The Midnight Game

Episode 1 – The Dare

The night it began was not chosen for any omen or occasion; it was picked out of boredom. That was the most dangerous part. If the six of them had gathered in the old house because of belief, because of faith in the stories they had read online, perhaps there would have been a kind of reverence in their actions, a hesitation that might have saved them. But boredom—boredom never allows reverence. It breeds mockery, and mockery is exactly what the thing they called into that house was waiting for.

The house itself was a perfect setting for a dare. Arun’s family kept it as a crumbling ancestral property on the edge of town, unused, unloved, too costly to repair, too sentimental to sell. Its shutters clattered in the wind like loose teeth, its corridors smelt of damp plaster and mildew, and the wide central hall had a fireplace cracked with age. The six friends—Arun, Dev, Ria, Sameer, Tanya, and Mira—had decided to stay there for the night because Arun promised no one would disturb them. It was supposed to be a break from their claustrophobic semester routine.

Around eleven-thirty, when the air had begun to grow heavy with that particular silence only old houses carry, Dev produced his phone, flicked through a saved page, and announced the dare: The Midnight Game.

“Ever heard of it?” he asked, grinning like a magician about to perform a trick.

Ria rolled her eyes. “One of those creepypasta things, right?”

“Exactly. The ritual that lets you summon a spirit, make it play with you. Supposedly ancient. Supposedly deadly. Supposedly nonsense.”

“Then why do it?” Mira asked, hugging her knees, her voice already uneasy.

“Because it’ll be fun,” Tanya said. She thrived on challenges, dares, anything that let her mask fear with bravado. “Come on, you’ve done worse things at college parties. This one just needs a candle and some guts.”

Arun hesitated but knew, as host, that refusal would make him look cowardly. Sameer, meanwhile, leaned back against the dusty wall with his usual nonchalance, saying, “Fine. Explain the rules.”

Dev read them aloud, each sentence bouncing off the dark wood of the hall:

You must begin exactly at midnight. You will need a candle, a piece of paper, a drop of your blood, and salt. Write your full name on the paper, prick your finger, and let one drop of blood fall on it. Place it before the door and knock twenty-two times. At the final knock, the time will strike twelve, and the Midnight Man will enter. Keep your candle lit. If it goes out, you have ten seconds to relight it. If you fail, surround yourself with a circle of salt. Do not taunt him. Do not leave the house until 3:33 a.m.

Ria laughed, though the sound trembled a little. “It’s basically hide-and-seek with a ghost.”

“Exactly,” Dev said. “And tonight we’ll see if the ghost wants to play.”

They scrounged the house for supplies. Candles from the half-broken kitchen cupboard, paper torn from Arun’s old school notebook, and a rusty sewing needle from a box of his grandmother’s sewing things. Salt came in a forgotten tin from the pantry. Each of them, though they laughed and cursed, grew quieter when it was time to let blood. One by one they pressed the needle to their fingertip and smeared red against their names. Mira was the last, and she nearly refused. “It feels wrong,” she whispered, but Tanya pressed her hand, saying, “Don’t be such a baby. It’s just a prick. It’s just a story.”

At 11:58, they placed their papers before the front door. A storm gathered outside, wind pushing against the broken shutters. The old clock on the mantel ticked with a sound so loud it was as if it had been waiting all evening for this moment.

Arun led the knocking, his fist against the hollow wood of the door. The rhythm sounded theatrical at first, twenty-two deliberate thuds echoing down the deserted street. With each knock the air inside seemed to thicken, like the house was inhaling.

On the final strike, the clock began to chime twelve.

The candles flickered.

Something, too quiet for certainty, moved in the hallway above them.

“See? Nothing,” Sameer said, smirking, though his eyes darted toward the staircase.

But Mira’s hand shook. She stared at the door, then at the papers they had left there. The drops of blood looked brighter, fresher, as though they had not dried at all.

They took their candles and sat in the hall, arranged in a loose circle. At first, they joked. Dev recited mock-incantations; Tanya dared the “Midnight Man” to show himself. Sameer lit a cigarette, blowing smoke toward the shadows. But Arun, who knew the creaks and sighs of his family’s house better than any of them, grew silent. He could feel it—the difference between emptiness and presence. This was no longer just six friends in an old hall. Something else had accepted the invitation.

The silence broke with the first knock.

It came not at the door, but at the wall behind them. Three slow, deliberate taps.

Ria jumped, nearly dropping her candle. Dev laughed too loudly. “Old house,” he said. “Timber contracts, echoes.” But the others knew that sound had been precise.

Then came the second knock—from the window. A rattling, insistent sound, though the shutters were closed.

“Who’s doing this?” Sameer demanded, standing up, his shadow jerking tall on the wall. “Arun? Is this one of your family’s servants messing with us?”

Arun shook his head, pale. “No one lives here. No one knows we’re here.”

The third knock came from the ceiling, a hollow boom that sent dust falling like ash over their candles.

This time, no one laughed.

Mira’s candle guttered violently. She gasped, shielding it with both hands, terrified it would go out. Dev leaned forward, trying to joke, but his voice cracked. “That’s—uh—that’s the Midnight Man, I guess. He’s in.”

They sat frozen, hearing their own breath, the storm pressing closer against the walls. The candles flared as if stirred by an unseen hand.

Then Ria’s phone buzzed once before dying, the screen going black. One by one, their devices dimmed, shut down, as if drained of life.

The house settled into a silence so complete it seemed alive.

And from somewhere deep in the dark hallway, too far to see but too close to deny, came the unmistakable sound of footsteps—measured, patient, walking toward them.

Episode 2 – Three Knocks

The sound of the footsteps was so deliberate that it made their own hearts fall into rhythm with it. Each step creaked as though a weight far heavier than a man’s pressed into the timber. The air grew cooler, and their candles seemed to bow, their flames stretching thin, elongated as though drawn toward an unseen presence.

“Who’s there?” Sameer demanded, his voice raised too quickly, the bravado cracking on the last syllable. His words rolled into the darkness and came back unanswered, except for one more step, closer.

“Stop,” Mira whispered, clutching her knees, candle trembling in her grip. “Don’t talk to it.”

Tanya scoffed but her eyes betrayed her. The circle of them sat hunched, six fragile flames against a vast darkness, each one remembering too late the rule Dev had read: Do not taunt him.

The footsteps ceased. Silence bloomed so thick that their ears strained, aching for any sound at all.

