_I work as A Caretaker in an Apartment...There are 8 RULES TO SURVIVE__ Rules Creepypasta

Episode Transcript

Speaker 1 (00:05):
The phone call came on a Tuesday morning that felt
like the end of the world. I was sitting in
my studio apartment in Queen's staring at my laptop screen
filled with job rejection emails and the soul crushing number
that represented my student loan debt twenty seven thousand, one
hundred eighty four dollars and seventy three cents. When the
lawyer's voice crackled through my phone, telling me about Uncle

(00:29):
Mickey's sudden death and the inheritance waiting for me in Brooklyn.
It felt like a lifeline thrown to a drowning man.
Your uncle left you his position as building superintendent at
the Rosewood Arms, the lawyer explained, in a voice that
sounded tired and rushed. It comes with a rent free
apartment and a steady salary. There are some specific circumstances

(00:53):
regarding the building's management that will be explained when you arrive.
I had barely known Uncle Micky. He was my father's
older brother, a quiet man who sent Christmas cards but
rarely visited family gatherings. But desperation makes you grateful for
the strangest gifts, and I accepted without asking too many questions.

(01:13):
The Rosewood Arms stood like a monument to Brooklyn's fading past,
its red brick facade darkened by decades of pollution and neglect.
Built in the nineteen twenties, the six story building occupied
a corner lot in Sunset Park, surrounded by the kind
of gentrification that crept forward like slow cancer, but hadn't

(01:34):
quite reached this particular block yet. The architecture spoke of
an era when even working class housing was built to last,
thick walls, high ceilings, and ornate details that developers had
long since abandoned in favor of profit margins. Standing on
the front steps with a duffel bag containing everything I owned,
I felt the weight of inherited responsibility settling on my

(01:56):
shoulders like a lead blanket. The brass nameplate side the
heavy wooden door read Superintendent m Restrepo, and I realized
that soon it would bear my name instead. The lobby
was smaller than I'd expected, but elegant in the way
that old buildings could be when they weren't trying too hard.

(02:16):
Black and white checkered tiles stretched across the floor, their
pattern broken by decades of wear and the occasional crack
that spoke of the building's age. Brass mailboxes lined one wall,
their surfaces polished to a dull gleam that caught the
weak afternoon light filtering through grimy windows. The building directory

(02:36):
listed twelve units, though some of the name plates looked
like they'd been installed decades ago and never updated. Apartment
one a Uncle Mickey's apartment, now mine, was directly off
the lobby. The key turned easily in the lock, and
I stepped into what would become my home for the
foreseeable future, assuming I could survive whatever challenges this place

(02:59):
might throw at me. The apartment was larger than anything
I could have afforded on my own in New York's
brutal rental market. Two bedrooms, though Mickey had converted the
second into an office that was now filled with filing cabinets,
maintenance schedules, and enough paperwork to stock a small bureaucracy.
The kitchen was from the nineteen seventies but functional, and
the living room had the kind of natural light that

(03:21):
real estate agents would kill for. What struck me immediately
was how organized everything was, but also how wrong it felt.
Uncle Micky hadn't just been a superintendent. He'd been an
archivist of something I couldn't yet understand. Every tenant had
their own file, complete with lease agreements, maintenance requests, and

(03:42):
what looked like detailed behavioral notes. Some files were thick
enough to be novels, while others contained just basic information,
But every file was meticulously maintained, with entries dating back years.
It was while searching through Mickey's desk that I found
the hidden compartartment. The drawer looked normal enough, but when

(04:03):
I pulled it all the way out, I discovered a
false bottom. Inside were photographs, medical records, and handwritten notes
that made my blood run cold. The photographs showed Mickey,
over what appeared to be the past year, a gradual
transformation from a healthy man in his fifties to someone
who looked decades older, gaunt and hollow eyed. The medical

(04:25):
records were equally disturbing, rapid weight loss, premature aging, memory gaps,
and a final report that listed cause of death as
sudden cardiac arrest, despite Mickey being in apparent good health
just months earlier. But it was the handwritten notes that
truly frightened me. Scattered throughout were desperate warnings written in
Mickey's increasingly shaky handwriting. They're feeding on me. Can feel

(04:50):
it getting stronger every day. Don't trust the soup. Missus
Chen knows what she's doing. Building is alive, hungry, choosing
its prey. Danny. If you're reading this, run, don't take
the job. Find another way. The final note was dated
just three days before his death. Can't run anymore. Two week.

(05:13):
Building won't let me leave. Pray Danny is smarter than
I was. My hands were shaking as I set the
notes aside and reached for the Manila folder labeled Building Protocols.
Inside were eight rules written in Mickey's careful handwriting, some
in blue ink, others in black, as if they'd been
added over time, as he learned through experience. Rule one,

(05:37):
Apartment four B pays rent in cash only. Do not
question the currency or suggest alternative payment methods. Rule two
never knock on seven f after ten p m. Mister
Sullivan becomes violently aggressive after his death time. Rule three.
If missus Chen in two A offers you soup, accept

(05:58):
it graciously. Refusing triggers immediate supernatural retaliation. Rule four collect
rent from three C on the fifteenth of the month.
Never the first Tommy becomes homicidal when his death day
routine is disrupted. Rule five. Do not fix the radiator
in five A missus Rodriguez's supernatural cold spreads and can

(06:20):
freeze victims to death. Rule six. If you hear jazz
music from six B, let it play until it stops naturally.
Interrupting Earl's feeding ritual causes building wide supernatural attacks. Rule seven.
Never enter the basement alone during winter months. The building's

(06:41):
original victims hunt intruders. Rule eight. If tenants pay with
pre nineteen eighty currency, accept it without question. The money
is cursed and causes physical deterioration in living handlers. At
the bottom of the page, Mickey had written in red ink.
These aren't suggestions, their survival instruction. The building chose you, specifically, Danny.

(07:03):
Your bloodline feeds it well, fight it and die quickly,
or follow the rules and die slowly. Those are your
only choices. I spent the rest of the afternoon unpacking
my few belongings and trying to process the implications of
what I discovered. The rational part of my mind insisted
that Mickey had suffered some kind of mental breakdown before
his death, that the notes were the product of isolation,

(07:26):
and paranoia. But the photographs told a different story, a
man aging decades in months, wasting away from something that
conventional medicine couldn't identify or treat. Around five o'clock, I
decided to make the rounds and introduce myself to the tenants.
It seemed like basic courtesy, and besides, I needed to

(07:46):
understand what I was dealing with. I started with Apartment two, A,
where missus Chen supposedly lived. She answered on the second knock,
a small, elderly woman with silver hair pulled back in
a neat bun and wearing an apron that smelled like
ginger and star. A niece. Her smile was warm and welcoming,

(08:07):
but there was something behind her eyes that made my
skin crawl. You must be Micky's nephew, she said, in
accented English that suggested she'd learned the language as an adult.
I am missus Chen. I heard about Micky, very sad,
very sudden. I'm Danny, I replied, trying to keep my

(08:27):
voice steady. I'll be taking over his duties. Danny, she repeated,
and I could swear her eyes flashed black for just
an instant, good name, strong name, you hungry, I just
finished making soup. The smell drifting from her apartment was incredible,
rich and complex, the kind of aroma that spoke of

(08:48):
hours of careful preparation. But Micky's warnings echoed in my mind,
and I remembered rule three. If missus Chen offers you soup,
accept it graciously, refusing trigger's immediate supernatural retaliation. That smells amazing,
I said, though every instinct screamed at me to decline.

