The weight was impossible. It didn't feel like muscle and bone; it felt like a collapsed star, a localized singularity of pure, freezing gravity pressing down on Mac's shoulders.
His knees instantly bowed. The joints popped like dry twigs.
"Walk," the entity gurgled happily, its wet chin digging painfully into the junction of Mac's neck and shoulder. Cold, foul-smelling water seeped through the thick canvas of his jacket, soaking his t-shirt beneath. "Take us to the couch, Maclin. I want to watch TV."
Mac's boots felt like they were cast in concrete. He didn't want to move. If he walked to the couch, he would have to sit. He would lose his mobility. He would be entirely trapped between the cushions and the monster.
But if his legs gave out and he collapsed onto the floor, he would be acknowledging the weight. He would be reacting to the hazard.
He ground his molars together until his jaw ached, locking his legs to keep from crumpling.
"I am initiating a stationary patrol of the seating area," Mac wheezed, his voice strained and breathy under the crushing pressure.
He dragged his right boot forward. It barely cleared the worn carpet.
Squelch.
The entity moved with him, a parasitic twin bolted to his spine.
Mac dragged his left boot forward. The five feet of distance between the hallway threshold and the dilapidated sofa felt like an agonizing marathon. Every shift in his momentum sent a blinding spike of white-hot agony shooting up his broken right arm. The swelling had pushed past his wrist, his fingers turning a dark, mottled purple.
"Slower," the voice mocked, the layered tones vibrating directly against his collarbone. "You're jostling me. You don't want to drop me, do you?"
Mac didn't answer. He kept his eyes locked on the faded floral pattern of the sofa cushions. He reached the edge of the coffee table. His shins bumped against the cheap particle board.
He had to sit.
He didn't just drop into the cushions. He lowered himself meticulously, using his good left arm to brace against the armrest. He kept his back perfectly straight, rigid as an iron rod.
As Mac's weight settled into the cheap upholstery, the springs beneath him shrieked in protest.
The entity sat down with him.
The cushions sank violently, bottoming out against the wooden frame of the couch under the immense, combined mass. Mac was pushed forward slightly, but the entity adjusted, pressing its freezing, wet chest firmly against Mac's back once again.
"Cozy," the thing whispered.
Then, two arms snaked over Mac's shoulders.
They were impossibly long, the joints bending at sickening, incorrect angles. The skin was a mottled, bruised grey, weeping black fluid that smelled of rust and sewage. The hands dropped into Mac's lap. They were massive—the fingers tipped with jagged, blackened nails that looked like shattered obsidian.
Mac stared straight ahead at the blank television screen mounted on his living room wall. He didn't look down at his lap. He didn't flinch as the freezing, wet hands rested casually over his thighs.
Do not acknowledge the person standing—or sitting—behind you.
"The seating area is secure," Mac whispered mechanically, his eyes wide and unblinking. "No hazards detected."
"Turn on the television," the entity demanded.
Mac slowly raised his left hand, the one still clutching the heavy black clipboard. His TV remote was sitting on the coffee table, inches from the entity's knee. He couldn't reach it without looking down.
"I am not authorized to utilize entertainment devices during my shift," Mac recited.
The wet hands in his lap twitched. The jagged nails scraped lightly against the denim of his jeans.
"I said, turn it on."
Suddenly, the blank, black rectangle of the television flared to life on its own.
A burst of deafening white static filled the living room, casting a harsh, strobing glare over the peeling wallpaper. Mac winced at the sudden volume but kept his gaze fixed on the center of the screen.
The static cleared.
It wasn't playing a late-night infomercial or a news broadcast. It was playing a live, high-definition security feed.
The camera angle was positioned directly above the television, looking back at the couch.
It was a live feed of Mac.
He saw himself sitting rigidly on the edge of the cushions, his face pale and shining with cold sweat, his right arm hanging uselessly, swelling against his side.
But he didn't see the monster behind him.
The space over his shoulder on the TV screen was entirely empty. There were no long grey arms draped over him. There was no misshapen head resting near his neck. According to the television, Maclin Vance was sitting completely alone in his apartment, staring blankly at a camera.
