones.

"You've come too far... there is no escape now."

The voice was soft but powerful, not belonging to Henry or anything human. It echoed inside Elliot's mind, like a dark shadow creeping into his thoughts, twisting his fear into something more profound. The words weren't a threat—they were a statement of fact.

The air thickened, pressing against Elliot's chest as the tapping surrounded him, vibrating through the very walls. Elliot's eyes darted to Henry, but the man lying in the bed was no longer there in spirit. Something else had taken residence inside him.

"Henry..." Elliot gasped, his mind spinning, "what have you done?"

But Henry remained still, his body a puppet to the thing that had taken control. The lights flickered violently, casting erratic shadows on the walls, and the tapping grew deafening, pounding in Elliot's skull with relentless intensity.

Suddenly, the whispers returned, louder and more frenzied. "You opened the door. You let it in."

Elliot stumbled backward, his hands clutching at his head as the whispers filled every corner of his mind, overlapping with the tapping that seemed to pulse inside him. His thoughts blurred, drowning in the cacophony of noise and terror. What door? Elliot had done nothing but try to help Henry, but as the truth began to unravel, a cold, sickening realization struck him.

The tapping hadn't been a message from Henry. It had been a signal.

Elliot had been so consumed by his need to reach Henry, to communicate with him, that he had ignored the signs. The tapping hadn't been a plea for help—it had been a beacon. A call to something far darker.

The pressure in the room became unbearable. Elliot's legs buckled under the weight, his chest constricted as though an invisible force was squeezing the life out of him. He tried to move, but his body felt heavy, frozen in place as the force surrounding him grew stronger, pulling him toward the bed, toward Henry's motionless form.

"Henry!" Elliot shouted, his voice raw with desperation. But it was too late. Whatever had been inside Henry had now spread—infecting the room, the air, and now, Elliot.

The tapping grew faster, more insistent, shaking the walls and the floor beneath his feet. Elliot's vision blurred as darkness crept in at the edges. He could feel it inside him now—something dark and ancient, crawling through his veins, consuming him.

"You invited this," the voice hissed, mocking him. "You welcomed it."

With a final surge of panic, Elliot tried to turn and run, but his body refused to obey. His mind screamed for escape, but the force pressing against him was relentless. His thoughts disintegrated into a swirling mass of terror and confusion, the room around him distorting into a nightmarish vision of reality.

The last thing Elliot heard before the world collapsed into darkness was the steady, rhythmic tapping—tap... tap... tap—fading into the distance like the echo of a heartbeat.