(09:09):
I'd love some, if it's not too much trouble. Missus
Chen's face lit up with what seemed like genuine pleasure,
but there was something predatory in her satisfaction. No trouble,
no trouble at all. You wait here. She disappeared into
her apartment and returned with a steaming bowl of soup
that looked like it could cure any ailment known to mankind.

(09:32):
The first spoonful was a revelation, pork and vegetables in
a broth that tasted like it had been simmering since
the Roosevelt administration. But as I continued eating, I began
to feel a creeping weakness spread through my limbs, as
if the soup was drawing something vital out of me
with each sip. This is incredible, I said, and I

(09:53):
meant it, despite the growing lethargy family recipe, missus Chen said, proudly,
watching me with an intensity that made me uncomfortable. I
make for all my neighbors, building his family. You understand,
we take care of each other. When I handed back
the empty bowl, she patted my arm gently with fingers
that felt ice cold through my shirt. You good boy,

(10:16):
she said. Micky talked about you, said you would understand
this place. I left her apartment feeling drained and slightly nauseous,
though I couldn't say whether it was from the soup
or from the growing realization that Mickey's warnings might not
have been paranoid delusions after all. My next stop was
Apartment four B, where missus Kowalski lived. When she answered

(10:39):
the door, I had to blink twice to make sure
I was seeing correctly. She was elderly, probably in her eighties,
but dressed in clothing that looked like it belonged in
a museum, a simple house dress with a pattern that
screamed nineteen sixties, and hair styled in a way that
hadn't been fashionable since the Kennedy administration. You must be

(10:59):
Mickey's nephew, she said, in a voice that carried the
faint trace of an Eastern European accent. I am missus Kowalski.
I heard about Mickey. Such a shame. I'm Danny. I'll
be taking over as superintendent, Danny, she repeated, smiling. Good

(11:19):
Micky understood that we all need special consideration. Yes, this building,
it is home for people who need home. Missus Kowalski
disappeared for a moment and returned with an envelope that
felt thick with bills next month rent, she said, pressing
it into my hands. I always pay early, Very important
to be responsible tenant. The envelope was sealed, but I

(11:41):
could feel that it contained cash. When I opened it later,
I was shocked to find bills that were unmistakably from
the nineteen sixties. The design, the font, even the texture
of the paper was different from modern currency. More disturbing
was the way the money felt in my hands, cold, heavy,
and somehow alive, as if it pulsed with a faint heartbeat.

(12:04):
The third floor brought my introduction to Tommy McKenna in
three c He was probably in his thirties with sandy
hair and the kind of nervous energy that suggested too
much coffee and not enough sleep. When he opened his door,
he was wearing clothes that looked like they belonged in
a nineteen seventies time capsule, wide collar shirt, bell bottomed jeans,

(12:26):
and shoes that were definitely not making a retro fashion statement.
You the new super, he asked, his accent carrying hints
of the old neighborhood before it started changing. That's right,
Danny Ristreppo. Tommy McKenna, he said, offering a hand that
felt oddly cool despite the warm October weather. Micky told

(12:50):
me his nephew might be taking over. You going to
be following his system. His system. Tommy gestured toward papers
he was holding what looked like rent receipts and payment schedules.
Mickey understood about the dates, rent collection and all that.
Very important to do things the right way. You know,
Timing is everything in this business. You do things at

(13:12):
the wrong time. He trailed off, but there was something
genuinely threatening in his unfinished sentence. As evening approached, I
made my way to the seventh floor to meet mister
Sullivan in seven f It was just after ten o'clock
when I knocked on his door forgetting Mickey's specific warning
about the time restriction. The response was immediate and terrifying.

(13:34):
The door flew open with such violence that it slammed
against the interior wall, and a voice that was barely
human hissed, who disturbs the feeding time? The temperature in
the hallway dropped at least thirty degrees in an instant,
my breath becoming visible in sudden puffs of vapor. Through
the partially open door, I caught a glimpse of something
that made my mind recoil. A face that had once

(13:57):
been human, but was now gray and decomposed, with eyes
that glowed with an unnatural light. It's not time, the
thing that had been mister Sullivan, shrieked, you're not ready
to join us. The building is hungry, and you smell
so alive. I stumbled backward, my heart pounding so hard

(14:18):
I thought it might burst from my chest. The door
slammed shut with a finality that echoed through the entire building,
leaving me standing alone in the seventh floor hallway with
the absolute certainty that I had just encountered something that
should not exist. The next morning, I made my way
to the first National Bank branch that had been handling

(14:40):
the Rosewood Arms accounts for decades. I needed to deposit
missus Kowalski's vintage currency and hoped that someone could explain
how bills from the nineteen sixties could still be legal tender.
The teller, Missus Patterson, was a middle aged woman with
kind eyes and a tired smile, who had apparently been
processing these deposits for years. I placed missus Kowalski's envelope

(15:01):
on the marble counter. She glanced at the contents and
began sorting through the vintage bills with practiced deficiency. Everything
looks standard to me, she said, with professional confidence, But
I noticed that her eyes had turned completely black while
she handled the old currency. The bank has procedures for
verifying authenticity on older currency, but as long as it

(15:23):
passes our tests, it's accepted at full face value. Even these,
I asked, holding up a handful of bills that were
clearly from the nineteen sixties, their design and coloring unmistakably
different from anything printed in recent decades. Even those she
confirmed without hesitation, though her voice had taken on a

(15:44):
mechanical quality. Federal currency maintains its value regardless of when
it was printed, as long as it's genuine. We process
historical currency all the time. The deposit slip she handed
me showed missus Kowalski's payment credited at full value, with
no notations or special handling fees. According to the banking system,

(16:05):
her nineteen sixty three bills were worth exactly the same
as if she had withdrawn them from an ATM that morning.
But I noticed that the security cameras had malfunctioned the
moment I'd entered with the vintage money, their displays showing
nothing but static. As I left the bank, I realized
that the conspiracy was much larger than just the Rosewood arms.

