The rhythm wouldn’t stop. It pulsed in his bones, in his skull, deep in the hollow place where his name used to be.
Thump-thump-thump-thump.
At first, he thought it was his heart. Too fast, too wild. But no—his heart had quit hours ago. This was something else.
He staggered through the dark, bare feet scraping against rough wood. The cabin smelled like old sweat and damp rot, but he didn’t remember coming here. Didn’t remember much at all. Only that damn sound.
Thump-thump-thump-thump.
A door. His shaking fingers found the handle. The wood was damp, pulsing like muscle, like flesh. His stomach lurched.
Thump-thump.
Silence.
He pushed. The door swung open.
Inside, the walls were covered in something black and wet. Something that moved. And in the center—four sticks, beating against the ground, rising and falling like skeletal fingers drumming on a coffin lid.
The moment he saw them, the pain came. A blinding, searing bolt straight through his skull. The rhythm was inside him now, tunneling deep. It would never stop.
He opened his mouth to scream.
But the sticks were already waiting.
And they kept the beat.