And then, three knocks—slow, deliberate—rattled against the front door. Not the erratic tapping of wind or branch, but a rhythm, a signal. Three. Wait. Three again.

Ria let out a shaky laugh. “Okay, very funny. Who’s outside?”

Arun shook his head. “The street’s empty. I told you, no one comes here.”

Another series of knocks came, this time from the back wall. Then, without pause, the left window. The sound darted around the room like a predator circling its prey.

Sameer swore under his breath. His cigarette had gone out, and he hadn’t even noticed. When he lifted it back to his lips, he found the end cold, dead. He set it down quickly, as if it had turned into a curse in his hand.

The game had begun.

Their phones offered no rescue; each had died moments ago, as though sucked dry by the same thing that now toyed with them. No glow of screens, no comfort of numbers to dial. Just six flickering lights in a house built to hold silence.

Dev tried to rally them. “Look, this is what it’s supposed to do, right? Knocks, footsteps, whispers. We’re— we’re following the rules, so it can’t hurt us.”

But his attempt at reassurance only made them more aware of the rules they had so flippantly agreed to: keep the candle lit, don’t step outside, don’t mock him. And suddenly the weight of those conditions felt suffocating. One mistake was all it would take.

The knocks stopped.

For a moment the house was still, as though holding its breath with them. Then Ria, who had been staring at the far corner where the shadows pooled thickest, whispered, “There’s someone there.”

Every head turned.

Nothing stood in the corner. Nothing their eyes could pin down. But the shadows were wrong, too deep, too tall. A suggestion of a figure, lank and watchful, cut darker than the rest.

“Keep the candles up,” Arun muttered, his voice taut. “Don’t let them flicker.”

As though answering him, Mira’s candle wavered violently. She cupped it with shaking hands, whispering, “Please, please…” Her eyes filled with tears. For one breathless instant the flame thinned into nothing. But with a desperate inhale, it flared again, catching the wax.

The others released their breath, realizing they had been holding it.

And then, in the midst of their relief, something new broke the silence.

Breathing.

It was soft at first, almost indistinguishable from the stir of the storm outside. But as they listened, it grew louder, closer, and unmistakably human. Slow inhales and slow, guttural exhales, not from any of them, but from the darkness circling behind.

Dev whipped around, candle raised, but there was no one there—only the stale wallpaper, the door to the kitchen half-ajar. Yet the breath brushed past his ear, warm enough to make him recoil.

He dropped his candle.

It hit the ground with a dull thud and guttered. Darkness rushed in around him.

“Light it! Ten seconds!” Arun barked. His own hand had already seized the box of matches. Dev fumbled, cursing, striking a match so hard the wood snapped in half. “Hurry!” Mira cried, counting in a whisper, “One… two… three…”

The second match caught, its sulphur stinging the air. Dev shoved the wick into it, and the flame crawled back to life. They all sat frozen, listening. If he had failed, if he had taken one breath too long, the rules said the Midnight Man would have been free to touch him.

The breathing had stopped.

“I told you, no games,” Arun hissed. “We can’t screw up again.”

But Tanya’s eyes had narrowed. She stared into the black hallway, her jaw clenched. “If it wants to scare us, it’s going to have to try harder.”

Mira turned on her, face pale. “Don’t. Don’t talk like that.”

But Tanya rose to her feet anyway, candle held defiantly. “Come on then,” she called into the dark, her laugh sharp, mocking. “Is this the best you can do? Knocks and shadows? Show yourself.”

Her words bled into the air like poison.

For a moment, nothing answered. And then the knocks began again.

Not at the walls this time. Not the windows.

From inside.

The hollow thud came from the wooden floorboards beneath their feet, deep and resonant, as though something was knocking upward from beneath the house.

Mira screamed. The candles all fluttered in unison. Ria clutched Tanya’s arm. “Sit down! Don’t—don’t make it worse!”

But Tanya’s bravado had already drained away. She lowered herself shakily back to the circle, her face drained of color. Her candle shook so violently it dripped wax down her wrist.

The knocks from beneath continued, measured and mocking, until each of them felt the vibration in their bones. Then, slowly, they stopped.

The silence that followed was worse.

“Two hours and twenty minutes left,” Arun whispered, glancing at the mantel clock, though every tick of its hands sounded like a death sentence.

Time stretched unbearably. Shadows crawled along the walls. The storm raged outside, yet the air in the room felt still, as though sealed.

Then Ria clutched her candle tighter and said, in a trembling voice, “Listen—”

They all froze.

From the darkness at the far end of the hall came a voice. Low, hoarse, and shaped exactly like Arun’s.

“Let me in.”

Arun’s blood went cold. The others turned toward him, half expecting to see his lips moving, but his face was rigid with horror. He shook his head. “That’s not me.”

The voice came again, stronger. “Let me in.”

Mira’s sob broke the silence. She squeezed her eyes shut, rocking slightly, whispering prayers. Dev’s hand hovered over the salt tin. Sameer muttered curses under his breath, though his own voice trembled.

The candles burned low.

And with each flicker, the figure in the corner seemed to grow taller.

Episode 3 – The Wanderer in Shadows

The figure in the corner was no longer only suggestion. At first it had been little more than a thickness of dark, a trick of flickering wax. But as the minutes staggered by, the outline grew deliberate, shoulders too broad, head too long, arms that seemed to dangle to the floor. The darkness clung to it as if it were made of night itself.

None of them wanted to say it aloud, but each one saw the same thing: it was watching.

Ria whispered, “It’s moving.”

Indeed, the shape swayed, leaning forward the way a man might lean to study insects under glass. Their six candles flared all at once, as though stirred by breath. The warmth that should have come from flame was gone; instead, cold air poured across the floor, lifting dust into tiny spirals.

Dev clutched his knees. “Don’t look at it. Just… don’t.”

But the command was impossible. Their eyes, disobedient, dragged back to that impossible shadow, as though compelled. Sameer squinted, his jaw tightening. He could almost see details now—the bend of its head, a ridge where a mouth might be. But the more he looked, the more it unraveled, like staring at smoke.

Mira’s lips moved silently. She prayed the way she had as a child, when storms broke open the sky and she was certain the house would collapse. Her hands trembled around the candle, wax dripping on her skin, searing her palms, but she didn’t flinch. Pain felt safer than noticing the thing watching her.

Arun glanced at the clock. The hands crawled past 12:45. The game had been going less than an hour. His stomach knotted—how could three hours stretch into eternity?