(16:26):
The entire financial system seemed designed to accommodate whatever supernatural
force controlled the building, processing impossible transactions as if they
were perfectly normal. That evening, I sat in Mickey's office
my office now, and spread his files across the desk,
trying to make sense of what I'd inherited. The building

(16:48):
was clearly more than just an apartment complex. It was
a feeding ground, a supernatural parasite that sustained itself by
draining the life force from its living tenants while using
the dead as instruments of control and terror. I thought
about the twenty seven thousand dollars in student debt that
had driven me to accept this position, about the job

(17:09):
market that had offered me nothing but rejection letters, About
the desperation that had made this nightmare seem like salvation.
The building had known exactly what bait to offer, exactly
how much pressure to apply to force me into its trap.
As I prepared for bed, jazz music began drifting through
the walls from Apartment six b Earl Washington's nightly practice session.

(17:34):
But tonight the music sounded different, hungrier, more insistent, as
if the musician was playing not for artistic expression but
for some darker purpose. The melody seemed to seep into
my bones, making me feel drowsy and compliant. I forced
myself to stay awake, clutching Mickey's notes and trying to

(17:56):
understand the rules that might keep me alive long enough
to find an a skill ape. But even as I read,
I could feel the building's influence creeping into my mind,
wearing down my resistance with each passing hour. The Rosewood
Arms had claimed another superintendent, and I was beginning to
understand that survival would require more than just following rules.

(18:19):
It would demand sacrifices I wasn't sure I was prepared
to make. Outside my window, the city continued its nightly rhythm,
unaware that in this forgotten corner of Brooklyn, something ancient
and hungry had found its newest prey. The third day
at the Rosewood Arms began with a realization that something
was fundamentally wrong with my body. I woke up feeling

(18:42):
like I'd aged a decade overnight, my joints stiff and
aching in ways that had nothing to do with sleeping
on an unfamiliar mattress. When I looked in the bathroom mirror,
I was shocked to see dark circles under my eyes
that hadn't been there two days ago, and my hair
seemed to have more gray streaks than I remembered. I
tried to rationalize it as stress from the new job

(19:04):
and the disturbing encounters with the tenants, but deep down
I knew it was connected to missus Chen's soup and
whatever supernatural force permeated this building. The weakness I'd felt
after eating her offering had never fully faded, leaving me
with a persistent lethargy that seemed to drain more of
my energy with each passing hour. My first task of

(19:25):
the day was rent collection, and I approached it with
a mixture of professional obligation and growing dread. The files
Mickey had left were specific about timing and procedures, but
now I understood these weren't just tenant preferences. They were
survival protocols designed to minimize contact with whatever these residents
had become. I started with Apartment three C, where Tommy

(19:48):
mc ckenna lived. According to Mickey's notes, his rent was
due on the fifteenth of each month, but I had
decided to test the boundaries and see what would happen
if I deviated from the established schedule. It was the
third of the month, twelve days early by Tommy's reckoning,
and I wanted to understand why the timing mattered so much.
I knocked on Tommy's door and called out, Tommy, it's Danny,

(20:11):
the new superintendent. I'm here to collect your rent for
this month. The silence that followed was longer than normal
tenant response time, and when the door finally opened, I
immediately understood why Mickey's notes had been so specific about dates.
Tommy stood in the doorway, but he looked different, more solid,
more present, but also somehow more dangerous. His nineteen seventies

(20:36):
clothing appeared fresher, more real, and his eyes held a
clarity that was somehow more frightening than confusion. Rent's not
do yet, he said, but his voice carried an edge.
I hadn't heard before. You need to come back on
the fifteenth. That's when I pay. That's when I always pay.
I understand, Tommy, but I'm trying to streamline the collection process.

(20:59):
The fifteenth, he screamed, and the temperature in the hallway
dropped so suddenly that my breath became visible. I died
on rent day. I always pay on rent day. You
can't change that. You can't change what happened. Before I
could respond, Tommy lunged forward with a rusted wrench that
seemed to materialize from nowhere, swinging it at my head

(21:21):
with a desperate violence of someone reliving their worst moment.
I threw myself backward, the tool, missing my skull by
inches and striking the wall hard enough to leave a
deep gouge in the plaster. I have to pay the rent,
Tommy muttered, his clarity, fading back into temporal confusion. Rent

(21:41):
day always, Rent Day, can't be late, can't disappoint the landlord.
I stumbled away from his door, my heart pounding and
my hands shaking from the close call. The wrench had
left a metallic smell in the air that reminded me
uncomfortably of blood, and I realized that Tom's attachment to
specific dates wasn't just supernatural quirk. It was a homicidal

(22:05):
obsession that could easily turn fatal. My next stop was
missus Kowalski in four B, and I approached her door
with significantly more caution. When she answered, she was carrying
the same warm smile as before, but I noticed that
her nineteen sixties clothing looked more faded today, as if
she was drawing energy from somewhere to maintain her appearance. Danny, dear,

(22:29):
she said, pressing another envelope of vintage currency into my hands.
Early payment. Again, very important to be responsible. The moment
the bills touched my skin, even through the envelope, I
felt a burning sensation that had nothing to do with temperature.
When I looked down at my hands afterward, I saw
that my fingerprints had aged the skin wrinkled and spotted,

(22:51):
as if I'd suddenly developed the hands of a seventy
year old man. The money itself felt alive in a
way that made my skin crawl, with a rhythm that
matched my heart beat but slightly out of sinc creating
a disturbing counterpoint that made me feel nauseous. I stuffed
the envelope into my jacket pocket as quickly as possible,
but I could still feel its presence, like a tumor

(23:14):
growing against my ribs. By the time I reached Earl
Washington's apartment on the sixth floor, the jazz music drifting
through his door had taken on an hypnotic quality that
made my vision blur and my thoughts scatter. I found
myself standing outside six B for what felt like minutes
but could have been hours, completely mesmerized by melodies that

(23:34):
seemed to speak directly to something primitive in my brain.
When I finally shook myself back to awareness, I realized
I had no memory of how long I'd been standing
there or what had happened during that lost time. My
watch showed that nearly three hours had passed, but it
felt like moments even more disturbing, I discovered an envelope
in my hand containing earl's rent payment bills from the

(23:57):
nineteen fifties that I had no memory of receiving. The
afternoon brought my most terrifying encounter yet. I was making
my way through the building's common areas when I ran
into Maria Santos in the laundry room. She was folding
clothes with mechanical precision, but when she looked up at me,
I was horrified by what I saw. Maria had always

