By Heath Brown (ColdSun)
Copyright 2025 - Heath Brown
All Rights Reserved.
“I’ll do it.” Mike took a pull from his Mountain Dew and looked over the rim as his friends gaped at him. He smiled behind the can, thinking about the easy money these fools would be paying him tomorrow.
“Come on, Bannister. You’re not serious, are you?” Alex asked. Mike slammed his can on the table and laughed as Alex jumped. Alex was a lot like Mike—six feet tall, but with dark brown hair instead of Mike’s blond, and brown eyes instead of Mike’s ocean-blue ones.
Mike loved it when his friends dared him to do something. Every time they were stupid enough to think the task was too much for him, he took their money with a smile. His last adventure was a dare to punch the biggest guy in the bar they were in. Not only did Mike pull it off, but the guy he punched was knocked unconscious before they fled the scene. This new dare, however, was far more interesting.
“Hell yeah, I’m serious.” He folded his arms and looked at his friends with an air of superiority. “I’ll stay in that house at the edge of the swamp tonight. If I do it without leaving, each of you owes me fifty bucks—two hundred total. Deal?” Alex, Ben, and John looked at him in disbelief. They knew Mike was the town’s tough guy, but still didn’t think he had the guts to spend the night in the old house.
“You know the story behind the house, right?” John asked. Mike nodded and pointed at him.
“You want to come with me?” he asked the little guy. John looked down at his feet and gulped. They all knew the rumors—supposedly, the house once belonged to some psychopath who killed his family. The same old story told about every haunted, abandoned place around. Mike didn’t give a damn. He was sure it was just an old, broken-down house at the edge of the swamp.
“Some old guy’s been missing for a couple of weeks,” John mumbled, still not looking up.
“You mean that bum? He probably had too many beers and got lost,” Mike scoffed. “I’ll be sure to say hello if I see him. Now, let’s head over to the house so you boys can see me off on my next adventure.” Mike picked up the remaining cans of Mountain Dew and grabbed his bat. Alex grabbed a sleeping bag and pillow. Ben grabbed the flashlight.
“So, if something happens to you, is it okay if I ask Sophia out for a drink?” Ben joked. Mike chuckled. Ben had the hots for his girlfriend—obvious enough—so Mike loved rubbing it in his face. Sophia was tall and blond, with the perfect body to match the face of an angel. Not the sharpest tool in the shed, but Mike liked them that way. And he definitely liked showing her off. He knew Ben would never score a girl like Sophia.
“I’ll tell her you asked when I get back.” Mike teased. Ben turned a bit red and smiled, then looked at the clock as he closed the door. It was 5:27. For the briefest moment, Mike felt dizzy and nauseated, but the feeling passed almost instantly. Mike just shrugged, locked the door, and followed his friends to the truck.
It was an overcast day, the sun barely peeking out from behind the clouds after a hard rain. Mike sat in the front passenger seat, watching the town crawl by in slow traffic. At one stop, he glanced out the window at a street bum holding a creative sign that read:
Wife left. Kids too. Need money. 27 bucks for a bus will do.
The bum was grinning right at Mike, missing teeth and all, thrusting a dirty coffee can forward. Mike panicked for a moment, gripping the door handle until his knuckles went white. Then came another brief wave of nausea and dizziness, which passed as quickly as before. When the light turned green, the truck moved on, and the bum continued to stare at Mike. They passed a newspaper stand where the local paper reported on the arrest of a serial rapist in bold letters.
Finally, the group reached their destination on the edge of town and turned into a gravel driveway. In the distance sat the ramshackle old house where Mike would be spending the night. The windows were all broken, wide open to the elements. They walked along the road to the house as the sun dipped below the horizon.
“Stop! Did you see that?” Ben asked as they approached the place. Everyone looked at the house, then at Ben, who was staring at the second story.
“See what?” Alex asked sarcastically.
“I thought I saw a light on in that window up there.” Ben pointed. It was dark now; no light was visible. “It’s gone,” he said, looking worried.
“Right. I know what you’re trying to do, hipster boy, and I’m not buying it.” Mike punched Ben’s arm in mock anger. “You should know by now I don’t get scared,” he added as he continued toward the house.
“I know what I saw,” Ben muttered. Then, more loudly, “Last chance. We can leave right now and forget this nonsense.”
Such a coward, Mike thought.
“Shit, Mike,” Alex said. “Looks like the bottom floor might be a little flooded. You sure you want to sleep in there?”
“No problem. I’ll just sleep upstairs.” Mike glanced at the address on the rusty mailbox: 27 Craven Court. He suddenly tripped on something and had to catch himself. “Damn it.” His friends looked at him expectantly. “Tripped on a rock,” he muttered. “You guys can leave me here. Let’s get this over with so I can take your money tomorrow.” He laughed at their frowns. “See you tomorrow!” he yelled as he headed for the house. When he turned for one last look, Ben was smiling strangely, almost evilly. Mike did a double-take, but by then his friends had already turned away down the street. Weird, he thought, prying the front door open and stepping inside.