And then, without sound, the figure was gone.

One blink and the corner stood empty again.

Relief washed them in ragged breaths, but it was worse than before. For now, it wasn’t contained.

“Where is it?” Ria’s voice was barely a breath.

“Still here,” Arun said, grim. “It doesn’t leave once you let it in.”

A floorboard groaned behind them. They spun as one. Nothing but the long hallway, black as tar.

The breathing returned. This time closer, circling. They turned in frantic unison, but the sound shifted every moment—behind them, then left, then above. As though the walls themselves inhaled and exhaled.

“Salt,” Dev muttered, fumbling for the tin. His voice shook. “Just in case.”

“No,” Arun snapped. “That’s last resort. Once we draw the circle, we’re trapped in it until morning.”

“Trapped sounds better than dead!” Dev hissed.

But before Arun could argue, a whisper slid into the room. Not a breath, not a word, but a whisper shaped exactly like Mira’s voice: “Help me.”

Her head jerked up. “I didn’t say that.”

The voice repeated, this time closer, echoing like it was crawling along the walls: “Help me… help me…”

Tanya swore under her breath. “It’s copying us.”

The figure hadn’t vanished. It had scattered. Its presence was in the boards, in the walls, in the spaces where silence used to live.

Sameer stood abruptly. His legs shook, but he forced a sneer. “You think you can scare us with parlor tricks?”

Arun lunged to grab him, but Sameer was already striding toward the hallway. His candle threw sharp light against peeling wallpaper. “I’m not playing along. I’ll prove it’s nothing.”

“Sameer, no!” Mira cried.

But he was already gone from the circle of their sight. His footsteps echoed into the black.

The others sat paralyzed, the ticking of the mantel clock drilling into their ears. Then, a scream—short, cut off, swallowed by the house.

The hallway fell silent.

Ria’s hand shot to her mouth. Tanya leapt up, but Arun grabbed her wrist. “Stay. He’s—he’s not gone. If we move, we’re next.”

Mira began to sob quietly, rocking, candlelight shaking across her face.

Dev shut his eyes tight. “He’ll come back. He has to.”

As if summoned, footsteps returned. The same weight, the same measured pace. They grew louder until they stopped just at the threshold of the hall.

Sameer emerged from the dark.

He carried his candle, flame steady, face calm. Too calm.

“I told you,” he said evenly. “Nothing out there.”

But Arun’s stomach dropped. Sameer’s voice was wrong. Too flat. Too exact. Like a recording played back.

And then Arun noticed—the candle Sameer held had no wax dripping, no melted edge. It was as fresh as if it had never been lit.

“Stay back,” Arun said sharply.

Sameer tilted his head, expression smooth, unnatural. “Why? It’s safe.”

Mira whimpered, “That’s not him.”

The thing smiled. Not a human smile, but a stretch of lips too wide, teeth too small, too many. The light bent strangely across its face.

In an instant the candles flared, every flame reaching tall as though screaming. When they shrank back, the doorway was empty again.

Sameer never returned.

Silence.

Ria sobbed openly now, shaking. Tanya muttered curses, fists clenched, candle dripping wax down her arm. Dev rocked back and forth, whispering the rules again and again like a mantra.

Arun kept his eyes on the clock. “It’s not even one,” he whispered. “God, it’s not even one.”

The house groaned, the walls tightening as though to crush them. From upstairs came the slow drag of footsteps—impossible, because no one remained upstairs. But the sound descended, step by step, toward the hall.

The Wanderer in Shadows had found new ground.

It would not rest until each of them was seen.

Episode 4 – The Broken Rule

The footsteps on the staircase were too slow to belong to anyone alive. Each creak was deliberate, pausing long enough that their nerves frayed with waiting. The shadows at the top landing rippled like liquid darkness, and then—nothing. The sound stopped. The house hushed again, though the silence now felt sharpened, waiting to cut.

They sat rigid in their half-circle of candles. Ria’s hands shook so badly the wax spattered across the wooden floor. Mira’s lips kept moving in prayer. Tanya, though she tried to look defiant, couldn’t meet anyone’s eyes. Dev muttered the rules again under his breath, his voice hoarse: “Candle must stay lit. Ten seconds if it goes out. If not—salt, salt.”

The clock on the mantel dragged itself to 1:05.

A draft slithered through the hallway, unseen but undeniable. All six flames bent as if bowing. Mira whimpered and cupped hers again, but Arun’s was the one that guttered violently. He leaned down, shielding it with his hand, and managed to coax it steady again. He forced a thin smile. “See? It’s fine.”

But the game was patient.

The draft came again, stronger this time, cold as river water. Dev cursed, shielding his candle, but Tanya’s flame sputtered low, then out.

“Light it!” Arun barked.

She fumbled at once for the matches, swearing as her hands shook. A match snapped, sparks dying useless. She struck another, dropped it. The third caught flame, sulphur stinging the air. She bent down, heart racing.

“One,” Mira counted, voice small.

“Two,” Dev echoed.

The match hissed too fast, threatening to burn her fingers. Tanya cursed, pushing the wick toward it.

“Three… four…”

The candle caught. She exhaled sharply, raising it again with shaking hands.

They almost sighed with relief—until Dev whispered, “Too long. That was more than ten.”

They stared at him, then at Tanya. Her face was white as paper.

“It’s fine,” she insisted, though her voice cracked. “I lit it. It’s fine.”

But it wasn’t.

The breathing returned—right beside her ear.

She jerked, spinning around, candle quivering. Nothing stood there. But the smell of damp soil and rot poured across her shoulder, unmistakable.

“Tanya,” Arun whispered. “Salt. Now.”

She fumbled the tin open, spilling granules across the floor in a messy line. She crawled into the circle she drew, hands frantic, grain scattering uneven. Her candle rocked dangerously as she finished, sealing herself inside.

The moment the circle closed, the sound began: fingernails scratching wood. At first gentle, curious, then furious, as though claws raked against the floorboards outside her salt barrier.

Her breathing grew ragged. She clutched her knees, candle pressed close. “It’s right there,” she whispered. “It’s—scratching.”

The others heard it too. Long, jagged scrapes circling her barrier, testing.

“Don’t break the line,” Arun ordered, though his own voice quavered.

The clock hands crawled to 1:20.

The scratching stopped.

For a moment they dared to breathe. Tanya glanced up, eyes wide. “Maybe it—”

Then something pressed against her circle.

