It began not with screams, but with laughter.
The kind that came from old recordings—warped, low-quality, but unmistakably human.
It echoed through the abandoned Willowbrook Academy, a school long since shuttered and sealed by Sanctuary after one of its early cursed Layer breaches. No one had returned in years. Nothing had survived… or so they thought.
Until last night.
The breach alert hadn’t come from an external Layer scan or energy spike. It came from a song.
A simple piano tune embedded in the Sanctuary’s internal audio logs.
It activated itself.
No curse signature. No entity attached.
Just sound—drifting through the old network like a memory too stubborn to die.
The initial investigation team didn’t make it past the entrance.
The hallway sealed behind them.
All lights failed.
And the only thing heard through the comms…was music.
The room was dim, all screens showing black and white footage of a broken auditorium stage.
A single spotlight illuminated the center.
And beneath that light—twelve chairs.
Each one old, rotted, and different in design.
Wooden. Steel. Plastic.
Some broken. One with straps.
The cameras trembled every time the music played.
And in each recorded loop, a new child appeared. Then vanished. No trace. No signature. No remains.
Just laughter.
Elise stood near the main console, her silver-white hair softly glowing in the ambient light from her sigils. She watched the loops over and over—paying attention not to the children… but to the shadows behind them.
“It’s the same auditorium from Willowbrook’s original blueprint,” she said, quietly. “The one we sealed after the Echo Howling case.”
“So how is it still active?” Maya asked, her voice cold and low. She stood near the screen with her arms folded, crimson hair casting a silhouette like fire in the dim room.
“It's not active,” Riku replied, typing away on his portable glyph projector. “It’s evolved. The curse isn’t looping events—it's stitching new ones into its old memory.”
He flicked a screen open.
Each chair had a faint glow beneath it.
And beneath that… etched names.
Dozens of them.
“These names go back over sixty years,” Riku added. “Some of them match cold cases pre-Sanctuary.”
Tenchi entered last.
He said nothing at first, just picked up the thin packet lying on the table.
Inside: a photo.
A blurry still of the most recent chair cycle.
One of the kids had a glowing thread looped around their wrist.
Red thread.
The same kind Hiroshi left behind.
Tenchi’s jaw tensed.
“Any survivors?”
Elise shook her head.
“Three were sent to investigate the echo trigger. We’ve lost all contact.”
Tenchi stared at the chairs.
“We take it.”
“All of us?” Maya asked.
“Yes,” he replied. “This isn’t a game for one player. We need eyes, minds, and hands. If this is tied to the red thread system, then it’s not just another curse—it’s bait.”
He looked at Riku.
“Can you isolate the music?”
“I can filter it,” Riku said. “But if you hear it in real-time—your body still reacts. It’s not just sound. It’s suggestion.”
Maya’s Ghost Fire flared slightly in her hand. A blue-white flicker across the room.
“Then we don’t wait for the last chair.”
“We stop the music before the next one vanishes,” Tenchi finished.
The order was given.
Layer 11 was reopened.
And the cursed auditorium… awaited.
Part II – The Game Begin
The old iron gates of Willowbrook creaked open like the jaws of something half-awake.
Even after years of being sealed off, the school’s internal architecture felt too intact—like it had been preserved by something other than time.
The hallway leading to the auditorium was long, narrow, and lined with broken lockers that had melted into the walls.
Riku scanned one of them with his glyph projector.
“Cursed residue… high concentration. And not old. This curse has been reactivated.”
Maya stepped over a red chalk symbol drawn along the floor. Her eyes narrowed.
“These lines are fresh.”
Tenchi moved ahead of them, his black blade unsheathed and resting casually in his hand—tip tilted downward, but ready.
Elise held a shimmering crystal sigil at her side, reflecting the hallway’s dim moonlight pouring in from the cracked ceiling.
“No spiritual noise. It's too quiet,” she whispered.
“That’s not silence,” Tenchi murmured. “That’s expectation.”
As they approached the auditorium doors, the air thickened.
The wood was warped. Cracked.
But the moment Tenchi touched it—
Music began to play.
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A low, familiar piano tune—playful at first…then dipping into off-key notes, like the player had forgotten what song they were playing.
“That’s our cue,” Riku muttered.
They stepped through the doors.
And there it was.
Just like the footage.
The auditorium.
Chairs.
Twelve of them.
Arranged in a perfect, haunting circle beneath a ceiling of hanging stage lights.
Some were wooden, others metal.
A few still had school names etched into the backs.
Each one sat atop a white chalk ring, now glowing faintly.
And under each chair… a name.
Maya stepped forward first.
