CHAPTER 9: THE LAUGHTER IN THE WALLS.
Candice’s eyes went wide at the sudden sound of her room door closing, her breath jagged from Jeff’s reply—and from the lingering memory of what she’d seen at the wardrobe. Panic rippled through her chest like aftershocks of an earthquake. Her hands trembled as she steadied herself against the wall, heartbeat thudding louder than the muffled gunfire echoing from below.
She spun in place, her eyes darting—mirror, wardrobe, the bathroom door still swinging on its hinges like someone had just slipped out of sight. Her face twisted between disbelief and horror, the scent of scorched metal and vanilla air freshener thick in her nostrils.
Her gaze locked onto the laptop lying open on the bed. Its blue screen cast ghostly light across the ceiling. She lunged for it like a drowning woman grabbing a life buoy, lifting it in both hands as if it could somehow ward off the monstrous thing she’d seen. Her arms locked stiff, her jaw clenched, knees slightly bent—braced for something unthinkable.:
Jeff sighed, slipping his gun behind his back to hide it from Candice. Then he turned to the door, shoulders squared like armor, jaw set tight. His hand closed around the knob with quiet resolve.
“—Are you… you’re going down there, right?” Candice asked, still clutching the laptop like a shield. Her voice was shaky, but firm—wrestled back from the edge of terror. “We don’t know if they’ve breached the upper floors…”
“It’s my duty to know,” Jeff replied with quiet grit. His voice held calm authority—but under it, something else shimmered. Guilt. Or dread. Or both.
He lingered for a second, gave her a nod that felt too final. “I promise. I’ll be back.”
And then he was gone, swallowed by the hallway’s gunfire-laced chaos.
Candice stood frozen. One heartbeat. Two.
Then she exhaled shakily, lowering the laptop. Her gaze flicked to the mirror again.
The room felt off in a way that twisted the mind. The air was too still. Too… watched.
“…I can’t stay in my room with all those rattling and firing PUBG–Call of Duty shit going on out there,” said a voice in the hallway—a jittery Indian accent then her door creaked opened and Candice couldn't take her eyes of it. “Mind if we squat together?”
The Indian boy's head popped out from behind the door.
Candice flinched. Then frowned.
She peered toward the door, recognizing the boy from earlier. His wide eyes were full of fear, his hands fidgeting with the strap of his bag like a schoolboy caught in the dark.
“No. Why?” she asked instinctively, her voice dry.
The boy mimed zipping his lips. “Promise I won’t even breathe loud.”
She sighed. Her reflection looked back at her in the wardrobe mirror—pale, shaken. Haunted.
“…Okay. Just this once.”
“Yey!” he whispered, tiptoeing in like he’d just been granted access to a secret lair. He locked the door behind him and crept to a corner, curled up on the rug, eyes locked on his phone screen as he played a game.
Candice crawled onto the bed and folded her arms, watching the wardrobe warily. The tingle under her skin hadn’t faded.
“Something… something bizarre is going on here…” she murmured, eyeing the laptop again. “I can feel it.”
---
Elsewhere — VIP Lounge
Gunfire cracked like fireworks in a warzone. Blood coated the marble floor in dark smears. Bodies lay crumpled at awkward angles, eyes glazed, mouths open mid-scream. Glass sparkled like deadly confetti across every surface, and the air reeked of death and gunpowder.
Three agents remained. One of them aimed carefully and shot the last bodyguard clean through the left eye. The man dropped like a puppet with cut strings.
“We’re fucking out of time! Get the damn briefcase!” the leader barked, voice slicing through the chaos.
Near the minibar, the lady in a white singlet and black thong darted out. She fired—once. The bullet tore through a agent's throat, blood spurting as he fell choking on his own life.
“Shit! Go! Go!” screamed another, returning fire.
She dropped for cover. Her hands moved fast—removing the magazine, checking. One bullet left. She slid it back into the gun, rose, and fired. Her final shot struck the screaming agent's shoulder. His gun discharged by reflex, hitting her in the chest. Both collapsed.
Only the leader remained.
He stormed toward the briefcase man—a balding executive in a sweat-stained suit, blood on his collar, cowering behind a ruined couch. His hands shook as he fumbled for a key, unlocking the cuff and handing over the briefcase.