The salt line bent outward, like an invisible weight leaned against it, testing. The grains slid a fraction. Tanya screamed, frantically brushing more salt from the tin into the gap.

The unseen weight pulled back. Silence again.

They sat frozen. Every candle trembled.

And then, with horrifying slowness, a hand appeared.

It wasn’t flesh. It was absence shaped like flesh, darker than dark, fingers too long. It pressed flat against the floor outside her circle, dragging along the barrier of salt. Tanya sobbed, rocking, chanting, “Don’t let it in, don’t let it in.”

The hand withdrew, vanishing into shadow.

But the laughter stayed.

It was soft at first, a rasping chuckle, neither male nor female. It filled the house as though the walls themselves laughed.

Mira clamped her hands over her ears. Dev whispered frantically, “It’s playing with us.”

Arun swallowed hard. “No. It’s hunting.”

Then—sudden—Ria’s candle guttered. She shrieked, shaking it desperately. Arun lunged with a match, lighting it again in time. Nine seconds. The rules held.

But Tanya’s circle was weakening. Her tin of salt lay almost empty, her hands raw from shaking. She stared into the dark corner where the laughter echoed, whispering, “It wants me. I broke the rule.”

Arun tried to steady his own flame, forcing his voice firm. “Just last until 3:33. That’s all. It can’t take us if we last.”

But even as he spoke, his eyes betrayed him. He knew the truth: one mistake had already been made. And the game never forgave mistakes.

The clock struck 1:30.

Somewhere upstairs, a door slammed so hard the walls shuddered.

Tanya whimpered, clutching her knees tighter. Her candlelight shone on her face, making the sweat gleam. She dared to lift her head toward the hallway.

Her eyes widened.

“It’s inside,” she whispered.

They all turned.

The shadow had returned—no longer in corners, no longer hinting. It walked down the hallway toward them, long and slow, its limbs too many, its head scraping the ceiling. With every step, their candles bent forward, drawn to its impossible gravity.

And this time, no one doubted it could touch them.

Episode 5 – The First Vanishing

The figure filled the hallway, its limbs dragging shadows across the walls like ink spilled through cracks. Their candles strained toward it, flames bending unnaturally forward, as if drawn by breath. None of them moved. To move was to be noticed, and each instinct screamed that notice meant death.

The figure halted just beyond their circle of light. It leaned forward, its head lowering until it nearly grazed the floor. Though no face could be seen, all of them felt its eyes, probing. Tanya whimpered from within her salt barrier. Dev gripped the matchbox so tightly the cardboard bent. Mira rocked and whispered prayers, the words tumbling broken from her mouth.

Then, as if amused by their terror, the thing straightened and dissolved. It didn’t step away; it simply unmade itself, scattering into darkness like ash in wind.

The silence it left behind pressed heavier than its presence. The six of them exhaled all at once, lungs aching.

“Clock,” Arun said. His own voice sounded hollow. He looked. The hands read 1:45.

“Two more hours,” Dev muttered, rubbing his forehead. “Two hours, and it’ll be over.”

But no one believed him.

The storm outside battered the shutters. A draft swept through, nearly killing Ria’s flame. She yelped and clutched it close. Arun leaned to shield her, whispering, “Steady, steady.”

For a time, nothing happened. Silence stretched, broken only by the storm. Each minute ticked by with cruel slowness, as if the clock itself took pleasure in delaying dawn.

And then, at 2:15, the game took its first victim.

They had been sitting in fragile quiet when Sameer—no, not Sameer. The space he had left empty in their circle still gaped at them, a reminder of his disappearance. It was Dev, jittery and pale, who began to talk too much, filling the silence with his voice, as though words could build a wall.

“It’s just—it’s just tricks,” he insisted. “Lights, drafts, echoes. Old houses do this. We’re psyching ourselves out. If we keep steady, if we don’t lose our heads—”

His candle flared, as though mocking him. He flinched, almost dropping it. “See? Just—just wax catching.”

Arun opened his mouth to tell him to stop, but then it happened.

Dev froze mid-sentence. His candle snuffed out—not with a draft, not with a shake of his hand, but as if pinched between fingers no one could see.

“Light it!” Arun shouted, already striking a match.

But Dev wasn’t moving.

“Dev!” Tanya screamed, though her voice broke.

He sat stiff, eyes wide, lips parted as if still forming words. For one breathless moment he looked like a man caught in a photograph. Then his body jerked, spine bending backward as though something had seized him. His mouth opened in a silent cry.

The match in Arun’s hand dropped useless to the floor.

Dev’s candle rolled from his grip, dark.

And then—he was gone.

There was no collapse of body, no fall, no blood. One instant he sat among them, the next the space was empty, his candle and the scraps of salt spilled at his feet the only proof he had existed.

Mira shrieked, curling against Ria. Tanya clapped her hands over her ears, rocking. Arun staggered forward, reaching into the empty space as if his hand might touch a body. But there was nothing. The floor was bare.

“He—he can’t just—” Ria stammered.

“He’s gone,” Arun said, his own voice hollow. His fingers trembled as he touched the unlit candle on the floor. Cold.

Mira sobbed. “Where did he go? Where did he go?”

Tanya’s whisper came hoarse. “The rules. It took him because he broke the rule.”

“But he didn’t—” Ria started.

“He lost the flame,” Tanya snapped. “That’s all it needs.”

The silence after Dev’s vanishing was unbearable. The house seemed hungrier now, breathing deeper.

Arun forced himself upright. “Four of us left,” he said. His voice shook but he needed to speak, needed to anchor them. “We keep the candles lit. We stay together. We make it to 3:33.”

But Mira, face blotched with tears, whispered, “What if it takes us even if we follow the rules?”

Arun didn’t answer.

The clock chimed the half-hour. 2:30.

The sound echoed unnaturally, as if the bells came from inside the walls. Each strike rattled their bones. Tanya whimpered in her salt circle, now scattered with footprints of dust where the shadow had circled her.

Then came the whispers.

At first faint, like wind through cracks. But as they strained to listen, the words became clear, and worse—they were familiar. Dev’s voice, whispering their names. “Arun… Mira… Ria…”

Ria clamped her hands over her ears. “No. No, that’s not him.”

The whisper slithered closer, sliding along the floor. “It’s safe. Follow me. I know the way out.”

Mira rocked harder. “He’s dead. He’s dead.”

Arun’s face tightened. “It’s not him. Don’t answer. Don’t listen.”

