Opening Frame

The lantern’s brass handle was cold and sticky with old wax, but I gripped it tight, letting its small flame pull every eye toward me in the Hollow Circle. “I don’t believe this,” I said, forcing a steady voice, “but I once heard this town has one story everyone avoids. It’s about a night when a storm cut us off from the world, and the alleyways behind the city market started swallowing people whole.”

Chapter 1: Isolation Descends

The day the storm hit, the city was already dying. Sirens wailed somewhere distant, but in the alleys they only echoed and faded. Rain fell in thick sheets, drumming on the warped roofs and turning the stone into a mirror. I never meant to be in that district — my route home was blocked, so I ducked into a shortcut, hoping to wait it out.

But the storm grew worse. Water pooled ankle-deep and the sky flashed, but the only real light came from a few flickering bulbs. There were others: a woman with a broken umbrella, a young man with glasses, an old vendor pressed behind a crate. We didn’t know each other, not really. We just exchanged tired looks, wishing we were anywhere else. But soon, not even the distant city lights reached us, and the alleys felt like a world apart.

The wind howled, carrying odd scents — iron, rot, candlewax. Our phones displayed nothing but static and the same error code: 13:13:13. Someone muttered that was impossible, but it kept repeating, and the numbers started to make their way into my thoughts, into the dark. The storm wasn’t letting up. We shivered and waited, each moment stretching longer, as if time itself was looping back on itself.

Chapter 2: The Looping Maze

After a while, we tried to leave. I led the way, convinced I remembered a shortcut between two brick walls. But every turn was familiar and wrong — graffiti I’d seen before, puddles reflecting the same sagging awning. The alleys looped, folding back on themselves, no matter which way we went. Street numbers repeated, scratched into metal doors: 44, 13, 44, then 13 again.

The woman with the umbrella tried a different path, then returned in less than a minute, breathing hard. “I swear I walked straight, but I ended up back here.” The old vendor muttered about the city getting smaller every year. The rain never stopped, not even for a second. I tried to touch a shadow cast by a broken streetlamp, but it was cold and solid, like wet stone. I yanked my hand back, heart pounding. The others watched me, uncertain, but no one wanted to try it themselves.

Something was wrong with the shadows. They seemed to block our way, as if they were walls. The wind died, replaced by silence so deep I could hear my own heartbeat. Our group began to split, then find each other again, always in the same spot, underneath a single, crooked streetlamp that flickered like it was fighting to stay alive.

Chapter 3: The Bell’s Single Ring

We wandered for what felt like hours, the rain a constant curtain. Then, as if the storm itself paused to listen, a bell rang out: a single, hollow note. It came from somewhere ahead. We followed it, drawn by curiosity or desperation, I’m not sure which.

The bell hung from a twisted iron bracket above an abandoned shop. Its face was rusted. The rope below it swayed, though there was no wind. The young man with glasses frowned. “No one’s ringing it,” he said, but his voice barely carried. I stepped closer, feeling the strange urge to ring it again, but a chill ran up my arm before I could touch the rope. The bell seemed to pulse under my hand, as if it had a heartbeat. We waited, but it didn’t ring again.

Instead, something else happened. The silence grew heavy. The numbers 13:13:13 were scratched again near the bell, but this time, droplets of blood beaded from the brick below them, bright and fresh against the grey wall. There was no wound, no sign of violence. Just blood where none should be. I stepped back, the sensation of being watched crawling over me, heavier with each breath.

Chapter 4: Warnings in Numbers

We tried to ignore the blood, telling ourselves it was a trick of the light, but the numbers kept appearing. They were everywhere now — carved into benches, written in chalk on stones, even floating in the puddles for an instant before the water washed them away. Sometimes they twisted into new patterns, but always repeated the same digits: 13, 44, 13:13:13.

The young man, who said he worked with numbers before the collapse, scribbled frantically on a scrap of cardboard. “They’re coordinates, or times — I don’t know.” His hands shook. “But they keep repeating. It’s like they’re counting something down.”

The rest of us pressed on, hearts hammering. The rain tasted metallic, and every shadow now seemed to pulse in rhythm with the numbers. We passed a wall where blood dripped in the shape of a clock’s face, the hands frozen at that same impossible time. The city’s alleys folded tighter, the way out always just behind us, never ahead.

Somewhere, just out of sight, the bell chimed once more, a low, warning note that vibrated in my teeth.

Chapter 5: Whispers, Laughter, and Doubt

As the rain pooled and the alley walls pressed closer, the air grew thick with whispers. At first, they sounded like the wind, but soon they formed words, then laughter — high and bright, like children playing in a place where no child should be.

The woman with the broken umbrella gripped my arm. “Do you hear that?” she hissed. We all did. The whispers tickled the edge of language, promising secrets and threats in the same breath. The laughter echoed between the bricks, making the puddles quiver. It was worse than silence.

Reality frayed. Every time I blinked, I saw the same numbers, the same smears of blood, the same faces reflected in windows, but twisted, older or younger or not quite right. I began to wonder if any of us really existed outside these alleys, or if we’d been here forever. The old vendor started muttering prayers, but the words tangled in his mouth.

That’s when we noticed the shadows moving, clustering where the laughter was loudest, forming barriers that forced us to turn, again and again. I doubted everything — the storm, my own memory, even the others. Were they real, or just part of someone’s sick joke? The air stung with paranoia, and the city seemed to shrink, folding the same few blocks around us like a noose.

