Status: Witness. Property owner.

Interviewer: [DATA EXPUNGED], Special Analyst.

«...Yeah, so we decided to move into a bigger house back then. Found a really good deal in the town where we used to live with our parents... It was a great opportunity, and honestly, it felt nice to reconnect with childhood friends... You know, all that nostalgia. You think that if you go back to the place where you were happy as a kid, all your adult problems will just vanish into thin air. Damn, I was so wrong.

Yeah, we found that board in the attic almost right after we moved in. I went up there to sort through some old boxes left by the previous owners—they’d left a bunch of junk, old clothes, broken furniture. And right there, in the middle of all that dusty crap, it was just lying there. I instantly remembered playing with boards like that when we were kids; back then, they sold them in pretty much every other shop in town. Plain plywood, letters, a little planchette on wheels... Just campfire ghost stories for kids, you know? You summon the spirit of a weeping lady, you laugh when someone obviously pushes the pointer with their finger.

But this specific one was different from those childhood boards... It was... different. Thicker, I guess. And definitely heavier. When I picked it up, I nearly threw my back out. It weighed about fifteen pounds, even though it looked like an ordinary piece of wood—well, maybe a bit darker than regular oak. But in your hands, it felt way heavier than it looked, and for sure older than those toys. Like it was made a long time before... you know what I mean? The symbols on it weren't burned or printed; they looked... hand-carved, but so deeply that the edges of the letters felt sharp. I actually cut my finger on the letter "O" while wiping off the dust. The blood soaked into the wood so fast, instantly, like it was a dry sponge.

Oh, it felt completely different, it definitely wasn't a toy. Anyone who touched it got chills down their spine. When the guys came over that evening—Frank, John, and Lucy—to celebrate the housewarming, I pulled it out just for laughs. We’d had a couple of beers, the house still smelled of fresh paint and old wood. And the moment I laid it on the table, a dead silence fell over the room. You know that awkward moment when everyone suddenly shuts up, like someone invisible just walked into the room? Right then, we decided we had to relive our childhood and play with this board... damn it to hell. The strangest thing was that nobody even hesitated. Everyone who saw it said in unison, like they were under hypnosis: "We have to play!". Some kind of collective madness. Today, nobody thinks it was a great idea.

We sat around the coffee table. Lucy lit a couple of candles—the electricity was flickering for some reason that night, we blamed it on the old wiring. We put our fingers on the pointer. It was strange, heavy as stone, but apparently made of very dense bone. Cold as ice.

When the planchette first started shaking, everyone thought Frank was messing around. He was always scaring us when we were kids, jumping out from around corners, making up tales about the graveyard over the hill. So that time, we figured he was up to his old tricks. John even snapped at him: "Frank, quit pushing it, my finger is slipping." But Frank looked at us... his eyes were so huge, absolutely round. He slowly, very slowly, raised both hands into the air and let go of the pointer.

But it kept shaking. All by itself.

It vibrated against the wooden surface of the board with this eerie, dry thudding sound, as if a heart was beating underneath it. None of us were laughing anymore. Lucy immediately let out this long, trembling cry... almost a wail... she was always the most sensitive one. Anyway, everyone snapped into high tension. The atmosphere got way too dark. It even felt to some of us like the light had dimmed. No, seriously, the candle flames seemed to shrink into tiny blue dots, and the corners of the room drowned in a shadow so thick that I couldn't see my own wardrobe just three steps away.

Someone said that this wasn't funny anymore, I think it was John. And most of us decided we didn't want to go on. We could barely force ourselves to tear our eyes away from that nightmarish pointer. Somehow we managed to wrap the board in a tablecloth—I remember how its sharp corners dug into the fabric, as if it was trying to straighten back out—and we took it back to that table in the attic.

For the next few days, everyone was beside themselves... We barely spoke to each other. Walking around the house like ghosts. You know when you live in the same space but actively avoid making eye contact? That was it. I’m sure everyone saw something that night when the pointer started shaking, but nobody wanted to talk about what it was... or comment on it, or look back.

Personally... it felt like the house was shrinking. As if the walls of the second-floor hallway were creeping a few centimeters closer to my bed every single night. And that sound... At night, this quiet, methodical scratching came from the attic. Like someone heavy was crawling on their knees across the floor, scraping the boards with their fingernails. I kept telling myself it was rats. Big, fat attic rats. But deep down, I knew: rats don't thud out a rhythm that sounds like human footsteps.