But the whispers didn’t stop. They grew louder, mocking, until the air itself seemed full of Dev’s voice, rising, multiplying, surrounding them.

And through it all, the laughter returned.

It was deeper this time, as if the game had tasted blood and found it sweet.

The candles wavered, every flame guttering low, threatening extinction.

Arun struck match after match against the box, ready to relight whichever failed. Mira sobbed openly. Tanya muttered curses in her salt prison. Ria rocked with her candle clenched against her chest, whispering over and over, “Two hours left, two hours left.”

The storm outside howled louder. Windows rattled in their frames. Somewhere deep in the house a door slammed hard enough to shake dust from the ceiling.

At 2:45, Mira gasped suddenly. “Someone’s here.”

They looked up.

In the hallway, a new figure stood. Not tall, not twisted. Human-sized. Familiar.

Dev.

He smiled faintly, candle burning steady in his hand. His eyes glowed wrong, too reflective, like an animal’s.

“See?” he said softly. “I told you it was fine.”

Mira screamed.

The figure dissolved into shadow.

The Midnight Man was still playing.

And they still had an hour to go.

Episode 6 – Splinters of Fear

The air after Dev’s reappearance—if it could be called that—was thicker than smoke. None of them spoke. Their candles hissed faintly, every flame bowed as though under invisible breath. The storm outside battered the shutters, but the louder violence was inside: the whispered names, the scuff of phantom footsteps, the chuckle rolling beneath the floorboards.

Mira curled smaller against Ria, her sobs sharp and shallow, childlike. Tanya stared blankly out of her salt circle, lips moving soundlessly. Arun clenched his candle until hot wax ran over his knuckles. He didn’t flinch. His entire body was taut, rigid against terror, because he knew if he yielded, if he loosened even for a second, he would break.

Ria’s voice cracked the silence. “It’s going to kill us. One by one.”

“Not if we hold,” Arun answered quickly. Too quickly. “The rules—”

“The rules didn’t save Dev,” she snapped.

Arun opened his mouth, but Mira shrieked suddenly, pointing at the wall.

Across the faded plaster, scratches were blooming—thin white lines, dragging downward, slow, deliberate. Like claws carving bone. One, two, three. Then another set. Then another. The wall was alive with scraping, as though a hundred fingernails were raking down from the ceiling. The sound screeched into their skulls.

“Stop it!” Tanya wailed, clutching her ears inside the circle. “Make it stop!”

Arun shouted above the din, “Stay steady! Don’t drop the candle!”

But Mira had already broken. She scrambled to her feet, candle wild in her grip. “I can’t—I can’t stay here! I can’t!”

“Mira, don’t!” Arun lunged, but she bolted across the hall, hair flying, tears streaking her face.

The front door loomed. She threw herself at it, rattling the handle, slamming her shoulder against wood swollen with damp. “Let me out!” she sobbed. “Please, please—”

The door groaned open.

Behind her, Arun froze. “No—”

The house breathed once, a long inhalation. The door swung wider. But instead of the night street outside, there was only black. Not darkness like a power cut, not shadow—blackness alive, vast and endless, swallowing sight.

Mira screamed. Her candle dropped from her hand, snuffing out before it hit the floor.

The void yawned. A wind howled from it, sucking at her clothes, her hair, her limbs. She clawed at the frame, fingers whitening, nails splitting. “Help me!” she screamed.

Ria sprang forward, but Arun seized her, dragging her back. “No! Don’t touch her!”

The black wind roared, and Mira was wrenched from the frame, her body swallowed whole. The door slammed shut. Silence followed, so sudden it rang like a bell.

Her candle rolled across the floor, cold.

Ria collapsed into sobs, her face buried in her hands. Tanya rocked violently in her circle, muttering broken curses. Arun stared at the door, his chest heaving, eyes hollow.

The clock ticked to 3:00.

Thirty-three minutes left.

But the house was restless now, hungry.

The scratches hadn’t stopped—they had multiplied. Every wall, every corner, every inch of plaster screamed with clawing, scraping, rending. The sound reverberated in their skulls until thought was impossible. Arun pressed his hands over his ears but the noise lived inside the walls, inside his bones.

Then, without warning, all four candles flared high. For a heartbeat the hall was bright, too bright, every face lit stark, every shadow ripped away. They saw everything: the walls gouged, the floorboards cracked, and the shadow crouched among them.

It was everywhere at once. A long arm stretching across the ceiling, a leg protruding from the wall, a grin carved from darkness leering at Tanya. Its laughter vibrated through their teeth.

The candles shrank again. The light dimmed. And still the grin lingered, burned into their vision even after it was gone.

Arun forced his voice through the terror. “We can survive this. We have to. Just—just thirty minutes. Hold the light.”

But Tanya broke into a laugh. It was high, cracked, manic. She rocked inside her salt circle, clutching her candle, giggling through tears. “Thirty minutes? Thirty minutes? It’s already inside. It’s already eaten us.”

Ria shouted at her, desperate, “Shut up! Don’t say that!”

Tanya’s laughter dissolved into sobbing. She pressed her forehead to the floor, rocking harder. Her candle shook so violently its flame touched the wax rim, spitting.

Arun grabbed Ria’s wrist. “Don’t lose it. Don’t listen to her. Don’t let go.”

But the house didn’t need Tanya’s laughter. It had its own.

A new sound rose beneath the scratches: a groan, deep and slow, like timber splitting under weight. The floor shuddered. Dust rained from the rafters.

“It’s breaking the house,” Ria gasped.

The groaning deepened. Boards cracked. From the far corner of the hall, a fissure split open, narrow but jagged, like a wound tearing in the wood. Cold poured from it, colder than any winter air. Their candle flames bent sharply toward the fissure, almost extinguished by its pull.

Arun shoved the tin of salt into Ria’s lap. “If it gets closer, draw a circle.”

She shook her head violently. “I can’t—I can’t trap myself—”

“You can!” he snapped. His voice cracked. “It’s the only chance!”

The fissure widened another inch, and from within came a hand. Thin, pale, wrong. Fingers too long, nails sharpened to points. It crawled against the boards, searching.

Tanya shrieked and flung her candle at it. The wax struck the hand and went out with a hiss.

“No!” Arun roared.

The hand seized the candle in its claws and dragged it into the fissure. Tanya screamed, scrambling backward inside her circle. “It’s coming for me!”