(24:18):
been an attractive woman in her thirties, but now she
looked decades older. Her arms, visible beneath rolled up sleeves,
were skeletal, thin, with skin that hung in loose folds.
Her hair, which had been thick and lustrous just days ago,
was now brittle and streaked with premature gray. Most disturbing
of all, her eyes held the hollow look of someone

(24:39):
who had accepted a terrible fate. Danny, she said, in
a voice that sounded like autumn leaves scraping across concrete.
You need to understand what's happening to you, Maria. What
happened to your arms? She pulled back her sleeves further
revealing arms that looked like they belonged to a concert

(25:00):
centration camp victim. This is what they do to us.
This is what the building does to keep the others
fed and happy. The others the dead ones. They need
life force to maintain their existence, and we provide it.
The living tenants are livestock. Danny were kept alive just

(25:20):
enough to feed the supernatural residence. I stared at her
in growing horror. How long have you been here? Three years?
I came here with my daughter when she was just
two years old. I thought i'd found affordable housing in
a safe neighborhood, she laughed, bitterly safe. The building won't
let us leave. Every door leads back inside. Every window

(25:42):
opens to walls where prisoners in our own apartments. There
has to be a way out. Maria shook her head.
I've tried everything. Police don't respond to calls from this address.
Social services can't find the building when they come looking.
Even fire department calls get mysteriously re routed. The building
protects itself. What about your daughter? She's changing too, slower

(26:07):
than adults, but changing sometimes. I think it would be
mercy if they just killed us quickly instead of this
slow consumption. That evening, I decided to test Maria's claims
about being unable to leave. I walked to the front
door with my jacket and keys, intending to take a
walk around the block to clear my head. But when

(26:28):
I turned the door handle, it opened not to the
familiar Brooklyn Street, but to a brick wall that hadn't
been there that morning. I tried the side entrance, with
the same result, solid masonry where there should have been
an exit. The emergency exits led to impossible spaces, endless
hallways that stretched into darkness, stairwells that went up and

(26:49):
down simultaneously, and doors that opened to rooms that couldn't
physically exist within the building's footprint. The elevators were even worse.
When I pressed the button for the ground, the car
descended past levels that shouldn't exist, going down so far
that my ears popped from the pressure change. The floor
indicator showed negative numbers B one, B two, B three,

(27:13):
continuing far below what should have been the building's foundation.
When I frantically pressed the button for my floor, the
elevator rose past it, climbing to floors that didn't appear
on the building directory. I was trapped for over two
hours in an elevator that traveled between impossible destinations before
it finally returned me to the first floor. By the

(27:34):
time the doors opened, I was exhausted, dehydrated, and more
frightened than I'd ever been in my life. That night,
as I sat in my apartment trying to process the
day's horrors, I heard a familiar voice calling my name.
But when I looked around, the apartment was empty except
for a translucent figure standing near the window. Uncle Micky,

(27:58):
but not as he'd been in life. This version of
my uncle was gaunt and hollow eyed, wearing the same
expression of exhausted defeat I'd seen in his final photographs. Danny,
his spirit said, in a voice like wind through broken glass.
You shouldn't have come. I tried to warn you in
the notes, but I knew the building wouldn't let you refuse. Micky,

(28:22):
how is this possible? Death doesn't release you from this place,
It just changes your relationship with it. I'm still trapped here,
still paying rent in my own way. How do I
get out? Micky's ghost looked around nervously, as if afraid
of being overheard. Building feeds during the new moon that's

(28:44):
when its strongest, but also when its attention is focused elsewhere.
There's a way out through the basement. The original foundation
has weak spots that connect to the old subway tunnels.
When's the new moon. Four days, But Danny, the others
will try to stop you. Even the living ones will
sacrifice you to save themselves. They've been here too long,

(29:06):
suffered too much. They'll do anything to avoid the Building's punishment.
What punishment? Mickey's form began to fade, complete consumption, immediate death,
and conversion to one of the feeding spirits. I managed
to last fifteen years by following the rules. But you,
the building chose you specifically. Your bloodline feeds it better

(29:29):
than most. What does that mean? But Micky was already disappearing,
his final words barely audible. Don't trust anyone, Danny, not
even me. The Building can use any of us when
it needs to. As his spirit vanished, I was left
alone with the terrifying understanding that I had four days

(29:51):
to find a way out of a supernatural prison that
had been designed specifically to trap people like me. The
building had chosen me, not just for my desperate but
for some quality in my blood that made me, particularly
nutritious to its undead residence. I spent the rest of
the night examining my own reflection, documenting the changes that

(30:11):
were occurring with frightening speed. The gray in my hair
was spreading, my skin was becoming looser and more wrinkled,
and I could see veins that hadn't been visible before.
I was aging months with each passing day, my life
force being steadily drained to sustain a community of supernatural parasites.

(30:32):
The jazz music from Earl's apartment had taken on a
more insistent quality, and I realized it wasn't just music.
It was a feeding call, designed to entrance victims and
make them compliant while their essence was slowly extracted. The
building itself seemed to pulse around me, its walls breathing
with a rhythm that matched my heart beat, as if

(30:52):
it was synchronizing itself with my life force. I tried
calling for help on my cell phone, but the calls
wouldn't connect. The phone showed full signal strength, but every
attempt to reach the outside world failed with the same
error message number not in service. I tried texting, emailing,

(31:13):
even posting to social media, but none of my messages
seemed to go through. Looking out my window, I could
see the street beyond with cars passing and pedestrians walking by.
But when I tried to attract their attention by waving
or shouting, they looked right through me, as if I
didn't exist. The building had isolated me so completely that

(31:34):
I might as well have been on another planet. As
dawn approached, I realized that my situation was far worse
than I'd imagined. I wasn't just trapped in a building
with supernatural residence. I was being systematically consumed by them,
my life force harvested to maintain their existence. The rent collection,

(31:54):
the strange rules, the specific timing requirements, all of it
was designed to maximize the feeding efficiency while keeping me
alive long enough to provide sustained nourishment. I had three
days left until the new moon, three days to find
the basement escape route Mickey had mentioned before the building's
feeding cycle reached its peak, But first I had to

(32:14):
survive another day of rent collection and supernatural encounters while
my body continued its supernatural aging process. The morning light
filtering through my windows looked paler than it should have,
and I realized that even the sun seemed dimmer from
inside the Rosewood Arms. The building was creating its own
pocket of reality, a supernatural ecosystem where the normal rules

(32:36):
of life and death didn't apply. I was no longer
just a building superintendent. I was prey in a hunting
preserve designed specifically for my destruction, and the hunters were
getting hungrier with each passing hour. The fifth day at
the Rosewood Arms began with the terrifying realization that the
building had stopped pretending to be normal. I woke to