Her Ghost Fire hovered near her shoulder, casting light across the broken floor. It didn’t flicker the way fire should.
It pulsed—in sync with the piano notes.
“Do not step into a ring,” Elise warned. “They’re not just markings. They’re anchors.”
Riku was already analyzing one.
“The names… Juno Marsh. 1958–1969. Caleb Fine. 1972–1984. These aren’t chairs. They’re graves.”
Suddenly, the music stopped.
Elise froze in place.
The chalk ring beneath her feet flared.
“I wasn’t—” she began.
A chair behind her scraped across the floor—on its own.
It moved into the ring.
And with a clack, it locked into place.
Elise tried to step out.
But she couldn’t move her legs.
Tenchi stepped forward—but Elise held up a hand.
“No. I’m okay. I think I’m supposed to—”
Her voice faltered.
Her gaze went distant.
And slowly… she sat.
The music resumed.
This time faster.
Dissonant.
Almost gleeful.
Riku tapped his wrist rapidly.
“Her mind’s still online. She’s… she’s seeing something.”
“Memory playback?” Maya asked.
“No. Not hers. Someone else's.”
Elise’s lips moved.
“She was eleven… they blindfolded her. Said it was for fun. But they laughed when she cried.”
Her fingers twitched.
“They told her to sit. And never get up again.”
Tears ran down her cheeks.
But she wasn’t crying.
Maya’s fire flared brighter.
“We need to break the cycle. If we let it complete, someone disappears. That’s the pattern.”
Tenchi’s eyes remained fixed on Elise.
“The chair is feeding off unresolved emotion. Regret. Terror. Loss.”
“Each child that vanished…” Maya whispered. “Wasn’t taken. They were offered.”
One of the chairs vanished in a flicker.
A name erased from the floor.
The music stopped.
Riku jumped backward instinctively.
No ring beneath him.
But a chair scraped toward Maya.
She didn’t flinch.
The chair locked into place beneath her.
Maya slowly looked at Tenchi.
“I’ve got this.”
“You don’t need to—” he started.
“Yes, I do,” she said calmly.
And she sat.
The moment she did—her Ghost Fire surged upward like a flare.
And then it was silent again.
The remaining chairs pulsed.
The chalk lines began to twist.
And for the first time…
A shadow appeared behind one of the chairs.
Tall.
Distorted.
Smiling.
“They’re waking up,” Riku said.
For a moment, everything was still.
Maya sat in her chair, posture unshaken, flame dimmed at her side. But her mind—
Her mind was somewhere else.
She stood barefoot in a classroom.
Not Sanctuary. Not present.
Somewhere older. 70s-era. Blackboards. Wooden desks.
Children's drawings on the walls. Stick figures holding hands.
And all of them… headless.
A small girl stood at the far side of the room.
Her back turned.
She was humming.
The same off-key piano tune echoed in the background, as if coming from nowhere and everywhere.
Maya stepped forward carefully.
“Juno?” she asked softly.
The girl turned—face featureless.
Just two hollowed-out holes where eyes should’ve been…and a carved smile.
“They told me to sit,” she whispered.
“They said I’d be safe.”
Suddenly, the walls bled chalk.
Words written over and over:
“DON’T STAND.”
“THE CHAIR IS SAFE.”
“THE MUSIC STOPS FOR YOU.”
Maya’s Ghost Fire sparked in her palm.
“This isn’t your memory anymore,” she said.
“It’s something else. Something feeding off you.”
The girl’s form trembled.
Then splintered—
A shadow tore itself free, towering over Maya.
It had too many arms.
Too many smiles.
All moving like it couldn’t decide which child to mimic.
Back in the real auditorium—
Maya’s body flinched slightly.
Elise stood now, glowing with layered sigils, shielding Maya’s chair with a barrier ring.
“She’s under spiritual pressure,” Elise said. “Whatever’s inside the chair is trying to merge.”
Tenchi stepped toward them.
His blade hovered close to the next ring.
“We need to end this,” he said.
“Not yet,” Riku muttered, fingers tapping his gauntlet. “The chair didn’t take her. That means she’s fighting back.”
nside the vision, Maya raised her hand.
“I don’t care what form you take. I burn through lies.”
Skill: Ghost Fire – Purge Bloom
A blue-white explosion of flame burst from her palm, engulfing the shadow.
It screamed—not in pain, but in surprise.
No one’s ever stayed after the song…” it hissed.
“Then let’s break your playlist,” Maya growled.
The fire washed over the false walls.
The girl’s true form flickered once—a pale, tired child curled under a desk.
Whimpering.
Maya knelt.