The hand withdrew. The fissure closed with a groan. Silence fell, almost heavier than the sound.

Her candle was gone.

She clutched her knees, rocking. “It took it. It took my light. It’s coming.”

Arun stared at the clock. 3:12.

Twenty-one minutes left.

But they all knew the game would not let them keep four survivors.

Not when fear had already splintered them apart.

Episode 7 – The House Shifts

The silence after Tanya’s candle vanished was a silence that throbbed, as though the house itself was holding its breath. The salt circle she crouched inside looked pitiful now, scattered grains forming a jagged ring barely wide enough for her knees. Her hands shook as she tried to sprinkle more from the empty tin, though nothing remained.

“Stay inside it,” Arun ordered, his own voice stripped of strength. He stared at her the way one watches a dying flame—already certain of its fate.

Ria clutched her candle against her chest. “It’s not going to last,” she whispered.

The clock ticked past 3:13. Twenty minutes until 3:33. Twenty minutes that felt as impossible as eternity.

Then the shift began.

At first it was small: a groan from the boards under their feet, a soft tremor as if the house had sighed. Dust sifted from the rafters. Arun steadied his candle, muttering, “Just the storm. Just—”

But when he glanced toward the kitchen door, it was gone. In its place stretched a hallway that had never existed, its length swallowed by darkness.

Ria gasped. “The house—”

Before she could finish, the far wall convulsed. Wood split open with a wet sound, seams cracking, plaster warping. The fireplace melted into another doorway, narrow and crooked, leading into shadows deeper than any corridor should allow.

“No,” Arun whispered. His pulse hammered. “It’s—remaking itself.”

The game was no longer content with knocks and whispers. Now the house bent to its will.

The ceiling above them groaned, beams stretching, elongating. The hall that had felt cramped with their fear now expanded, walls pulling away, ceiling rising higher. Shadows grew longer, darker, as though feeding on the space.

“Stop it,” Ria begged, her voice breaking. “Make it stop!”

But the house did not stop.

The staircase on the far side twisted in its frame, each step lengthening unnaturally. What had once been a dozen steps became twenty, then thirty, ascending into a void that swallowed light.

Mira was gone. Dev was gone. Sameer too. Tanya’s salt circle cracked with her sobbing weight. Ria clung to Arun’s sleeve. They were four survivors, stranded in a house that no longer obeyed the laws of wood and stone.

The laughter began again—echoing not from one corner but from everywhere. The walls themselves giggled, groaned, mocked. It layered over itself, high and low, human and not, filling the cavernous new halls.

Arun’s knuckles were white against his candle. He forced words through clenched teeth. “Stay together. Don’t move unless we have to.”

But the house had other plans.

The floor beneath them shivered like skin under breath. Tanya screamed. The boards cracked between her knees, her salt circle splitting open. She clawed to close the line, dragging her nails raw across the floor. But the grains slipped into the fissure.

Something laughed in her ear. She bolted upright, candle wavering. “It’s here! It’s touching me!”

“Don’t break the—” Arun shouted.

Too late.

Her foot scuffed the salt away. The circle broke.

Her scream tore through the hall. Her candle flared once and died.

They saw her silhouette jerk backward, arms flailing as though seized by invisible ropes. Then she was yanked into the crooked new doorway where the fireplace had been. Her scream cut off mid-breath.

Silence.

Ria sobbed into her sleeve. Arun’s throat ached, but no sound came. They were three now.

The mantel clock struck 3:20.

Thirteen minutes left.

The house wasn’t finished.

The hallway stretched further, so long the far end disappeared. The ceiling beams twisted into arches, bending until they looked like ribs. Arun realized, sickened, that the house was no longer a house. It was a body—living, breathing, rearranging itself into a labyrinth that would hold them forever.

Shadows rippled along the new walls. Some moved too fast, darting out of sight. Others lingered, tall and patient. None belonged to their candles.

“Don’t look,” Arun hissed, though his own eyes betrayed him, dragged toward every movement. “Just keep steady. Thirteen minutes.”

Ria whimpered, “I can’t—I can’t last.”

“Yes, you can,” Arun snapped, harsher than he meant. “If we break, it wins.”

But already, Ria’s candle flickered low, wax pooling dangerously. She shook it, desperate. “It’s dying!”

Arun struck a match, relighting hers before the dark could claim her. The sulphur stung his eyes. He whispered fiercely, “Hold it. Please.”

They sat huddled, three small flames in a hall that breathed like a beast.

Then the stairs groaned again.

Something descended.

The sound was not human steps but dragging, scraping, like claws across stone. The shape appeared at the top landing—a vast silhouette, bent double to fit the height, head cocked at an angle no neck should allow.

Ria whimpered. “It’s coming.”

Arun forced himself not to move. He whispered, “Keep your eyes on the light. Don’t watch it.”

But the figure came closer anyway, scraping down the steps, each movement too slow, deliberate, as though savoring their terror.

Their candles guttered, bending toward it, trying to surrender their light.

At the bottom step, it stopped.

The laughter ceased. The house fell silent, waiting.

Then, in Dev’s voice—clear, human, almost gentle—it spoke: “Follow me. I’ll show you the way out.”

Ria’s sobbing turned into a gasp. Her eyes fixed on the silhouette. “He’s alive. He’s alive!”

“Ria, no,” Arun hissed, grabbing her wrist. “It’s not him!”

But she was trembling violently, torn between fear and hope. “What if it is? What if he’s trapped?”

“It’s not,” Arun said. “It’s the game. It’s wearing him.”

The figure leaned forward. The hall darkened as if light itself bent toward it.

And still Ria stared, candle trembling in her hand.

The clock ticked. 3:25.

Eight minutes left.

But eight minutes was an ocean, and the house had turned into a labyrinth designed to drown them.

Episode 8 – The Betrayal

The clock’s hands crawled past 3:25. Eight minutes remained, yet time felt elastic, stretched by dread into something endless. The house no longer resembled Arun’s ancestral ruin. It was a warped maze of ribs and corridors, breathing in rhythm with their fear. Shadows bled across the walls like veins, pulsing.

Three survivors huddled together: Arun, Ria, and Tanya’s absence still too fresh, her scream echoing in memory. The silence between them was tense, jagged.

Then the voice came again. Dev’s voice. “Ria… it’s safe… come to me…”

Ria’s shoulders shook. She raised her candle weakly. “He’s alive. I know it.”

Arun seized her wrist. “No. It’s not him. Don’t listen.”

