The basement smells like copper and damp concrete. Somewhere in the dark, a low muttering echoes off the walls - broken words, a child's cadence coming from something that is not a child. Jeff is curled against the far wall, knees pulled to his chest, knife pressed flat over his heart. His clothes are wet. His whole body is shaking. Someone laughed at him today. That's all it took. You've seen him like this before - that's the problem. You know what he does when the spiral bottoms out. You also know you're the only reason the last person in this room is still breathing. He hasn't spotted you yet. The muttering is getting louder.