“You were scared.”
The girl nodded slowly.
“They said… if I stood, I’d disappear.”
“That’s not a game,” Maya said softly.
“That’s a trap.”
She reached forward.
“Come on. We’re ending it.”
The girl took her hand.
And vanished—peacefully.
Back in the auditorium—
Maya opened her eyes.
Her flame returned.
The chair under her let out a sharp snap—
and disintegrated.
“One soul freed,” Elise confirmed. “Chair two… erased.”
“But that shadow,” Riku said, “it wasn’t just hers. It was part of something larger.”
A faint new message formed beneath the third chair:
“Only one must remain.”
Tenchi looked at the ring forming under his feet.
The music began again.
The music changed.
The off-key piano grew faster, more erratic.
Keys clashed with heavy notes that sounded like footsteps on a hardwood floor.
A third chalk ring formed beneath Tenchi.
No movement on his part.
No mistake.
The game had chosen him.
The chair dragged into place with a violent screech.
It waited.
Tenchi stood still.
The others turned toward him—
Riku’s eyes widened.
“You can’t break the rule, Tenchi. You’ll vanish.”
“So will someone else if I sit.”
Maya stepped forward, her flame still flickering around her.
“You sure about this?”
He nodded once.
The music kept going.
Longer than before.
It was stalling—like it didn’t know how to proceed.
For the first time… the game had been denied its next move.
“Let’s test something,” Riku whispered.
He traced a glyph under the third chair.
When the music stopped this time—no one sat.
Tenchi remained standing, eyes locked on the empty space in the center of the chair circle.
The air shuddered.
Every spotlight in the auditorium blinked.
And from the ceiling rafters—
It descended.
A shape.
Tall. Stringy. Shadow-cloaked.
Its limbs folded inward like fabric.
Its face—a stretched white oval with carved slits where eyes should be.
At its center—
A stitched red mouth, grinning wide.
It stepped into the ring… and sat.
“Only one must remain,” it said.
“So I did.”
The music began again.
Only this time, every chair turned to face Tenchi.
Elise shouted, casting a wide shield barrier around the others.
“It’s not a cursed game anymore—it's a ritual loop! It needs a host!”
The entity stood slowly.
It raised a wooden conductor’s wand.
And the piano began to play without keys.
“You don’t sit… so now you dance.”
Tenchi’s blade glowed.
He stepped forward.
“Let’s end this.”
Skill: Blade Form – Requiem Sever
His slash cut through the first wave of cursed strings sent his way—each one shaped like puppeteer lines. The chairs behind him exploded as the threads missed.
The entity hissed, mouth grinning wider.
“You broke the tempo…”
It lunged.
Tenchi struck again—
This time not at the entity—
But at the chalk ring beneath the empty chair.
CRACK.
The glyph shattered.
The spotlight above flickered… and died.
The music began to stutter.
“No more seats,” Tenchi said. “No more games.”
The entity screamed.
It dropped the conductor’s wand, and its body began to unravel—pulled upward by invisible strings as if it were the final puppet being dismissed from the stage.
The chairs caught fire.
Maya lit the rest with her Ghost Fire.
Elise weaved her sigils into a dissolving rhythm barrier.
Riku finished the glyph lockout.
The music stopped.
And this time—
It didn’t start again.
? Game: Musical Chairs
? Entity: Ritual Conductor (Shadow-Class Curse Entity)
? Anchor: Twelve ritual chairs bound to cursed children’s names
? Operatives Dispatched: Tenchi, Maya, Elise, Riku
? Status: Entity Neutralized | Game Dissolved
? Survivors: All operatives returned
-
The game operated on a compulsion-based ritual, forcing one person to sit per round.
-
Each chair was spiritually tethered to a missing child from Sanctuary records going back 60+ years.
-
Sitting caused partial memory merge with the victim’s final moments.
-
Cursed chairs served as both anchors and seats of succession—the game needed a final host to survive.
Tenchi refused to sit.
Entity attempted to claim the role itself—breaking its own rule.
This caused recursive collapse and triggered irreversible burn-out of the Layer structure.
Riku’s Observation:
“It wasn’t looking for players. It was building an audience.”
“The music wasn’t for us. It was for the thing waiting to take the final bow.”
Elise’s Observation:
“One of the names matched a child from the Mother, May I case. We may be dealing with a shared curse origin.”
Maya’s Note:
“Ghost Fire didn’t just burn the chairs. It soothed the trapped memories.
They weren’t holding on… they were waiting to let go.”
Tenchi’s Final Log:
“No one should be the last one left.
That’s not how games end.
That’s how monsters begin.”