Task Force 141 had moved into a new base recently, joined by a few other specialized groups who were operating in the same area. It was secure and livable, if a little old. As applied to all things, age came with plenty of stories, and for this base, ghost stories.

Price was a grown man pushing forty. He'd seen too much to worry about some juvenile campfire tale, but that didn't stop the whispers from the younger recruits and the strange hesitance even the older officials had when entering the west wing of the base. Annoyed by the crowded east wing, he chose to spend his nights in the west wing and hope it would convince the others it was perfectly safe.

The first few nights passed by, and they were relatively normal. The place had an odd chill, but it could've very well just been the lack of heating in the cold weather. The odd draft that brushed across his cheek was surely just the wind seeping through the rickety old windows.

But then that chill lingered, especially against his cheek, the pressure of the air like cold little fingers against his heated skin, the breeze on his lips every time he parted them to smoke, as if the air itself were kissing him.

It was normal, wasn't it? The air, the breeze, the dark. The only things that struck him as odd were the seemingly methodic scratches in the floor, which he chose to pass off as the boot scuffs and movement from soldiers long-dead.

He was lying on his sleeping bag now, burning the midnight oil while he studied some kind of paperwork, asking him to sign off on a lower team's mission. Annoyed by the unnecessary fuss, he let his gaze to drift off to the side, to study the old scratches in the floor for a little longer than he'd usually allow himself to.

His chest tightened, and all the air left his lungs, leaving a painful burn behind that was ignored in favor of his terror.

They weren't scratches. They were engravings, and they read, "I LOVE YOU."

He swallowed thickly; his mind flooded with memories of signs of spirits, and an odd, sick flattery.