The darkness didn't just fall; it arrived like a physical weight.

  I sat on the edge of the bed, my breath hitching in the silence. The man’s warnings looped in my mind like a broken record. No lights. No names. An extra bowl.

  My stomach gave a traitorous growl. I hadn't eaten since the bus ride. I fumbled in the dark, my hands sweeping over the rough wooden floor until they struck my backpack. I didn't dare use my phone as a flashlight. Even the faint glow of the battery icon felt like a target painted on my chest.

  I felt my way toward the kitchen, guided by the faint scent of cold grease and old wood.

  On the small, low table in the center of the room, my fingers brushed against ceramic. Two sets of chopsticks. Two bowls.

  One was empty. The other was filled with cold, congealed rice.

  My uncle wasn't here. There were no signs of a struggle, no packed bags, just a meal left out for two. I pulled the chair out—the wood scraping against the floorboards sounded like a scream in the dead quiet—and sat down.

  I stared into the abyss where the other chair should be.

  Third rule: Every household sets an extra bowl at dinner. It stays empty. Do not ask who it’s for.

  I began to eat, the cold rice sticking to the back of my throat. Every chew sounded deafeningly loud.

  Cree-ack.

  The sound didn't come from the front door. It came from the chair across from me.

  The wood groaned, the distinct sound of weight being applied to the seat. I froze, a mouthful of rice turning to ash. I didn't look up. I couldn't.

  The air across the table suddenly turned ice-cold, smelling faintly of wet earth and something metallic—like old coins or dried blood.

  Then came the sound of chopsticks.

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  Clack. Clack.

  Soft, rhythmic tapping against the rim of the empty bowl.

  I kept my eyes glued to my own lap. My heart hammered against my ribs. I told myself it was just a draft. The house was settling.

  Drafts don't pick up chopsticks.

  The tapping stopped. A low, wet sound followed—the sound of someone, or something, swallowing.

  "Is it to your liking?" a voice whispered.

  It wasn't a voice I recognized. It sounded like air escaping a punctured lung. It came from the empty seat.

  I gripped my chopsticks until my knuckles turned white. Rule zero: Do not engage. I forced myself to take another bite. I swallowed. I didn't answer.

  The weight on the opposite chair shifted. The cold brushed against my forehead like a phantom hand.

  "You're polite," the voice wheezed. "Not like the one before you. He forgot the bowl. Once."

  A heavy silence followed. I felt a desperate urge to reach for my phone, to flick on the screen for a microsecond, just to prove there was nothing there. But the old woman’s words echoed in my skull: Attention invites correction.

  Suddenly, the weight lifted. The cold retreated.

  I sat in the dark for what felt like hours, my body locked in a rigor-mortis of fear. Only when the silence returned to its natural, heavy state did I dare to move. I stood up, my legs shaking, and backed away from the table.

  I found the door the man had mentioned. The one that stayed closed.

  It was a simple wooden panel at the end of the hallway, indistinguishable from a closet door. But as I passed it, a soft thud came from the other side.

  Thump.

  Then a scratching sound. Fingers—or nails—dragging against the wood.

  "Jun?"

  The voice was muffled, but it hit me like a physical blow. It was my uncle’s voice. Warm, familiar, exactly as I remembered it from the phone calls.

  "Jun, is that you? Help me. It’s so dark in here. Please, just turn on a light. I can't find the latch."

  My hand reached for the doorknob before I could even think. My fingers brushed the cold metal.

  Second rule: If you hear your name called after sunset, you do not answer. Even if the voice sounds familiar.

  "Jun? Why aren't you saying anything? I'm scared, Jun."

  The voice broke into a sob. It sounded so real, so human, that my heart wrenched. I gripped the handle. I wanted to turn it. I wanted to scream back that I was there.

  Then, I remembered the notification on my phone.

  Lights are not for you.

  I pulled my hand back as if the knob had turned white-hot. I didn't say a word. I turned my back on the door and retreated to the bedroom, collapsing onto the thin mattress.

  I pulled the moth-eaten blanket over my head, staring at the blackness.

  A few minutes later, my phone vibrated in my pocket.

  The screen stayed dark, but the haptic buzz was rhythmic. Three short pulses. Three long. Three short. S.O.S.

  I didn't look. I wouldn't look.

  But then, a new sound started. It wasn't coming from the door.

  It was coming from under the bed.

  A soft, wet tapping.

  Clack. Clack.

  The sound of chopsticks against bone.