CHAPTER 10: NETWORK DOWN, HELL RISING.

At the corridor near the main entrance to the receptionist center, Jeff crouched behind the corner of a decorative column, eyes narrowed. Just a few feet away, armed agents barked orders at panicked guests, forcing them to the ground at gunpoint. The terrified whimpers and sharp commands echoed through the corridor like static.

He pulled out his phone, desperation etched into the hard lines of his face. One more try. He dialed 911. Again. Nothing. The screen flashed the same infuriating message: Network Busy.

Jeff’s grip tightened around the phone. He ducked lower, sweat trickling down his brow.

“Damn it. Why the hell isn’t this working?” he muttered, pacing tight circles. His jaw clenched as realization crept in. This isn’t just bad reception. Someone had intentionally jammed the network.

His eyes narrowed.

This is a controlled disruption… tactical. Whoever these people are, they planned this down to the last bar of signal.

And worse—he still didn’t know who “they” were. Or what they wanted.

---

Meanwhile, in Candice’s room, tension built with each failed attempt. She paced back and forth, thumb jabbing her phone screen as she tried the number her therapist had provided. No signal. No lifeline. The screen didn’t even flicker.

Her brow tightened. Fury glinted in her eyes as she squeezed the phone, the cracks on its screen webbing further under the force of her grip.

“Hey, kid. Any luck?” she asked sharply, throwing a glance at the Indian boy curled on the bed like a coiled wire.

He shook his head, annoyed.

“Nope. No service. I told you this hotel was a mistake. Total rip-off. Split-fucking-sons of bitches,” he cursed, flinging his phone onto the mattress. It landed face-up, still playing a grainy version of Chori Chori Chupke Chupke at low volume.

Candice blinked at his outburst. Her lips twitched—almost a smirk—but she didn’t speak. Instead, she tapped her phone against her palm, as if rhythm might spark a miracle.

“…But everything was fine when I arrived,” she muttered to herself. “Signal was strong. I even streamed videos…” Her voice trailed as she approached the wardrobe. Something felt… off.

“Well, it wasn’t fine for me,” the boy grumbled, pulling the blanket over his shoulders. “This place always felt cursed. Like, I dunno—haunted. You feel me, Miss Cold Heart?”

Candice’s fingers froze just above the wardrobe handle. She turned to him, curiosity piqued.

“—Haunted with zero amenities,” he added with a bitter laugh, curling tighter under the covers. “I miss home…”

---

Back at the VIP grounds—where only moments ago, carnage reigned—silence had slithered in like a venomous fog. A shattered chandelier lay sprawled like a corpse across the marble, glittering faintly beneath a flickering ceiling light. The walls were scarred with bullet holes, the scent of gunpowder still thick in the air.

Blood pooled in grotesque patterns, slick against the marble. Bodies sprawled across the floor—limbs twisted unnaturally, eyes locked in frozen horror. One had been shot so close his teeth were fused into a molten grin. Another clutched his assault rifle to his chest, as if it could save him from death.

In the corner, where the man with the briefcase had previously ducked for cover, he now emerged—slowly, hesitantly. His shoes slipped slightly on a smear of blood as he stood, gaze darting across the room.

He fumbled for his phone and pressed it to his ear, voice trembling.

“Pick up… come on, pick up. The mission’s compromised. We need evac—now, damn it!” His voice cracked.

But then, he paused. His nostrils flared. A scent invaded his senses—pungent, rancid, wrong. He instinctively sniffed his own armpits and recoiled.

“…Not me…” he whispered.

A chill slithered down his spine. His gaze tracked across the ruined room. That’s when he noticed it—a shadow, fleeting, female, disappearing into the adjacent chamber.

He crept toward it, cautiously, clutching his phone like a weapon. He reached the doorway.

And froze.

Inside, Rebecca stood. Or rather—her body did.

There was a bullet hole in her chest.

Her skin was pale. Her expression vacant.

“Rebecca… are you alright?” he asked, blinking rapidly. She shouldn’t be standing. Not like that.

He backed up slightly, murmuring, “Don’t they have a landline here? A service phone? Something?”

He looked around the room as if a phone might magically appear. “Or even a damn intercom. Just one working line. That’s all I need…” He muttered to himself, pacing. “There’s gotta be something—hell, even a fucking fax would do…”

But when he turned back—Rebecca was gone.

She had changed.

In her place stood Dead Amy.

Her presence was pure nightmare—hair clumped and dripping with black ooze, her eyes sunken and mad. Her skeletal arms dangled, fingertips extended into black claws. Her dress was a shroud of decay, drenched in gore. Her lips peeled apart—

And maggots fell from her mouth.

Insects burst from her throat.

The smell hit him like a battering ram.

He gagged, then collapsed, vomiting violently.

“What the fuck… what the actual fucking f—gluurrr!”

He lifted his head just as Dead Amy moved.

A swift, silent swipe.

His throat opened like paper, blood spurting in arcs across the floor. He dropped, eyes wide in final horror, as she grinned through the spray.

---

Far from that room—down a hallway choked with shadows and tension—the fair-skinned celebrity tiptoed through the corridor, high heels whispering across the tiles. Somehow, she’d slipped past her attacker.

Phone in hand, she tapped furiously. Still no signal.

“Damn it…” she muttered, biting her lip, pink-tinted nails drumming against her phone.

Then she saw it: a blood-smeared keycard lying at her feet.

She knelt, scooped it up, and swiped it at the VIP room’s door.

The scanner blinked green.

The door swung open.

And she froze.

The carnage she’d expected—the massacre, the bodies, the bullet-ridden walls—was gone.

Replaced by serenity.

A pristine lounge. Plush chairs. Clean floors. The faint scent of lavender in the air.

This was her suite.

She let out a long breath. Maybe I imagined it… or panicked too soon. She locked the door behind her.

Heading straight for the minibar, she grabbed a bottle of tequila and drank straight from the neck. Then she began undressing, muttering, “I deserve a damn bath…”

She didn’t notice the creature curled in the bathtub.

Didn’t see the pale, rotted hand gripping the ceramic rim.

Dead Amy stirred.

Her breath rattled like leaves in a crypt. Her milky eyes watched the door.

Inside the bathroom, the woman—wrapped in a towel—opened the door. Everything looked normal. Luxurious, even. Her pulse slowed. She felt safe.

She stepped in.

Outside, Dead Amy crawled after her—limbs clicking unnaturally, claws dragging across the floor. Her mouth opened far too wide.

Then—

Thwap.

A towel whipped through the air and landed directly on Dead Amy’s face.

The woman, oblivious, closed the bathroom door behind her.

To her, everything was perfect.

She was alone.

She was safe.

Safety was an illusion.

Unaware that the haunting was only just beginning…