She wrenched her arm free. “How do you know? You don’t! You’re just repeating rules, but Dev—Dev’s voice—”

“It’s wearing him,” Arun said flatly. His jaw clenched, sweat streaking his face. “The thing uses our names, our voices. That’s how it breaks us.”

Ria’s eyes flashed. “And what if you’re the one breaking us? What if you cheated the ritual? What if you’re why it’s angry?”

Arun stared at her, stunned. “What?”

“You led the knocks,” she accused. Her voice rose shrill, desperate. “Twenty-two times. You could have missed one. Or you could have done twenty-three. We wouldn’t know. You—”

“Stop it,” Arun snapped. “That’s madness.”

But Ria’s face was contorted with terror that needed someone to blame. “You want us to believe you, always you. Maybe you didn’t even bleed enough onto the paper. Maybe you—”

Arun lunged forward and clamped his hand over her mouth. Her candle shook dangerously. “Do not say another word,” he hissed.

She bit his palm. He yelped and pulled back. The candle tilted in her hand.

For a heartbeat it sputtered, almost gone.

Mira—no, Mira was gone. It was just Ria and Arun now. And her fury flared. “You almost made me lose it!” she shouted.

“You nearly killed us both!” Arun snapped back.

The house seemed to feed on their argument. The laughter returned, deeper now, like multiple throats harmonizing mockery. Shadows writhed faster, circling them like wolves.

The mantel clock ticked to 3:28. Five minutes left.

Ria’s paranoia twisted sharper. “Why should I trust you? You’ve been holding the matches. If my candle went out, you could ‘accidentally’ miss the ten seconds, just like Dev. You’d survive alone.”

Arun’s stomach churned with rage and horror. “Do you think I want to survive alone? Everyone’s dead!”

“Not everyone,” she whispered, eyes flicking toward the darkness. “Sameer. Dev. Mira. Tanya. They might still be in there. And maybe you’re stopping me from reaching them.”

He stepped closer, candle steady though his hand trembled. “If you leave this light, you’ll die. Do you understand? That’s what it wants—us fighting, splitting, breaking the circle.”

But her face was wild, her belief unshakable now. She pulled the salt tin from her lap, shaking the last grains into her palm. “Then maybe I need to make my own circle. Away from you.”

“Ria, no—”

She scattered the salt around herself in a jagged line, breaking away from him. Her circle was small, uneven, but closed. She sat inside it, glaring at him, candle clutched close. “Stay away. You’ll betray me.”

Arun’s throat tightened. He wanted to shout, to shake her, but despair hollowed him. He knelt back, clutching his own candle, watching the salt barrier between them.

The laughter crescendoed.

And then the house obliged her paranoia.

From the ceiling above Ria, something dropped—an arm of darkness, long and skeletal, claws curved like hooks. It slammed against the salt, sparks of light flaring where claw met grain. The barrier held for one breath. Then two.

Then it broke.

The claws dragged her candle out of the circle.

“No!” Ria screamed, lunging. Her hand closed around wax, but the flame was gone. Out.

Arun struck a match desperately, reaching across the floorboards. But her circle cut between them. He couldn’t cross without breaking his own safety.

Her eyes locked to his, wide with betrayal. “You didn’t help me,” she whispered.

“Ria, I tried—”

But before the match could touch her wick, the shadow seized her. Her scream ripped through the hall as she was pulled upward into darkness. Her body vanished, candle clattering to the boards.

Silence swallowed them.

Arun sat shaking, the match burning down to his fingers. He dropped it, gasping. His eyes went to the clock. 3:30.

Three minutes left.

Three minutes, and he was alone.

The laughter had faded now, replaced by something worse: whispers in all their voices. Sameer’s jokes, Tanya’s defiance, Mira’s prayers, Dev’s reassurances, Ria’s accusations. They layered over one another, filling the maze of corridors, echoing.

Arun held his candle so tight his hand cramped. His breath came ragged, each inhale like knives in his chest. He whispered to himself: “Three minutes. Three minutes. Three minutes.”

The house shifted again. Corridors lengthened, doors multiplied. The staircase split in two, each path twisting into impossible spirals. Shadows leaned from the walls, their mouths open in wide, silent laughter.

And above it all, one voice cut clear.

“You invited me.”

The flame bent nearly sideways, pulled toward the voice. Arun clenched it tighter, eyes on the clock. 3:31.

Two minutes left.

But already he knew—he was not getting out untouched.

Not after the betrayal.

Episode 9 – The Last Two

The clock’s hands crawled toward 3:31, its tick a hammer against Arun’s skull. He sat crouched in the warped hall, one candle left between him and annihilation. The others were gone—swallowed, torn, vanished—each loss carved into the walls like tally marks. Only his flame still burned, trembling in his grip.

But then, from the dark, another light appeared.

A candle flame, steady and strong, moving toward him down the crooked corridor. For one fragile heartbeat, hope flared. Another survivor? Could it be—?

The figure stepped into view.

Ria.

Her face was calm, almost serene, no trace of the panic and accusations that had destroyed her minutes earlier. She held her candle upright, its wax pristine, flame unwavering. Her eyes glowed faintly, reflecting more than light should allow.

Arun’s stomach turned. His mind screamed No.

Still, she smiled. “You don’t have to be alone.”

His throat worked dryly. “You’re not her.”

The smile widened. “Does it matter? I can be her. I can be anyone. I can be all of them.”

The shadows rippled behind her, stretching, twitching, a chorus of half-formed shapes. The house exhaled with her words, the air swelling heavy in Arun’s chest.

He forced his gaze away, clutching his candle. The rules. Just keep the flame alive. Don’t believe. Don’t answer.

But the voice followed him. “Arun.”

He froze.

It was his mother’s voice. Gentle, warm, calling the way she had when he was a boy frightened of storms. “Arun, beta, it’s just a game. Come out. Come with me.”

His heart cracked. The voice was too perfect. For a moment, he wanted to believe. His eyes stung with tears.

He dug his nails into his palm until the pain steadied him. “No. You’re not her.”

The figure laughed. The sound fractured, splitting into Tanya’s laugh, Dev’s laugh, Sameer’s laugh—all wrong, too loud, layered atop each other.

The house trembled with it.

The clock struck 3:32.

One minute left.

The final minute began with silence. All at once, the voices cut off. The laughter died. The scratching ceased. Even the storm outside hushed.