“Please… please don’t kill me,” he begged.
The leader scoffed. “Not my business, old cunt. This is.” He waved the case.
The wounded agent on the floor groaned, “Hey big-bro… I’m still alive…”
“Then move your damn legs!” the leader snarled.
And just like that, the two vanished—leaving behind corpses and carnage.
---
Twenty-six minutes earlier…
A lavish mansion, deep in a quiet neighborhood. White pillars, golden gates. Inside, the living room glowed with soft lighting. A crystal chandelier hung above dark leather sofas. Framed portraits lined the walls: one of Jamey in a sleek agbada, arm around his elegant wife in gele and lace, both laughing.
Jamey hummed along to Asake’s Lonely at the Top, the mellow tune drifting from hidden speakers. A floral silk apron clung to his broad frame, its bright pattern oddly graceful against the faint, claw-like scar that ran from just below his left eye to the edge of his cheek. His polished white trousers peeked from beneath the apron, and the rich scent of jollof rice and grilled chicken filled the kitchen with warmth.
He dried his hands with a linen napkin, frowning at the phone buzzing on the marble island.
Unknown caller.
Probably another telemarketer, he thought, continuing to dry his hands and ignoring the call.
The phone buzzed and rang, over and over, until it finally gave up and fell silent.
Jamey sighed in relief, turning toward the kitchen.
Then, without warning, the ringtone blared again—louder this time, more urgent. But now, something else joined it.
The landline.
Both phones were ringing.
At the same time.
Jamey froze.
His throat tightened. He reached for the landline with a trembling hand.
“Jamey's residence,” he said slowly.
Crackle.
Silence.
Then a whisper: “Jamey…”
He turned to ice. His pulse stuttered.
“…Amy?”
“You have an unfinished business with me,” the voice rasped.
“Where—where are you?” His voice cracked. “Your family—your grandma—she’s worried—”
“If you really want to see me, you know where to find me,” the voice dropped lower. “Or… I’ll find you.”
Click.
Dead line.
His wife entered—a stunning woman wearing a blue skirt and blouse, golden earrings, her smooth skin aglow under warm lights.
“Who was that?” she asked.
“A co-worker,” Jamey said. “Emergency board meeting.”
He pulled off the apron, revealing a lilac shirt, tucked sharp into his white trousers. He kissed his wife's lips.
“I’ll be back soon, sweetheart.”
She smiled, unaware.
His Aston Martin Vanquish screeched out of the compound, its taillights blazing red.
---
Present — Hotel Front Lobby
Jamey stared at his dashboard mirror.
He tucked a pocketknife into his waistband, exhaled, and stepped out. His face was calm. His soul was chaos.
Inside, the lobby was a hostage zone. Four gunmen now patrolled the space. Terrified guests and staff huddled on the floor.
A rifle pointed at him as he entered.
“You must be the rich hotel manager,” one sneered. “Come join the party.”
Jamey raised his hands and knelt. His eyes scanned the room.
His friends were there—Harvey, with his glasses crooked. Tallest, nervously chewing his bottom lip. And her.
Amy’s grandmother.
Her dark, ancient eyes pinned him. Judgment. Fury. Knowledge.
Jamey’s voice trembled. “What the hell are you guys doing here?”
Tallest whispered back, “Amy called me. Told me to come. Same with Harvey.”
“Sounded like a threat,” Harvey muttered. “Like… if we didn’t come, something bad would happen.”
Jamey’s mouth went dry.
“I thought you said she wouldn’t make it,” Harvey whispered sharply. “How the hell did she—?”
“I don’t know,” Jamey replied, barely moving his lips. “That night… after all those stabs… no one could survive that.”
Harvey leaned closer. “So she called you too?”
Jamey nodded.
Then it came.
Laughter.
Soft at first. Then rising. A cruel, girlish giggle that bounced off the walls, unnatural, almost mechanical. It was hers.
Jamey stiffened.
Every head turned.
The hostages were frozen, eyes wide. Mouths shut.
In the chaos, something was moving.
Watching.
Smiling.
She was back.