The last chime of the ten o'clock bell had just faded when the indicator light on the radio began to flash more frequently. Aiden kept his eyes fixed on the red dot, recalling Martha's words: "Tonight will likely be more unsettled than usual."
The temperature in the room continued its slow descent, his breath now forming a faint white mist in the air. The strips of birch wood Martha had placed in the corners released a stronger fragrance, as if fighting back against some unseen threat.
The light's flashing accelerated, from once every ten seconds to once every five, then every three. At the same time, a faint sound began to emanate from the radio—not clear words, but a jumble of low whispers, like many people speaking at once from a great distance.
Aiden listened intently, trying to decipher the content, but the sound was too muddled. He could only tell that multiple voices were overlapping—men, women, and others of indeterminate age. Their tone was calm, devoid of fear or anger, more like they were engaged in some kind of routine discussion.
It reminded Aiden of the "echo phenomenon" he'd heard in the asylum before his first death—the repeating conversations from thirty years ago. But these voices weren't a recording; they were live, active.
The radio's light reached a frequency of once per second, and the whispers grew clearer. Aiden began to make out fragments of words:
"...the new one..." "...he is cautious, that's good..." "...refused the one at the door last night..." "...made contact with Jack today..."
The words sent a chill down Aiden's spine. The voices were discussing him, his actions. They knew he had refused the night attendant, knew about his meeting with Jack, and were even judging his performance.
What did it mean? Was some entity constantly monitoring everything that happened in this town?
"...the statue is now pointing at the inn..." "...inspection complete..." "...commencing nightly observation..."
Aiden's heart began to pound. It seemed tonight was indeed a special event, and these voices knew what was about to happen.
Sure enough, about ten minutes later, a knock came at the door.
But this knock was different from the others—not the regular three or five taps, but a strange rhythm: long-short-long, long-short-long, long-short-long.
The rhythm was familiar. Aiden suddenly realized it was the same pattern as the radio's flashing light.
After the knocking stopped, a young woman's voice came from the other side of the door.
"Mr. Aiden, I am the town's Night Watch. Due to the change in the statue's direction, I need to conduct a nightly safety confirmation."
The voice sounded official and professional, but Aiden remembered the Guide's rule—do not speak with anyone at the door until you can confirm they have a shadow.
He crept to the door and peered through the peephole. A young woman in a dark uniform stood in the hallway, holding a clipboard and a flashlight. She certainly looked like some kind of inspector.
The problem was, in the dimly lit corridor, he couldn't clearly see her shadow.
"Sir?" the voice from outside called again. "I know you're in there. According to the town's safety regulations, all residents must cooperate with the nightly safety inspection."
The request sounded reasonable, and she had mentioned the "town's safety regulations," as if it were an official procedure. But Aiden remembered Jack's warning—many of the threats in this place mimic official procedures to gain trust.
Aiden chose to stick to the rules and remain silent.
The "Night Watch" outside seemed to be waiting for a response, but when several minutes passed with no sound, her tone began to change.
"Sir, non-compliance with the safety inspection is a violation of town rules." Her voice grew slightly sterner. "I have the authority to enter the room and conduct a mandatory inspection."
The threat only confirmed Aiden's suspicion that this was not a normal procedure. A real safety check wouldn't be conducted in the middle of the night, and Martha had never mentioned such a rule.
The sound of jingling keys came from the hallway, as if the "Night Watch" was searching for the key to his door. Aiden's heart hammered against his ribs—what would he do if she really had a key?
He noticed the small bell Martha had left on the doorknob was trembling slightly, but making no sound, as if an invisible force was preventing outside interference.
After a few moments, the voice outside sounded frustrated.
"It seems this resident is truly not in the room." She seemed to be reporting to someone. "Inspection failed. I will return later."
Footsteps sounded, fading into the distance. The hallway outside fell silent again.
The flashing of the radio's indicator light began to slow, and the whispers grew calm.
"...well done..." "...the rule was obeyed..." "...continue observation..."
Aiden let out a long breath. He had weathered another threat, and this time, he had gathered more information.
But just as he began to relax, a faint crying sound came from outside the window. It sounded like a child sobbing in the night wind, the sound faint and intermittent, yet carrying a heartbreaking despair.
Aiden went to the window and peered through a gap in the blinds. The street was empty, but under a dim streetlight, he saw a small figure standing in front of the church.
It was a little girl in a white nightgown, about seven or eight years old, hugging her knees as she crouched on the church steps. Even from this distance, Aiden could feel her profound sorrow.
The little girl seemed to sense his gaze and slowly lifted her head, looking toward the inn. Though he couldn't see her expression, Aiden had a gut feeling—she was looking at him.
Then, the girl stood up and began to walk toward the inn. Her pace was slow and regular, as if she were counting down some important moment.
Aiden's heart began to race. This felt like another new rule being tested.
The girl drew closer, and the sound of her footsteps reached his room—a soft but distinct "tap, tap, tap." Stranger still, the rhythm was identical to the "Night Watch's" knock from before.
When the girl reached the front of the inn, the footsteps stopped. Aiden peered down through the crack in the curtains but couldn't see the entrance.
After a few minutes of silence, another knock came at his door.
This time, it wasn't the "long-short-long" rhythm. It was a soft, childlike tapping: three gentle knocks, a pause, three gentle knocks, a pause.
A clear, young girl's voice came from the other side.
"Mister, I can't find my way home. Can you help me?"
The voice was filled with helplessness and fear, the kind that would compel any decent adult to help a poor child.
He remained silent, but a wave of guilt washed over him.
"Mister? I know you're in there, I saw the light in your window." The girl's voice grew more pleading. "I'm scared, and it's cold out here. I just want to go home to my mommy."
The raw despair in her voice nearly shattered Aiden's resolve. His hand was already reaching for the doorknob when he remembered Jack's warning—the most dangerous things in this place were not the obvious monsters, but those that appeared harmless.
"Please, mister. I won't be any trouble. I just need to know the way home."
The girl's voice began to break with sobs. She sounded so genuinely like a lost child.
Several minutes passed, and the crying outside grew more miserable.
Then, abruptly, it stopped.
A completely different voice came from the door—still a girl's, but the tone was now cold, mechanical.
"I know you are in there. I know you heard me. I know you saw me."
Aiden's blood ran cold. This was no longer a child seeking help. It was something imitating a child.
"You have broken the rules. Now you must face the consequences."
The doorknob began to turn slowly, as if someone were trying to open it from the outside. But Aiden knew the door was locked, and Martha had given him the only key.
So what was turning the knob?