Mark trudged onward, boots scraping against loose stones as the path twisted beneath his feet. His legs ached from hours of climbing, and his backpack cut into his shoulders. The world had shrunk to the narrow beam of his flashlight, which flickered dangerously, threatening to plunge him into darkness at any moment.
Mark hesitated, heart thumping, before stumbling toward the shelter. The wooden door gave way with a groan, revealing a single room, sparsely furnished, dust swirling in the beam of his dying flashlight. A bed stood in the center, sheets rumpled as if waiting for a weary traveler.
Mark shivered as he studied the paintings, each expression twisted into a mockery of joy, eyes glinting with something sinister. He tried to avert his gaze, but the sensation of being watched persisted, crawling over his skin. Exhaustion battled fear, and finally, he collapsed onto the bed, boots and all, letting sleep drag him under.
Mark blinked awake, disoriented but grateful for the light. He sat up slowly, expecting to see the grotesque portraits glaring down at him. Instead, his breath caught—the walls were completely bare, smooth and empty.
Panic surged through Mark as he scanned the faces, realizing with a jolt that they matched the ones from the paintings. Their smiles never faltered, lips stretched in unnatural delight, unmoving and silent. He tried the door, but it wouldn’t budge, the faces pressing closer, their eyes hungry with anticipation.
"What do you want from me?" His voice trembled, echoing in the quiet room. The tapping grew louder, more insistent, as if in answer. Outside, the faces pressed closer still, their grins growing impossibly wide, as if savoring the moment before they would finally step inside.
