The slow, agonizing creak of the closet door sounded like a rusty hinge on a crypt.
The digital clock in the kitchen, though out of sight, felt like a physical weight pressing down on Mac's chest. The three hours had barely begun, but every second spent in the bedroom felt like drowning in slow motion.
The narrow door to his small, cramped closet swung outward on its own, stopping when it hit the foot of his bed. Inside, it was pitch black. The sickly yellow light from the hallway seemed to physically stop at the threshold, refusing to penetrate the gloom.
Mac stood perfectly still, his eyes locked straight ahead on the boarded-up window above his mattress. He didn't look at the closet.
Do not acknowledge the person standing behind you.
"The closet door is open," Mac announced to the empty room, keeping his voice dead-level and formal. "I am proceeding to close it to secure the domain."
He took a step forward.
Squelch.
The entity behind him moved in perfect, terrifying synchronization. The freezing breath hit the nape of Mac's neck, wet and smelling of old pennies.
Mac took another step, putting himself directly in front of the open closet door. He still didn't look inside. He kept his gaze fixed on the peeling paint of the doorframe, his hand reaching out blindly to grasp the edge of the cheap wood.
His fingers brushed the door. He began to pull it shut.
But as the door swung inward, a hand shot out from the pitch-black interior of the closet.
It wasn't bloated and dead like the one that had grabbed him in the hallway. It was small, delicate, and entirely pale, ending in long, hardened fingernails that looked like cracked porcelain.
The hand clamped down around Mac's wrist with the crushing force of an industrial vise.
Mac let out a sharp, involuntary hiss of pain through his teeth, his entire body jerking to a halt. The grip was so tight he could feel his radius bone grinding against his ulna.
"Look at me," a voice whispered from the darkness of the closet.
It was the same watery, layered voice that had spoken to him in the truck cab, the same voice that belonged to the small figure in the yellow raincoat. But the raincoat was still in the kitchen.
"Look at what I found in the dark," the voice pleaded, pulling Mac's arm slowly, inexorably, into the closet.
Mac's boots scraped against the cheap linoleum floor as he planted his feet, fighting the impossible strength of the thin, pale arm. He clamped his jaw shut, refusing to speak, refusing to acknowledge the pain.
If he looked into the closet, he would be looking away from the entity behind him. He would be reacting.
"He's not looking," the guttural voice directly behind Mac's ear suddenly hissed, the tone dripping with malicious amusement. "He's ignoring you. Make him look."
The grip on Mac's wrist tightened until a sickening pop echoed in the small room.
Mac's knees buckled. A choked, ragged groan tore from his throat. The pain was blinding, a white-hot flare that shot up his arm and into his shoulder. The clipboard slipped from his left hand, clattering loudly to the floor.
He was being pulled into the dark. The pale hand from the closet was dragging him forward, inch by agonizing inch.
Rule 1: Do not acknowledge the person standing behind you.
But what about the thing in front of him? The rules for the first two pulls had been complex, layered with multiple conditions. This audit only had one rule.
Mac's mind raced, fueled by the sheer, desperate terror of the moment. The entity behind him wanted him to look in the closet. The entity in the closet wanted him to look in the closet. They were working together. This was a coordinated strike to break his focus.
He ground his teeth together, tasting the warm, sharp copper of his own blood. He didn't try to pull his arm back anymore. Instead, he forced his body to relax, leaning into the pull.
He let the pale hand drag him forward until his face was inches from the pitch-black threshold of the closet.
He still didn't look down at the hand. He stared straight ahead, into the absolute void, his eyes wide and unblinking.
"I am securing the interior of the closet," Mac stated loudly, his voice shaking violently with the pain in his wrist. "Visibility is zero. No anomalies detected."
The silence in the bedroom shattered.
The entity behind him let out a deafening, mechanical roar of sheer fury—a sound like two massive steel plates grinding together. The sheer force of the sound vibrated Mac's teeth in his skull.
Simultaneously, the pale hand gripping his wrist vanished.
It didn't let go; it simply ceased to exist.
Mac stumbled forward, his momentum carrying him into the closet. He caught himself on the doorframe, his broken wrist throbbing with a sickening, localized heat. He gasped for air, his lungs burning.
He had passed the second test. He hadn't acknowledged the threat. He had treated the impossible pain as a mundane occupational hazard.
He used his good hand to push himself backward, out of the closet. He reached out and slammed the door shut.
The roar behind him cut off instantly, replaced by the same wet, rhythmic breathing.
In... out. In... out.
Mac slowly bent down, wincing as the movement jarred his broken wrist, and picked up the heavy black clipboard with his left hand. His right arm hung uselessly at his side, the hand already swelling with angry, purple bruising.
He turned around, being incredibly careful to keep his eyes locked on the blank wall ahead of him, and began the slow, agonizing walk back down the hallway toward the living room.
Squelch. Step. Squelch. Step.
He emerged from the hallway. The sickly yellow light of the living room felt almost welcoming after the oppressive gloom of the bedroom.
He looked toward the kitchen.
The figure in the bright yellow raincoat was gone.
The small puddle of muddy water on the linoleum was the only evidence it had ever been there.
Mac's heart leaped into his throat. If the Auditor was gone, did that mean the test was over? Had he survived the three hours?
He risked a glance at the microwave clock.
02:15:00
Not even forty-five minutes had passed.
And then, the heavy brass deadbolt on his front door slowly, audibly clicked open.