Chloe's Nightmare

The hum started subtly, a low thrum beneath the oppressive silence of Site 39. It was a sound that seemed to vibrate not just in the air, but in the marrow of my bones. Liam, ever the pragmatist when it suited him, had dismissed it as the ancient building settling. Chloe, however, had gone unnervingly quiet. Her eyes, usually sharp and focused, were distant, clouded with a familiar dread.

We were in what looked like a former common room, the furniture long since rotted or scavenged. Dust motes danced in the weak shafts of light that pierced the grimy windows, illuminating the decay. Liam was trying to jimmy open a rusted cabinet, his grunts echoing in the cavernous space. I was examining a faded schematic tacked to the wall, a jumble of lines and symbols that made little sense. Chloe sat on an overturned crate, her hands clasped tightly in her lap, her gaze fixed on a point somewhere beyond the peeling paint.

“Chloe?” I ventured, my voice sounding too loud. “You okay?”