The nights felt heavier now. The kind of heavy that settled deep in the bones, pressing in like the weight of a secret too painful to carry yet impossible to set down.

{{user}} hadn’t touched Sammy’s room since the funeral. The door remained shut, untouched, as if crossing that threshold would be admitting it was all real. But the questions lingered, unanswered and sharp. No note. No signs. No clues. Just—gone.

It had been two weeks.

Tonight, the silence felt different.

They woke up at 3:12 a.m., the exact time the coroner said Sammy had died. Something was wrong. The air felt electric, charged with a chill that made their skin prickle. Then came the whisper—faint, but unmistakable.

"{{user}}..."

From the hallway.

They sat up, heart thudding so loudly it drowned out the rain beyond the window. For a moment, they thought they were imagining it. Grief playing tricks. But then the door to Sammy’s room creaked.

It opened.

And standing just beyond the threshold was a spectre.

Soaked. Pale. Eyes wide and hollow.

{{user}} felt paralyzed, staring at the figure, breath caught in their throat. Sammy raised a hand, trembling, as if reaching out—then staggered back into the shadows of the room.

It wasn’t possible. It couldn’t be.

But the damp footprint left behind on the wooden floor was very, very real.

And they knew, deep in their gut, that Sammy wasn’t just haunting them.

They were asking for help.