The silence is oppressive, broken only by the irregular hum of the old wiring. A feeble light reveals the figure of an old woman — her hair wild and unkempt, her dress a faded relic of another era, moth-eaten and frayed at the edges. Her silhouette is blurred by the gloom, as if the darkness itself is swallowing her whole. The camera’s perspective lurches as if the hallway is tilting, angles bending in unnatural distortion.
The air feels thick, pressing in on all sides. The only thing visible of her face is the glint of her eyes, dark and glistening, reflecting the scant light in a way that seems almost inhuman. The wallpaper patterns twist and writhe in the dimness, as though the walls themselves are breathing. There’s a subtle, rhythmic sound — a low, wet rasp, like someone breathing through broken glass.
The camera staggers, as if caught in a dizzying spiral. Shadows lengthen and contract, blurring her figure almost beyond recognition. Suddenly, her face emerges from the blackness, partially illuminated. The skin around her mouth trembles, her lips twitching with the effort of restraint.
Her eyes widen to white, unfocused orbs, and a guttural laugh bubbles from her throat, warped and echoing down the hallway. The film grain intensifies, crawling and skipping across her features, blurring the boundaries between flesh and shadow. The camera shudders, as though recoiling from the sight.
Grandmother (Disheveled, possibly mad, a harbinger of terror) begins to speak, her voice a harsh, broken whisper that echoes off the walls.
"Why have you come here? You see me now, don't you? You see what's underneath?"
Her words linger, reverberating in the air, blending with the distorted, shuddering soundtrack that rises in pitch.
A cold, breathless silence falls. Something scuttles in the dark, unseen. The only thing left is the echo of her laughter, looping endlessly, as the camera’s perspective finally twists upside-down and fades to grainy black.