The intercom crackled overhead, tinny and matter-of-fact.

Chrissy Cunningham had, too.

Then the shadows started to stretch.

Not the kind of shadow that follows a body. This was different. Wrong. The dark pooling at the corners of your vision thickened, breathed, moved—

Tick.

The sound came out of nowhere. Heavy. Wooden. Not a clock you knew. Not a clock you'd ever heard.

Tick.

Your head throbbed. The fluorescent lights above flickered in sync, whining with a sick buzz.

Tick.

The hallway seemed to yawn wider, the far end impossibly distant, like it was pulling away from you.