(32:58):
find that my apartment door had been locked from the outside,
not with a key, but with something that felt organic
and alive. When I pressed against it, the woods seemed
to pulse under my palms, and I could swear I
heard a heart beat coming from within the door frame itself.
My reflection in the bathroom mirror showed the continuing supernatural
aging that was consuming my body. The gray streaks in

(33:21):
my hair had spread overnight, and my face now carried
deep lines that made me look at least forty years old,
despite being only twenty four. My hands trembled constantly, Whether
from fear or from whatever was being drained from my system,
I couldn't tell any more, the building's atmosphere had changed completely.
Where before there had been an oppressive sense of wrongness

(33:42):
hiding beneath a veneer of normalcy, now the supernatural presence
was open and predatory. The walls seemed to breathe around me,
expanding and contracting with a rhythm that matched my terrified
heart beat. The temperature fluctuated wildly, scorching heat one moment,
bone deep cold the next, as if the building was

(34:02):
experimenting with different methods of causing me distress. Around noon,
I heard a soft knock at my door. When I
looked through the peep hole, I saw Maria Santos standing
in the hallway. But something about her posture seemed wrong.
She was standing too straight, moving too smoothly, and when
she spoke, her voice carried an artificial quality that made

(34:24):
my skin crawl. Danny, she called through the door, I
need to talk to you. It's about your escape plan.
I found something that might help. Every instinct screamed that
this was a trap, but I was desperate enough to
consider any possibility of getting out of this nightmare. I
managed to force the door open, the organic lock yielding

(34:44):
reluctantly to sustained pressure and stepped into the hallway. Maria
smiled at me, but there was something predatory in her
expression that hadn't been there during our previous conversations. I've
been thinking about what you said yesterday about finding a
way out. I talked to some of the other living tenants,
and we think we've found a solution. What kind of solution?

(35:08):
Hassan in three A has been researching the building's history.
He found old blueprints that show service tunnels connecting to
the subway system. If we work together, we might be
able to access them. As she spoke, I noticed that
other residents had begun appearing in the hallways, Hassan from
three to A, the Rodriguez family from five B, even

(35:29):
some tenants I hadn't met before. They all moved with
the same unnaturally smooth gait, and their eyes held the
same artificial gleam. That sounds promising, I said, carefully, backing
toward the stairwell. Where are these tunnels supposed to be
in the basement? Maria replied, taking a step closer. But
we need to move quickly. The building gets stronger after dark,

(35:52):
and we want to make our attempt during daylight hours.
Something about the way she said. Our attempt made me
realize that I was looking at peace people who had
been in the building's thrall for so long that they
become extensions of its will. They weren't trying to help
me escape. They were hurting me toward whatever feeding mechanism
the building had prepared. I bolted for the stairwell, taking
the steps three at a time, while behind me I

(36:15):
heard the coordinated pursuit of the compromised living tenants. Their
footsteps echoed in perfect unison, creating a rhythmic pounding that
sounded like the building's heartbeat, amplified through its corridors. The
dead tenants had joined the hunt as well. Missus Chen
appeared at the second floor landing, blocking my path with
outstretched arms that seemed to stretch longer than human anatomy

(36:37):
should allow. Her grandmother facade had completely dropped, revealing something
ancient and hungry that wore her face like a mask. Danny,
dear boy, she said, in a voice that carried the
sound of grinding stone, Why are you running? I have
soup waiting for you, special soup that will make everything
so much easier. Alted over the railing to the next landing,

(37:02):
my deteriorating body protesting the athletic maneuver, but adrenaline carrying
me through. Behind me, missus Chen's disappointed sigh sounded like
steam escaping from a broken pipe. Tommy mc kenna was
waiting on the third floor, wielding the same rusted wrench
he'd threatened me with before, but now his nineteen seventies
clothing was stained with what looked like decades of accumulated violence,

(37:25):
and his eyes held the blank stare of someone locked
in an eternal loop of homicidal rage. Rent day, he muttered,
swinging the wrench at my head, Always rent day, time
to collect what's owed. I ducked under his swing and
shouldered past him, but not before the rusted metal caught
my shoulder and tore a gash in my jacket. The

(37:46):
wound burned with a cold fire that suggested the wrench
was more than just a physical weapon. It carried some
kind of supernatural corruption that spread through contact. The fourth
floor brought me face to face with missus Koawahelski, who
had abandoned any pretense of elderly frailty. She moved with
predatory grace, her nineteen sixties dress flowing around her like

(38:09):
liquid shadow, and her hands had extended into claws that
gleamed with metallic light. Danny Darling, she purred, You've been
such a good boy, paying your rent on time, but
now it's time for you to pay a different kind
of rent, the kind that lasts forever. I fainted left
and then dove right, rolling past her, clutching claws and

(38:31):
continuing my desperate ascent. The building seemed to be growing
taller as I climbed, with more floors appearing than should
have been architecturally possible. The seventh floor, eighth floor, ninth
floor levels that couldn't exist within the building's physical structure,
but were somehow real enough to run through. Earl Washington's

(38:51):
jazz music had transformed into something nightmarish, discordant notes that
seemed designed to disorient and confuse rather than an entertain
The melody followed me through the stairwell, growing louder and
more insistent with each floor I climbed, until it felt
like the music was playing inside my skull. Mister Sullivan
appeared on what should have been the tenth floor, but

(39:14):
looked like it belonged in a different building entirely. This
level was decorated in Victorian style, with gas lamps and
wallpaper that seemed to move when I wasn't looking directly
at it. Sullivan himself had dropped all pretense of humanity.
His decomposed face was fully visible, with skin hanging in
tatters and eye sockets that glowed with malevolent fire. Time

(39:36):
to stop running, Daniel, he said, in a voice like
grinding gravel. The building has been patient with you, but
patience has its limits. You were chosen for this honor.
Your blood line feeds us so well. I realized that
continuing upward would only lead me deeper into the building's
supernatural maze. Instead, I needed to go down to find

(40:00):
the basement escape route that Uncle Mickey's ghost had mentioned.
I turned and began descending the stairs, pushing past the
pursuing tenants, who seemed momentarily confused by my change in
direction the basement. When I finally reached it was nothing
like the utilitarian space i'd expected. Instead, I found myself
in a vast underground chamber that stretched far beyond the

(40:22):
building's foundation. The walls were made of stones that looked
older than the city itself, covered in symbols that hurt
to look at directly. The air was thick with the
smell of decay and something else, something that reminded me
of the ozone scent that precedes lightning strikes. In the
center of the chamber was a circle of standing stones,

(40:44):
each one carved with the same painful symbols that decorated
the walls. The stones seemed to pulse with their own
internal light, and I could feel power radiating from them,
like heat from a furnace. This was clearly the source
of the building's supernatural energy, some kind of ancient ritual
site that had been incorporated into the structure's foundation. Around

(41:07):
the periphery of the chamber, I saw bones, hundreds of them,
arranged in careful patterns that suggested they weren't just discarded remains,
but integral parts of whatever ritual maintained the building's power.
Some of the skeletons were obviously old, their bones yellowed
with age, but others looked disturbingly fresh. As I explored

(41:29):
the edges of the chamber, looking for the tunnel entrance
Mickey had mentioned, I began to hear voices, not the
individual voices of the building's residents, but something deeper, a
collective consciousness that spoke through the stone itself. Welcome, Daniel Ristreppo,
the building said, its voice emanating from every surface simultaneously.