The first thing he noticed was the smell—musty and rotten. The walls were grimy, and the place looked ready to collapse. The first floor was covered in mud and about two inches of water. Weeds poked through the floorboards in random spots, and swampy marshland was visible through the broken windows. Mike looked at the stairs, which appeared old but sturdy enough, and sloshed toward them. Then he heard a scratching noise—like someone running a single, long fingernail across wood. It made the back of his neck tingle. It didn’t sound like an animal. It had…purpose.
Scratch. Scratch. Pause. Scratch. Pause. Scratch.
When his foot touched the first stair, the sound stopped. Mike’s grip on the bat grew white-knuckled.
“Who’s there?” he called out. “Listen, guys. If one of you is in here trying to mess with me, you lose the bet right now, and I’ll just leave.” Silence. “Okay then.”
When he reached the top of the stairs, he saw five doors down a long, dark hallway. Trash littered the floor, and spider webs stretched across the ceiling. It was almost completely dark outside, so he flicked on the flashlight. Something scurried into a shadow at the far end of the hallway, and Mike jumped.
“Shit!” he exclaimed, stumbling back. He panned the flashlight around. Nothing. All the doors were closed, including the one right next to him. He suddenly felt liquid soaking into his sneakers. Looking down, he realized he had dropped his pack of Mountain Dew, and one of the cans had burst open on the floor.
“Fuck. Guess I’ll be buying new shoes tomorrow,” he grumbled. Turning the knob of the door next to him, he swung it open.
The hinges screeched in protest, revealing an empty room with a rusted bed frame—no mattress—and an old desk missing its drawers. Across from the bed was a broken window. Mike tossed his sleeping bag on the floor and shut the door behind him. He decided to camp right by the door, figuring he’d know if anyone tried to enter. He sat down and cursed. Ben had insisted he hand over his phone earlier, arguing that having it would nullify the challenge. Now Mike was bored out of his mind: no calls, no games, no web.
An hour later, he wished he could close that damn window. The swamp insects were unbelievably loud, and he’d never sleep through their racket. He realized he hadn’t planned this very well—no supplies, nothing to pass the time. Bored shitless, he thought, wondering if the money was really worth it. Mike turned on the flashlight again and walked over to the desk, the floorboards creaking under each step. He noticed a scrap of paper on the desktop and shined his light on it. It read:
Dexter said, “Round we go, 27! Hello!”
Mike’s knees went weak. What the fuck!? He whipped his flashlight around the room, looking for signs of his friends or anything suspicious. Nothing. Just darkness—and now, total silence. No chirping. No rustling. The bugs had gone quiet. His heart hammered, but he fought to keep his composure. If someone was here messing with him, he’d be ready to dish out a beating. Still, that note unnerved him. The sudden silence made it worse.
He grabbed his bat, and then heard that same scratching sound outside the door, only this time it had a clicking quality to it.
Scratch-click. Scratch. Scratch. Pause. Scratch-click. Scratch-click.
The instant he strained to listen more closely, the noise stopped, and the insects resumed their deafening chorus. It struck him that their noise was now comforting—at least he wasn’t alone. He sank to his knees, leaning back against the door, and tried to relax.
He jolted awake sometime later, cursing when the flashlight—balanced on his leg—slipped and smacked against his foot. He’d apparently dozed off, bored out of his mind. The bat was still clutched in his hand, though, which offered a bit of comfort. But the moment he realized how long the night still was, he started thinking about fleeing, about forfeiting the bet.
That was when he heard whispering in the hallway:
“Hello, twenty-seven…” It was a slow, sibilant, impossibly deep voice.
Mike screamed at the top of his lungs, raising the bat over his head. “Get the hell out of here or I swear I’m coming out there to fuck you up!”
Silence. No more whispering. He stood there for a solid five minutes, bat poised, beam from the flashlight shaking with his trembling hands. That voice was definitely not from one of his friends. He felt eyes on him, felt the house wasn’t as empty as he’d assumed.
Mike couldn’t bring himself to open the door, so he decided to wait until sunrise. Darkness was his enemy now, and the only friends he had were his flashlight and his bat. He groaned as the flashlight’s beam dimmed slightly. No light at all, or save the battery? He flicked it off, settling on saving what was left.
The moment the light went out, he heard pounding from the room next door. It was rhythmic, like a couple having rough sex, each thrust slamming the bed into the wall. The moaning grew louder—two distinct voices, and Mike recognized them both. He couldn’t believe it. Fear flared into pure rage as the woman’s pleasure-laden screams intensified.
“You son of a bitch! I’ll kill you, Ben!” He roared, racing into the hallway and flicking the flashlight back on. The corridor was empty. Slowly, he approached the neighboring door, pressing his ear against it. Ben and Sophia? Why would they do this here? Could they hate him that much?