"Look at us," the voice cooed from behind him, though the TV audio played nothing but a low, throbbing hum. "We make such a good team. Don't you see me, Maclin? I'm right there."
It was a psychological torture tactic. Crimson Cross was using the screen to strip away his objective reality. He could feel the freezing weight, he could smell the rot, he could see the dead hands resting in his lap, but the screen told him he was crazy. It told him he was alone.
If he reacted to the discrepancy—if he yelled at the screen, or tried to point at the hands in his lap—he would be acknowledging the entity.
Mac swallowed the dry lump in his throat. He stared at his own terrified face on the screen. He used it as a mirror, locking eyes with himself to keep his gaze from drifting down to his lap.
01:05:00
The microwave clock ticked in the kitchen.
The entity grew bored of the television. The long, grey fingers in Mac's lap began to drum a slow, erratic rhythm against his thighs. Tap. Tap. Tap.
Then, the right hand slowly slid off Mac's leg.
It crept upward, moving with agonizing slowness, tracing the seam of Mac's jeans, up to his hip, and then hovering over the swollen, purple flesh of his broken right wrist.
Mac's breath hitched. A cold spike of absolute dread pierced his stomach.
"This looks like it hurts," the watery voice whispered, the tone dripping with false sympathy. "You should really get this looked at. A bad break can heal wrong. Let me help."
A single, freezing finger, tipped with a jagged obsidian nail, lightly traced the bruised skin of Mac's forearm.
The touch sent a shockwave of blinding agony straight into Mac's brain. It felt like a branding iron made of dry ice. He bit down on his lower lip so hard the skin broke, filling his mouth with the hot, metallic taste of his own blood.
"Does it throb?" the entity asked, its finger slowly pressing down, applying a microscopic fraction of pressure to the fractured radius bone.
A choked, ragged whimper tore from the back of Mac's throat. His vision whited out at the edges. His entire body trembled violently, a fine, uncontrollable shaking that rattled the clipboard in his left hand.
"It's okay to cry, Maclin," the voice coaxed, the pressure increasing slightly. The bone shifted beneath the skin. "Just tell me it hurts. Tell me to stop, and I'll stop. I promise."
It was the toll booth all over again. The figure in the raincoat begging him to hit the brakes. The trap was always the same: Give me permission. Acknowledge me.
Mac didn't speak. He couldn't. If he opened his mouth, he knew he would scream.
He stared at his own face on the television screen. He watched his reflection contort in agony, blood trickling down his chin from his bitten lip. He focused entirely on the image of himself. He compartmentalized the pain, shoving it into a dark box in the back of his mind. He was just a driver. He was holding the wheel at forty-five miles per hour. He was holding his breath for the radio. He was doing his job.
He let out a long, slow, shuddering exhale through his nose.
The pressure on his broken wrist stopped.
The entity let out a low, frustrated hiss. The freezing hand retreated, sliding back to rest in his lap.
Mac had won the skirmish.
But the war wasn't over.
On the television screen, the live feed of Mac suddenly hitched. The image glitched, dissolving into a brief burst of static before returning.
But the image had changed.
The camera was no longer pointed at the couch. It was pointing at the heavy, brass-locked front door of Mac's apartment.
The audio feed on the TV suddenly clicked on.
Knock. Knock. Knock.
Mac's eyes widened. The sound didn't just come from the TV speakers. It echoed in real life, vibrating through the wood of his actual front door behind him.
Knock. Knock. Knock.
"Maclin?" a voice called out from the hallway.
It was a woman's voice.
Not his mother's. Not the automated operator.
It was the landlord. Mrs. Higgins.
"Maclin, are you in there?" her muffled, reedy voice carried through the heavy wood. "I saw your payment come through the portal. I just wanted to come by and drop off the updated lease agreement. And... well, I heard a scream. Is everything alright in there?"
Mac's blood ran completely cold.
Mrs. Higgins wasn't a hallucination. She wasn't a Crimson Cross anomaly. She was a real, mundane, innocent person standing in the hallway of a building that had just been forcibly merged with a nightmare dimension.
"Oh, good," the entity behind Mac whispered, its cold breath tickling his ear. "Company."
The heavy deadbolt on the front door—the one that had locked itself after the Director left—suddenly, audibly, clicked unlocked.