(41:51):
We have been waiting for you for a very long time.
Let me go, I said, though my voice sounded pathetically
weak in the vast chamber. I never agreed to any
of this. Your uncle agreed for your bloodline. The contract
is binding across generations, but we are not unreasonable. We

(42:12):
offer you a choice. What choice, serve willingly, and we
will make your consumption pleasant. You will experience euphoric dreams
as your essence nourishes our residence. Fight us, and your
death will be slow and agonizing. Your consciousness trapped in
these stones for eternity. I looked around the chamber more

(42:34):
carefully and realized that some of the bones weren't arranged randomly.
They formed writing messages left by previous victims. As I
moved closer, I could make out desperate words scratched into
the stone floor. Run while you can. The tunnels are
real north wall behind the foundation stone. Following the bone

(42:55):
message directions, I found what I was looking for, a
section of the north wall where the stones didn't quite
fit together properly. Behind the loose foundation stone was a
narrow opening that led into darkness. The tunnel was barely
wide enough for a human body, but it was clearly artificial,
carved with tools rather than formed naturally. You cannot escape us, Daniel,

(43:17):
The building's voice followed me as I squeezed into the tunnel.
We exist beyond physical space. We will find you wherever
you go. Maybe, I called back, my voice echoing strangely
in the narrow passage. But I'm not going to make
it easy for you. The tunnel system was a maze
of interconnected passages that seemed to pre date the building

(43:39):
by decades or even centuries. Some corridors were lined with
the same ancient stones as the ritual chamber, while others
looked like they'd been carved more recently. I could hear
water dripping somewhere in the distance, and occasionally caught glimpses
of rusted metal that might have been abandoned subway infrastructure.

(44:00):
As I crawled through the tunnels, I could hear the
building's rage manifesting as physical sounds, walls cracking, pipes bursting,
and the distant screams of supernatural residence being driven to
new heights of fury. By my escape attempt, the very
foundations seemed to be shifting, trying to collapse the tunnel
system and trap me underground permanently. But the passages held,

(44:23):
and after what felt like hours of crawling through claustrophobic darkness,
I began to see light ahead. The tunnel opened into
what was clearly part of the old subway system, a
maintenance area with rusted rails and walls covered in decades
of graffiti. I pulled myself out of the tunnel and
stood on unsteady legs, breathing air that didn't taste of

(44:44):
supernatural corruption for the first time in days. But even
as I savored this moment of freedom, I could feel
the building's influence trying to follow me. The shadows seemed
deeper than they should be, and I could swear I
heard missus Chen's voice calling my name from somewhere behind me.
I had found a way out of the building, but
I wasn't free yet. The new moon was still two

(45:05):
days away, and until then the building would be at
its strongest. I needed to find somewhere safe to hide
until the supernatural feeding cycle peaked and the building's attention
was focused elsewhere. As I made my way through the
abandoned subway tunnels toward what I hoped would be a
connection to the active transit system, I realized that my
escape was only the beginning. The building had invested too

(45:28):
much in me to simply let me walk away, and
I could feel its malevolent presence stretching out through the
underground spaces, like spiritual fingers searching for my trail. Behind me,
I could hear the sounds of pursuit, not just the
building's residence, but the structure itself, groaning and shifting as
it tried to extend its influence into spaces it had

(45:50):
never controlled before. The hunt had begun in Earnest, and
I was no longer just trying to escape from a building.
I was running from a supernatural predator that had marked
me as its chosen prey. The darkness ahead was uncertain,
but it was better than the certain death that waited
for me back in the Rosewood Arms. I had two
days to find a way to break the buildings hold

(46:12):
on me permanently, or risk being hunted for the rest
of my unnaturally shortened life. The tunnel stretched ahead into blackness,
but I could see faint traces of electric light in
the distance that suggested connection to the modern subway system.
Freedom was possible, but it would come at a price
I was only beginning to understand. The seventh day at

(46:32):
the Rosewood Arms dawned with an oppressive darkness that had
nothing to do with the early morning hour. Outside my
subway tunnel hiding place, I could feel the building's influence
stretching through the underground spaces like spiritual tentacles, searching for
my trail with increasing desperation. The new moon was tonight,
and according to Uncle Micky's ghost, this would be both

(46:55):
the building's peak power and its moment of greatest vulnerability,
when all its energy would be focused on the feeding cycle,
leaving its defenses momentarily weakened. I had spent the past
two days moving through the abandoned subway system, sleeping in
maintenance alcoves and drinking water that tasted of rust and
decades of neglect. My physical condition had continued deteriorating, even

(47:19):
away from the building's direct influence. My hair was now
completely gray, my hands shook constantly, and I looked like
a man in his sixties despite being only twenty four
years old. The supernatural aging had left me weak and brittle,
but desperation and the knowledge that tonight was my only
chance gave me a manic energy that my deteriorated body

(47:41):
shouldn't have been able to sustain. The preparation for my
final escape attempt had to be meticulous. I had salvaged
what materials I could from the subway maintenance areas, emergency
flares that might disrupt supernatural entities, a heavy steel pry
bar that could serve as both weapon and tool, lengths
of a life electrical cable for climbing, and most importantly,

(48:02):
a small container of rock salt i'd found in a
winter maintenance kit. Uncle Mickey's notes had mentioned salt as
one of the few substances that could interfere with supernatural energy,
though he'd warned that it was only temporarily effective against
entities as powerful as the building's residence. As evening approached,
I made my way back through the tunnel system toward

(48:24):
the building. The passages seemed different, now, more alive and hostile,
as if the building had been working to extend its
influence into spaces it had never controlled before. The walls
wept a substance that looked like blood but smelled like
copper and ozone, and I could hear whispers in languages
that hurt my ears to process, echoing through the darkness.