“You bastard!” Mike yelled, trying the handle. It was locked. He pounded on it with the end of the bat. “Open the damn door. When I get my hands on you, you’ll wish you were dead! Is this some sick joke?”
The flashlight flickered. He slapped it against his thigh, and suddenly, all sound ceased. The door eased open by itself with a creak.
Mike shined his light in. The room was completely empty—no bed, no furniture, nothing. His anger dissolved, replaced by cold, creeping fear. He backed away and felt something brush against his foot with a scratch-click, scratch sound. Spinning around, he screamed and pointed the flashlight downward.
A massive purple spider, about the size of a dog, was backing away from him. It scuttled into the darkness. Mike wailed, sprinting back toward his original room. Something dropped onto his shoulder from above—he felt a weight, batted at it with his flashlight, and heard a squeak as he struck it. At the top of the stairs, he pointed the beam below.
Standing there was a man wearing an old high school football jersey with the number 27 on it. His hair was scraggly, dirty, and snow-white. He wore a grin identical to the weird one Mike had seen on Ben’s face. His hands were thin with elongated fingers ending in claws, his ears pointed, and his nose long. He looked almost like a rat, right down to his glowing red eyes. Mike’s bowels went loose, and his mouth hung open, unable to scream.
“Heeelllloooooo,” the rat-man hissed in that same echoing whisper Mike had heard earlier.
The rat-man took one step up the stairs—and the flashlight died. Mike was trapped. Jump out the window? he thought desperately, bolting back into the room with his sleeping bag. He slammed the door as the rat-man’s face appeared in the doorway. Mike collapsed in terror, screaming and sobbing. The door shuddered under the man’s pounding. The scratching sound started again—this time inside the room. Mike pounded the flashlight on his leg until it flickered to life.
He wished it hadn’t. Hundreds of those huge spiders were streaming in through the open window, illuminated by the moonlight. The door opened wider as the rat-man kept trying to force his way in. Mike screamed, and he didn’t stop.
In the Dexter Ward Research Facility…
The patient in the test room was screaming non-stop, running in circles as though fleeing invisible threats. Occasionally, he’d slam into a wall and collapse, but he never stopped shrieking. Drool ran from his mouth, and his eyes fixed on things that weren’t there. A doctor stood outside the sealed room, speaking on his phone while observing the patient.
“Dr. Benner, please read your report,” said the voice on the line. “I need all the details.”
“Yes, sir. While working with Patient 27, we encountered problems with the latest toxin,” the doctor replied softly, glancing at the test room with growing concern.
“Which toxin is this?” the voice asked.
“We call it XA-109. You may know it as the Grim Reaper Project. It’s designed to induce terror in enemy combatants, giving our troops time to capture their positions. It’s administered as a gas.”
“I’m familiar. Proceed.”
“Yes, sir.” The doctor looked at the screaming patient again. “Once the toxin was administered, the patient began talking to himself and hallucinating. The compound is meant to cause immediate fear, but he didn’t show uncontrollable terror until twenty-seven minutes in—at which point he began screaming non-stop. We moved to terminate the test. The chamber was cleared of the toxin, and a nurse went in to administer a sedative.”
“The patient was still screaming when the nurse entered?” the voice prompted.
“Yes. He bit the nurse on the neck as she tried to inject the sedative—still screaming the entire time. She managed to retreat without severe injury, and we resealed the test room. He didn’t stop screaming until exactly twenty-seven more minutes had passed.”
“I see. Then what happened?”
“Sir, that’s why we’re in full lockdown. This is well outside our expected parameters. We need an immediate evacuation under quarantine procedures,” the doctor said, his voice trembling. “After the second twenty-seven-minute cycle, the nurse who was bitten began to show the same symptoms—talking to herself for twenty-seven minutes, followed by uncontrollable screaming. We’re calling it the ‘Fear Cycle.’”
“How many have been infected?” the voice asked.
“Twenty-six. The original patient is on his twenty-sixth Fear Cycle now. We’re all terrified of what will happen during the twenty-seventh,” the doctor said, swallowing hard. Through the glass, he saw the patient suddenly stop screaming and fix him with a grin straight out of Alice in Wonderland.
The voice on the phone kept talking, but the doctor barely heard it. He realized he was actually standing in a different hallway—Room 26, not outside the original test chamber. I’ve been hallucinating this entire time. The facility had been in quarantine since the outbreak, and the twenty-seventh Fear Cycle was about to begin. The phone clattered to the floor as dread overtook him.
He dropped to his knees, screaming, his sanity in tatters.
Top Secret - POTUS Eyes Only
Final Report Summary: Incident at the Dexter Ward Research Facility
By Homeland Security Director Benner
“The President authorized bombing of the facility one minute before the twenty-seventh Fear Cycle. The site is now sterilized. May God save our souls. I fear we didn’t stop the spread of whatever this is.”
THE END