Nightmare Game
Copyright© 2025 by CaffeinatedTales
Chapter 114
The journal’s words ended abruptly, leaving a heavy silence in their wake.
Ethan, however, wasn’t ready to let it go. He turned the pages, driven by a nagging curiosity, until he reached the final one. There, scrawled in blood, a desperate warning leapt out at him:
Run! Watch out for the guards—something’s slipped among them, a harbinger of The Fire of Judgment, poised to burn all sin to nothing!
The handwriting didn’t match the journal’s author.
Who had written this?
The word guards sent a shiver through Ethan, his expression darkening with unease. How long had he been holed up in this cell, lost in the pages? And where was Owen? The man had been unnervingly quiet outside, for what felt like an eternity. Ethan didn’t expect Owen to strike up a conversation, but the purple jumpsuits weren’t known for sitting still. Whether it was the ones he’d seen or those described in the journal, they all shared a raw, primal urge to kill, barely restrained even under the guards’ watchful eyes.
He’d been so caught up in his thoughts that he’d lost track of time. It must’ve been a while, though. For the purple jumpsuits to stay this quiet, to not come for him, was suspicious. If they had closed in, Owen would’ve shouted for the guards. But what if the guard wasn’t real?
A cold dread settled in Ethan’s gut. He started toward the door, but after a few steps, he froze, his heart plummeting. Faint footsteps echoed from the corridor, slow and deliberate, creeping closer.
That wasn’t Owen. Ethan didn’t know what had happened to his companion, but he was certain Owen wasn’t out there.
He stared at the door, silent. The cell was small, its sparse furnishings offering no cover, no place to hide. There was only one way out, and he was cornered. His gaze sharpened. The time for a choice had come.
...
It was the guards’ shift change, a fleeting gap when the purple jumpsuits could roam unchecked. One of them slunk toward a cell, the dim light veiling the interior in shadow. No matter. He knew a Tester was inside.
He’d been watching Ethan and Owen for a while, his bloodshot eyes burning with hunger, his body trembling with the thrill of the chase. Someone had bolted toward the guards earlier, but that was fine. This prey was his to savor alone. He imagined the terror on his target’s face, a twisted smile curling his lips. The feel of a knife slicing through flesh, smooth as cutting through soft butter, sent a shiver of delight through him.
A soft hum rose from his throat, and he stopped abruptly. That tune—a bright, lilting melody—always surfaced when his bloodlust peaked. Not yet, he told himself. The ripest fruit was worth waiting for, meant to be relished slowly. With a surge of anticipation, he pushed open the cell door, already picturing the panicked, helpless expression of his prey, the joy nearly coaxing another hum from his lips.
But then—
“You’ve got some guts!”
The voice wasn’t the feeble cry of a cornered victim but a deep, bone-rattling roar that stopped his heart. His eyes widened, shock and fear flooding his face. There was no Tester inside. Instead, a massive figure loomed, its grotesque pig-like head unmistakable—a Sanitizer, one of the Prison’s most terrifying enforcers.