Arun’s breath echoed in his ears. His candle flame swayed gently, the only living thing in the vast, warped maze.

Then came the footsteps.

They were not like before. These were faster, heavier, charging from every direction. From the ceiling, from the floor, from the endless corridors. The house shook with them.

Arun spun wildly, candle swinging, desperate to face each sound. Shadows lunged at the edges of light, jaws wide, eyes gleaming. They recoiled at the flame but pressed closer, closer, as if timing their strike.

The clock ticked louder, every second a gunshot.

From the left corridor, Mira appeared, sobbing. “Arun! Please, help me! It’s still here!”

From the right, Sameer staggered, bleeding from his eyes. “Run! Run before it’s too late!”

From behind, Dev leaned close, whispering, “You can’t win. Blow it out yourself. It’ll be quicker.”

Arun shut his eyes. “You’re not real. You’re not real.”

When he opened them, the figures were gone—but the shadows had crept nearer. Long fingers reached, stopping just shy of his flame.

The clock struck 3:32:30.

Thirty seconds.

The floorboards split open beneath him. A black fissure yawned, wide enough to swallow. The stench of rot and soil poured upward. Hands clawed from it, dozens, all stretching for his ankles.

Arun staggered back, nearly dropping his candle. He bit down a scream. “Not yet! Not yet!”

The hands scraped, but the flame’s glow held them off by inches. His knuckles ached from gripping it so tight.

The fissure slammed shut, rattling the hall.

Fifteen seconds.

The silence deepened again. Shadows pressed close, their faces almost visible—gaunt, eyeless, grinning. They leaned against the barrier of light, waiting for it to die.

And then, from the dark, came the final voice.

It was his own.

“Arun,” it whispered. “You’ve already lost. I’m already inside you.”

His knees buckled. The flame bent dangerously, nearly dying in his trembling grip.

“No,” he whispered. “I just have to last. I just have to last.”

The clock ticked. 3:32:50.

Ten seconds.

The house roared. Every wall, every floorboard, every shadow surged inward. The laughter returned, deafening, a thousand voices crashing together.

Arun screamed back at it, defiant, raising his candle high. The flame swelled, thin but alive, trembling like his own heartbeat.

Five seconds.

Shadows lunged, claws sweeping, jaws snapping. The flame guttered, almost gone.

Three seconds.

He shielded it with both hands, sobbing, whispering, “Please. Please—”

Two seconds.

The house convulsed in fury. The candle sputtered. Darkness swarmed.

One second.

The clock struck 3:33.

And everything stopped.

Episode 10 – 3:33 A.M.

The clock struck its final chime—three, then three, then silence.

At once the house froze. The laughter evaporated mid-breath. The claws and shadows withdrew as if yanked back into some unseen abyss. The corridors that had twisted endlessly snapped back into their original walls. The staircase sagged into its familiar crooked shape. The fissures in the floor sealed with a groan, leaving only splintered wood.

Arun stood in the middle of the hall, chest heaving, his candle flame still alive, though pitifully small, a smear of yellow barely clinging to the wick. He stared at it in disbelief. The rules had held.

He had lasted.

But at what cost?

Around him, the evidence of absence was everywhere. Dev’s notebook page still lay before the door, stained with his dried blood. Mira’s candle sat cold where it had rolled across the floor. Tanya’s salt circle was scuffed into a meaningless smear. Ria’s scarf lay abandoned, caught on a splinter. Sameer’s cigarette butt lay in the dust, never relit.

Arun’s throat closed. The silence was unbearable now, too final.

The clock hands stood rigid at 3:33.

The storm outside quieted as if it too had been part of the game. The shutters no longer clattered. Only the faint drip of water from the gutter broke the stillness.

Arun staggered to the door. His legs felt like lead, but he moved with a strange mechanical resolve, as though drawn to finish what had begun. He set his candle down on the threshold. The flame, impossibly, did not gutter out despite his trembling hand.

The lock that had resisted Mira’s screams earlier gave easily under his grip. The door creaked open.

Cold dawn air rushed in.

Arun blinked against it, expecting—praying—to see the street, the cracked pavement, the weeds growing through stone. For a moment he did. The world outside looked ordinary, pale grey with the first hints of morning.

But then he saw it.

Scratched deep into the wood of the door, at eye level, were names. Not carved with knives or nails, but gouged into the grain itself, raw and splintering.

Sameer.
Dev.
Mira.
Tanya.
Ria.

And below them, fresh and wet as if carved that very instant—

Arun.

His breath left him in a shudder. He touched the letters, rough beneath his fingertips. The gouges bled sawdust like open wounds.

The game was over, but it was not finished.

He stumbled outside, barefoot on dew-wet stone. The air was thin, washed clean by the storm. For the first time in hours he saw the horizon, pale light spreading across the sky. Birds stirred faintly in distant trees.

It should have felt like freedom. Instead, the silence pressed heavier than the night had.

Behind him, the door creaked shut on its own.

Arun spun. The house stood still, its shutters hanging, its plaster crumbling, every inch ordinary again. But in its blank windows he thought he saw faces—his friends, pale and silent, watching.

He turned away, clutching his arms around himself, forcing his legs to move down the empty street.

He didn’t remember the walk back to campus. His mind floated, hollow. When he finally reached his dormitory, the sun had fully risen.

Inside, the ordinary world continued: voices in the hall, kettles whistling, someone laughing at a phone screen. Life had gone on.

Arun collapsed onto his bed, still in his clothes, still gripping the wax of the stubbed candle. He lay shaking, his ears ringing with silence.

When he finally slept, it was not peaceful.

He dreamed of knocks.

When he woke that afternoon, sunlight slanting across his face, the candle was gone.

In its place on the desk lay a folded scrap of paper, yellowed with age.

He unfolded it with trembling fingers.

Inside, scrawled in unfamiliar handwriting, was a single sentence:

You invited me. You can play again anytime.

His breath caught.

And beneath the sentence, written in blood dark against the page, was his name.

The rules of the Midnight Game spread because they invite disbelief. They wear the mask of legend, creepypasta, superstition. They lure the bored, the curious, the reckless. They promise a thrill that feels controllable—three hours, thirty-three minutes, a candle, some salt.

But rules are only traps disguised as safety.

And when the clock strikes 3:33, survivors are not spared. They are marked.

Some bear the mark for days. Some for decades. Some never again light a candle after midnight. But eventually, each one hears the knock again.

And when they do, the game begins anew.

END