Chapter 6: The Living Swarm

The next sound was not laughter but a rustling, soft at first, then building to a dull roar. From cracks in the pavement and drains in the walls, vermin spilled out — rats, cockroaches, even beetles the size of my thumb, all moving in coordinated waves. I braced for their teeth and claws, but they didn’t attack.

Instead, the swarm herded us. They blocked certain alleys, nudged us away from crossroads where the blood was thickest and the numbers glowed faintly red. The old vendor tried to push through, but the rats formed a living wall, their eyes all trained on us with unsettling intelligence.

The young man whispered, “Why are they helping?” I felt the answer settle in my gut: they were protecting us, but I didn’t understand from what.

We had no choice but to follow where they led. The shadows parted for the swarm, and the laughter faded for a moment, replaced by that same heavy silence. I realized then how easily the city could have devoured us if not for this bizarre, uneasy protection. The bell tolled once, somewhere behind us, and the swarm moved faster, their urgency infectious.

Chapter 7: Blood at the Center

The swarm led us to an open plaza at the core of the alley maze. There, the pavement was slick with blood, pooling in impossible patterns — circles, spirals, crosses — but no one had been hurt. The air stank of iron and damp earth, making my stomach twist.

We stopped at the edge, unwilling to cross. The numbers 13:13:13 were smeared in blood on the far wall, the digits distorted by rain but still legible. The woman whispered, “This isn’t just a warning. It’s a ritual.” Her voice trembled.

The shadows pressed close, thicker than ever, forming a solid barrier that cut off the exits. For a moment, the only sound was the storm and our own ragged breathing. Something else was in the plaza, a presence that made the air buzz with dread. The vermin swarmed at our feet, pressing us back just as the plaza’s center began to ripple, as if the stones themselves breathed.

The countdown reached its final moments — we could all feel it, a pressure building in our heads, in our hearts, pushing us toward the threshold of something far worse than being lost.

Chapter 8: The Intersection

I tried to run, but the swarm blocked me, their bodies unyielding. At the same time, the young man shouted, “Look! The numbers — they’re changing!” He pointed to the wall, where the blood-red digits flickered and then split apart, forming two mirrored times: 13:13:12, 13:13:12. Parallel stories, mirrored fates.

In that instant, the woman and the vendor each vanished into different alleys. I caught glimpses of their faces, confused, frightened — but each alley showed a different version of the same bloodied street. The city was splitting us, forcing us to live the same nightmare in different ways. The whispers rose, a chorus now, urging us to surrender. My chest tightened as I felt my own mind split in two: one part watching, the other living.

The vermin swarmed between the alleys, herding the fragments of us back together. For a moment, I saw overlapping versions of the plaza, shadows and blood repeating endlessly. The bell rang in both realities, a single note that joined everything.

I realized then what the numbers meant: they weren’t just counting down, they were holding the city’s stories together, keeping something trapped beneath the surface.

Chapter 9: The Struggle for Self

The pressure in my mind built until I thought I would crack. The shadows reached for us, their edges sharp and hungry, trying to pull us in, to make us part of something ancient and blind. I felt thoughts slip away, replaced by whispers that weren’t my own.

“Resist,” the young man gasped, clutching his head. “Don’t let it in. Hold onto yourself.” The swarm of vermin pressed tight around us, forming a living shield. The bell rang a third time, its echo vibrating through my bones.

I focused on the feel of rain on my skin, the cold sting in my lungs. I remembered my name, my life before the alley. The shadows pressed harder, but the swarm surged — rats biting at the darkness, insects crawling into cracks, breaking the grip of the unseen force. The numbers on the wall flickered, the countdown stalling.

We held on, together, refusing to surrender. The entity in the plaza raged, but could not break through the living wall. One by one, the shadows thinned, leaving only trembling outlines on the stone.

Chapter 10: Protector in the Darkness

The storm began to falter, the rain easing, the sky lightening at the edges. I looked at the swarm, which now moved slowly, tired. I understood then: They had not trapped us, but protected us all night from the thing that lived beneath the streets, the one that would have taken us if the ritual had failed.

The bell rang one final time, a soft, mournful note. The woman and the vendor reappeared, dazed but alive, as if spat back out from the maze. The plaza’s blood washed away in the rain, and the numbers faded, leaving only faint scars on the stone.

The alleys straightened, their loops unraveling. We emerged, blinking, into the ruined city, each of us changed. The swarm melted into the gutters, their work done.

I glanced back once. The bell was still, and the shadows clung to the walls, thin and harmless once more.

Chapter 11: The Last Toll

As dawn seeped through the clouds, the city was itself again — or nearly. The bell above the abandoned shop rang once, a final echo. The streets were empty, but the sense of eyes watching lingered. The numbers were gone, but I saw their patterns behind my eyelids every time I blinked.

No one spoke as we walked away. Rainwater washed the last traces of blood down the drains. Somewhere deep below, something ancient raged in silence, held back by a ritual we barely understood.

We never talked about what happened — not really. But I still avoid those alleys after dark, and every time the rain falls just right, I listen for the bell.

Closing Frame

The lantern’s glow shrank as I finished, the circle hushed. I placed the lantern back at the center, feeling its old weight settle. The silence held, thick and uneasy, and in the darkness beyond, the echoes of my story lingered.