The lock clicked. The door opened.
Masahiro rushed inside. In front of him, a dark corridor, and silence.

He froze for a moment, scanning the shadows as if he could distinguish the outlines of the house's objects. Then he moved forward, not bothering to close the door behind him.

He passed by the kitchen. He glanced inside. The dishes in the sink were shattered, and there were traces of water mixed with glass on the floor. The fridge, slightly open, emitted a weak and irregular hum. Inside, there was a sickly sweet smell, like meat left to rot for days.
A fleeting memory crossed his mind: his mother handing him a cold juice on a summer day. But it lasted only a moment. The smell pushed him back to the present.

He entered the living room. It was no longer the way he and Lisa had left it. Once again, everything had been destroyed: furniture overturned, objects thrown against the walls and the floor. It looked like a chaotic force had once again shattered the intimacy of his childhood home.

He turned on the lights. They were dim, flickering for no apparent reason.
The silence was broken by a loud thud: the front door, left open, slammed shut. Masahiro jumped. Only then did he realize he hadn't closed the door.

"The draft must've slammed it," he muttered to himself.

"Certainly… Masa…hiro…"

A hoarse, wet voice. That voice.
The same voice of the mummy in the subway.

Masahiro stiffened. Something snapped inside him.

"Still you… Who are you? And what the hell do you want from me?!" he growled, clenching his fists.

"Find…me…"

He couldn't figure out where the voice was coming from. No specific direction. No logic. Just that abominable voice that seemed to penetrate everywhere, inside and outside him.

He hated it. And he felt watched.

It was the final straw. He grabbed a piece of broken furniture and hurled it with all his strength at the wall.

"You'll never… get rid of… me…"

Masahiro trembled. Scared. Angry. Frustrated.
It was a mistake. A damn mistake to come back here.

He turned and ran to the entrance. He grabbed the handle. Pulled. Pushed. But the door was stuck.

"No… no, no, no!" he shouted.

He tried to break it down with his shoulders. Once. Twice. Three times.
The pain exploded in his shoulder. The door didn't budge.

"Damn it!"

"It's too late… now…"

Masahiro's hands began to tremble. His vision grew hazy.
His strength drained away, as if the house itself was sucking it from beneath his feet.
Slowly, he collapsed in his general weakness, until his eyes closed and he passed out there, on the floor of his childhood home.