(48:45):
My aged body protested every movement, joints aching, and muscles
trembling with exhaustion, but I forced myself forward. The supernatural
corruption that had aged me so rapidly seemed to be
generating its own form of desperate energy, as if my
life force, recognizing its imminent consumption, was making one final

(49:06):
effort to preserve itself. The basement chamber looked exactly as
I had left it, but the supernatural energy radiating from
the stone circle had intensified dramatically. The ancient symbols carved
into the standing stones were glowing with their own internal fire,
and the air itself seemed to crackle with power that
made my teeth ache and my vision blur. This was

(49:29):
clearly the source of the building's strength, some kind of
ritual sight that had been feeding on human life force
for decades. Around the periphery of the chamber, I could
see that new bones had been added to the collection,
fresh skeletons that I recognized with growing horror. They were
the living tenants who had tried to betray me just
days earlier, Maria Santos, Hassan al Rashid, the Rodriguez family.

(49:54):
All of them had been consumed by the building when
their usefulness ended. Their bones were arranged in the same
careful patterns as the older remains, and I could see
scratch marks in the stone where they had tried to
claw their way to freedom before being drained completely. The
building's voice emerged from the stones themselves as I approached
the ritual circle, carrying a tone of ancient satisfaction mixed

(50:17):
with growing hunger. You have returned to us, Daniel, it said,
the words, seeming to come from every surface simultaneously. We
knew you would. The new moon calls to our kind,
and you belong to us now, whether you accept it
or not. I'm here to end this, I replied, though

(50:37):
my voice sounded pathetically weak in the vast chamber. Whatever
hold you have on this place, I'm going to break it.
You understand so little. The building laughed, a sound like
grinding stone that made my bones ache. These stones are
not just our power source. They are a seal containing
forces that predate human civilization. We are the guardians as

(50:59):
much as we are. The beneficiaries destroy us, and you
release things that will make our feeding seem merciful. By comparison,
I pulled out the container of rock salt, sprinkling it
in a circle around myself. As I moved closer to
the standing stones. The salt created a brief barrier that
made the supernatural energy recoil, giving me a moment of
clarity to study the ritual circle more carefully. The stones

(51:23):
weren't just ancient. They were clearly part of some kind
of containment system, with symbols that seemed designed to lock
something in rather than draw power out. Maybe you're telling
the truth about being guardians, I said, raising the steel
prye bar toward the nearest stone. But you forfeited any
right to that role when you started feeding on innocent people.

(51:44):
If something worse gets released, that's a problem for tomorrow tonight.
I'm getting out of here. The building's rage manifested as
a physical force that shattered my salt circle and knocked
me backward, But I could feel genuine desperation beneath the anger.
You would doom your entire species for your own freedom.
The forces we contain have been locked away since before

(52:08):
your ancestors learned to make tools. I drove the steel
pry bar into the base of the nearest standing stone,
not trying to topple it, but working to loosen the
foundation that held it in place. The metal connected with
the ancient rock and sent a shock wave through the
chamber that made the very foundations of the building scream
in pain, but the stone itself barely cracked. Whatever material

(52:31):
it was made from was far harder than normal rock.
The building's supernatural residence materialized around me in response to
their power source being threatened. Missus Chen appeared with her
grandmother facade completely dropped, revealing something that might have been
human once but had been twisted by decades of supernatural influence.

(52:52):
Her eyes were empty sockets that leaked darkness, and her
fingers had extended into claws that dripped with liquid shadow. Danny,
you foolish boy, she hissed, in a voice like steam
escaping from broken pipes. You think your little salt circles
and metal bars can challenge forces that have existed since
the dawn of time. We have consumed stronger men than you.

(53:14):
For breakfast. Tommy mc kenna materialized beside her, his nineteen seventies,
clothing now openly bloodstained, and his rusted wrench pulsing with
supernatural energy. But instead of immediately attacking, he seemed locked
in some kind of internal struggle, his face cycling between
homicidal rage and desperate confusion. Rent Day, he muttered, his

(53:38):
voice carrying multiple tones at once, Always Rent Day, But
but maybe rent can be forgiven. Just this once, I
realized that the building's control over its residence wasn't absolute.
The supernatural aging that was consuming me was also affecting
their stability, creating cracks in the building's influence that I

(53:59):
might be able to exploit. Tommy, I called out, while
continuing to work at the Stones Foundation. You died on
Rent Day, but that doesn't mean you have to keep
collecting forever. You can choose to stop. Tommy's face contorted
with effort. Can't stop building, says building needs, But maybe
building is wrong. Missus Kowalsky appeared from the shadows, her

(54:23):
elderly facade replaced by something predatory and ancient, But like Tommy,
she seemed to be fighting against the building's control. The
boy reminds me of my grandson, she said, in a
voice that carried both her original personality and the supernatural
entity that had claimed her. Perhaps, perhaps some debts should
not be collected. Earl Washington's saxophone music filled the chamber,

(54:47):
but instead of the hypnotic melody I'd experienced before, the
tune was chaotic and discordant, as if the musician was
fighting against his own instrument. When he appeared, his nineteen
fifty s suit hung on a frame that flickered between
human and shadow, and his face showed the strain of
some internal battle. Mister Sullivan emerged from the darkness with

(55:09):
his decomposed face fully visible, but his usual aggressive confidence
had been replaced by uncertainty. The foundation is cracking, he said,
his voice like grinding gravel. Our power wanes with each
day the boy resists. Perhaps perhaps it is time to
release our hold. I continued working at the stone's base,

(55:31):
using the pride bar to chip away at the ancient
mortar that held it in place. Each impact sent shockwaves
through the chamber and seemed to weaken the building's control
over its residence. But the work was exhausting, and my
aged body was rapidly approaching complete collapse. Your uncle fought
us for fifteen years. The building's voice continued, growing more

(55:52):
desperate as I damaged its foundation. But in the end
he understood that resistance only prolonged suffering. Accept your fate
and we will make your consumption painless. Micky warned me
about you. I gasped, pausing in my work to catch
my breath. He said you were hungry and old and desperate.

(56:14):
But he also said you were afraid, afraid of what
happens when people stop feeding you. Willingly, the supernatural residence
exchanged glances, and I could see doubt growing in their expressions.
Missus Chen's predatory confidence wavered, Tommy's homicidal rage gave way
to confusion, and even mister Sullivan's aggressive posture became uncertain.

