Part 2Ground Floor Does Not Exist

The moment the words left his mouth, a ripple of unease went through the group.

We were mostly freshmen, kids who had barely spent a semester away from home. We didn't know each other well; there was no shared history to ground us, no collective courage to draw from. Tyler had organized this whole thing because he’d read somewhere that fear releases a flood of oxytocin—that terror is the ultimate aphrodisiac. He wanted to get close to Sienna, the girl from our Psych 101 class who everyone was obsessed with.

But now, even Tyler’s cockiness was starting to fray at the edges.

Sienna shivered, pulling her North Face jacket tighter around her. "I’m tired. I want to go back to the dorms. Let’s just leave."

The guide’s jaw tightened. "I told you, this is the only path. You’re college students—learn to listen. There are no other doors."

Tyler’s face darkened. "Watch your tone. I paid a premium for this. If you’re lost, that’s on you. Call the manager. Tell them to come get us."

The guide seemed relieved at the suggestion. He fumbled with his phone, his fingers shaking as he pulled it from his pocket. He hit a contact and put it on speaker so we could all hear.

We held our breath. There was a long, agonizing stretch of static—a dry, rasping hiss.

Then, the call connected.

A collective sigh of relief escaped us. But it lasted less than a second.

From the tiny speaker came a sound that didn't belong to the world of the living. It was a cacophony of jagged screams, wet, guttural sobbing, and a high-pitched, manic laughter that sounded like metal scraping against bone. It was a roar of agony that felt distinctly inhuman.

We all recoiled, covering our ears.

Tyler, his face turning a sickly shade of white, lunged forward and snatched the phone, slamming the end-call button. "Nice. Real high-tech sound effects. Give it to me, I’ll call the main office myself."

He dialed. He put it on speaker.

At first, there was only the hum of the dial tone. Then, the screaming exploded again—louder this time, more distorted, as if the things on the other end were pressing their mouths directly against the receiver.

Tyler dropped the phone. It clattered against the concrete, the screen cracking, but the screaming continued until the device finally flickered and died.

Panic hit us like a physical wave.

A girl in the back began to sob. Kevin, a guy in thick glasses from the floor above ours, sank to the floor, his knees giving out. "I told you we shouldn't have come," he whimpered. "Something is wrong with this building."

The fear was infectious, spreading through the narrow, windowless space. The flashlight beams caught our faces, making us all look like ghosts—pale, hollow-eyed, and already dead.

The guide wiped cold sweat from his neck. "Shut up! Both of you! Crying isn't going to get us out."

Tyler stood there for a long moment, staring at the dead phone. He wiped his palms on his jeans and looked down into the infinite black. "He’s right," Tyler said, his voice forced and brittle. "Sitting here is suicide. We keep moving. I want to see what’s at the bottom of these goddamn stairs."

The guide took a deep breath, adjusted his grip on his light, and took the first step down.