(56:35):
We are not afraid, the building insisted, but its voice
had lost much of its earlier authority. We are eternal,
We have survived the rise and fall of empires. But
you need us, I pressed, using the pry bar to
work another section of the stone's base loose. You need
human life force to maintain your existence. Without willing victims,

(56:56):
you start to fade. That's why you use all these tricks,
the rent collection, the false normalcy, the gradual conditioning, you
can't just take what you need by force. I pulled
out one of the emergency flares and ignited it, holding
the bright red flame close to the loosened stone. The
combination of physical damage and the flare's energy seemed to

(57:17):
cause the ancient rock genuine pain, making it pulse with
unstable light. The building's scream of anguish was so intense
that several of the overhead pipes burst, filling the chamber
with steam and the smell of decades old water. But
more importantly, the supernatural residence began to flicker and fade
as their power source destabilized. Please, missus Chen's voice had

(57:42):
lost its predatory edge and now carried a note of
genuine desperation. Without the stones, we have nothing. We fade
into the darkness between worlds. Surely you don't want that
for us. For a moment I hesitated. These had been
people once residence who had been trapped and transformed by
the building's influence, just as I was being transformed. But

(58:06):
then I remembered Uncle Mickey's rapid aging, the bones of
countless victims scattered around the chamber, the decades of horror
that this place had inflicted on anyone unfortunate enough to
be chosen as prey. I'm sorry, I said, applying the
prye bar with renewed determination, But you made your choice
when you started feeding on the living. I won't become

(58:26):
another source of power for this place. The stone finally
began to shift. Its foundation cracked enough that I could
work it loose from its position, But as it started
to fall, the building made its final desperate play. The
chamber floor began to crack open, revealing a chasm that
glowed with the same unnatural light as the stones. If

(58:48):
you will not feed us willingly, the building's voice had
become high and desperate, then you will feed us through force.
The old ways are sometimes the best ways. Tentacles of
pure darkness emerged from the chasm, reaching for my legs
with supernatural speed, But my aged, deteriorating body had one
final advantage. Whatever process was consuming my life force had

(59:12):
also made me partially supernatural, allowing me to see and
react to threats that a normal human couldn't perceive. I
dove away from the tentacles and applied the pry bar
to a second stone, using my supernatural enhanced reflexes to
avoid the grasping darkness while continuing to damage the building's
power source. Each stone I loosened weakened the building's control,

(59:35):
and made the supernatural residence more human, more capable of
independent thought. Help me, I called out to Tommy, whose
homicidal confusion had given way to something approaching clarity. You
don't have to serve this thing anymore. You can choose
to be free. Tommy looked at his rusted wrench, then
at the building's flailing tentacles of darkness. With visible effort,

(59:56):
he raised the tool and brought it down on one
of the stand stones, sending cracks running through the ancient rock.
No more rent day, he said, in a voice that
was purely his own, for the first time since I'd
met him. No more collection, Tommy McKenna chooses to quit.
Missus Kowalski and Earl followed his example, using their supernatural

(01:00:18):
strength to help damage the stones that had bound them
for decades. Even missus Chen, after a moment of visible
internal struggle, began clawing at the symbols carved into the
stone surfaces. We choose freedom, she said, in a voice
that mixed her human and supernatural nature. Even if freedom
means fading into nothing. It is better than being prisoners

(01:00:41):
of hunger. With their help, the remaining stones began to
crack and crumble the buildings. Screams of rage and pain
shook the entire structure, and I could hear the sounds
of windows shattering and walls collapsing in the floors above us.
But instead of releasing ancient horrors, the destruction of the
stones seemed to create a kind of supernatural vacuum. The

(01:01:02):
building's accumulated life force began to drain away, like water
through a broken dam, and the supernatural residence started to fade,
not into darkness, but into a kind of peaceful dissolution.
Thank you, missus, Chen whispered as her form became translucent,
for giving us the chance to choose our own ending.
Tommy nodded, his nineteen seventies clothing fading along with his body.

(01:01:26):
No more collecting, no more rent day, just rest. One
by one, the supernatural Residence faded away, their expressions peaceful
for the first time since I'd known them. The building's
voice grew weaker and more distant as its power source
failed completely. This this is not possible, it whispered desperately.

(01:01:49):
We are eternal. We are beyond death. We cannot simply fade.
Everything fades eventually, I said, watching the last of the
standing stones crumble to dust, even you. The chamber began
to collapse as the building's supernatural structure failed, but the
tunnel entrance remained clear, as if the resident's final act

(01:02:12):
of rebellion had been to insure my escape route stayed open.
I crawled through the passageway as the Rosewood Arms died
around me, its death throes causing tremors throughout the underground network.
The connection to the modern subway system was just ahead
when I heard the final exhausted sigh of the building's
consciousness fading into nothing. There were no ancient horrors released,

(01:02:36):
no cosmic consequences, just the quiet death of a supernatural
parasite that had finally been starved of the life force
it needed to survive. I pulled myself up into an
active subway station just as a train was arriving, its
normal electric lights, a blessed relief after the supernatural darkness
of the tunnels. As I collapsed onto the platform, gasping

(01:02:58):
and bleeding, I could seem rising from the direction of
the Rosewood Arms. Normal smoke from a normal building fire,
not the supernatural flames I had expected. The train doors
opened and I dragged myself aboard, not caring where it
was going as long as it took me away from
the collapsed building. Through the windows, I could see emergency

(01:03:18):
vehicles arriving at the site, fire fighters working to contain
what looked like a perfectly ordinary structural collapse. But even
as the building died, I could feel its curse continuing
to work on my body. The supernatural aging process was slowing,
but not stopping. I would carry the physical effects of
my exposure for the rest of my life. The building

(01:03:41):
had marked me permanently, leaving me aged decades beyond my
years and bearing the psychological scars of my weak in hell.
Three months later, I was living under an assumed name
in a half way house in Philadelphia, my appearance so
changed by supernatural aging that no one from my previous
life would recognize me. I had lost everything, my identity,

(01:04:04):
my future, my youth. But I was alive, which was
more than could be said for most people who had
encountered the Rosewood Arms. The news reports about the building's
collapse blamed faulty construction and neglected maintenance, though a few
witnesses mentioned strange lights and sounds that investigators couldn't explain.
The site had been cleaned up and sold to developers

(01:04:25):
who planned to build modern condominiums, unaware of the supernatural
history buried beneath their foundations. But I knew the truth.
The building was dead, truly dead, along with all the
supernatural residents who had chosen freedom over eternal servitude. My
escape had cost me everything I'd once been, but it

(01:04:46):
had also freed the spirits that had been trapped there
for decades. I carried that knowledge, along with my premature
aging and constant fatigue, understanding that some victories came at
prices that seemed almost too high to pay. The Rosewood
Arms was gone, its residence at peace, and no one
else would ever be chosen as prey for its supernatural hunger.

(01:05:08):
Sometimes late at night in the half Way House, I
would hear faint jazz music drifting through the walls. Not
Earl Washington's tortured saxophone, but something peaceful and free, as
if he was finally playing for an audience that existed
beyond the boundaries of supernatural imprisonment. I had escaped the
building and helped destroy it, but the physical cost would

(01:05:32):
follow me for the rest of my shortened life. It
was a victory, but a hollow one that left me
forever changed by forces that most people would never believe existed.
The Rosewood Arms was dead and I was free. In
the end, that was all that mattered. Sto