And then I noticed that Frank stopped showing up for breakfast. He’d lock himself in his guest room for hours. When I walked in on him one day without knocking, he was sitting with his back to me, writing something incredibly fast with a simple pencil on the wallpaper. Just numbers and letters, endless rows separated by commas. I called out to him, he turned around, and I shuddered—he had black circles under his eyes, and his lips were bitten raw until they bled. He smiled at me and said, "She didn't finish the session, David. You can't just wrap her in a tablecloth."

I still wake up in a cold sweat from that smile of his. I don't know what he was doing in the attic while we slept. You’d better ask Lucy. Her room was right under the attic, she definitely heard more than I did. I just wanted this madness to stop...»

Status: Witness. Currently undergoing treatment at [DATA EXPUNGED].

Interviewer: [DATA EXPUNGED], Special Analyst.

«You think I'm crazy, don't you? Dr. Cole thinks so too. He calls it "post-traumatic shock and stress-induced auditory hallucinations." Fancy words. Except Dr. Cole doesn't wake up at three in the morning because someone is scratching their fingernails against the wood right beneath his ceiling. Right above his head.

Did David tell you I lived in the room right under the attic? Yes, that's true. The smallest room on the second floor. In the first few days, I actually liked it—cozy, with a round window. But after that night... after that cursed stone began to shake under our fingers, everything changed. David talks about three days of silence. He thinks we were just sulking at each other or got scared by a silly trick. He's an idiot. He didn't understand a thing. We weren't silent because we didn't want to talk. We were afraid to talk.

You see, when we wrapped the board in the tablecloth and left, the sound didn't stop. The next day, I was sitting in the kitchen, drinking coffee. It was quiet; John was reading something on his phone, David was messing with the boxes. And suddenly I hear... a whisper. Very faint, as if someone is standing right behind my back, rapidly spitting out words, exhaling into the back of my neck. I whipped around—nobody. I looked at John. He sat there pale, gripping his mug so tightly that his knuckles turned white. He heard it too. We looked at each other, and in his eyes, I saw such a wild, primal terror... But we both stayed silent. As if by saying it out loud, the whisper would become reality. The board had placed this ban on us. It took away our voices.

And at night, hell broke loose. My room was directly below the spot where they left the table with the board. The very first night, I woke up from a sound. It wasn't rats; David is lying to himself just to keep from losing his mind. It was the sound of footsteps. Heavy, shuffling footsteps, as if someone was dragging a foot behind them. This "someone" was walking in circles in the attic. Right above my bed. Step... pause... shuffle... step. And then the sound changed. I heard something small and hard rolling across the floor. The moment I closed my eyes, a picture formed in my mind: that heavy, bone pointer moving across the board all by itself, tapping out letters. You know what it sounded like? Knock-knock-knock. Like someone tapping a finger against a skull.

On the second night, the footsteps came down. I swear to you, I heard the stairs from the attic creaking. The door to my room was locked, but I could see through the gap underneath that the nightlight in the hallway went out. A thick, oily darkness started creeping into the room from under the door. It felt like the air had turned thick as jelly; it was hard for me to breathe. And in that darkness, I heard Frank's voice.

He was standing outside my door. But it wasn't his voice... or rather, it was his, but the sounds were completely warped, as if he was speaking on an exhale, swallowing the words. He whispered: "Lucy... open up. She knows all about your little secrets. She wants to question you about them. Open up, Lucy... We have to finish writing the answer."

My breath caught in my throat. I pressed my hands against my ears, buried myself under the blanket, and prayed until morning, until the sun finally broke through the curtains.

And on the third day, Frank caught me in the hallway. David thinks Frank just locked himself in his room. No. Frank was lying in wait. His eyes were absolutely insane and dry, the skin on his face pulled tight like a drum. He grabbed me by the wrist—his fingers were hot, like he had a fever—and dragged me up to the attic. I tried to scream, but only a gasp came out of my throat. My voice... the board was still holding it.

We went up to the attic. It was hot, suffocatingly stuffy up there, smelling of old medicine and rot. The tablecloth David had wrapped the board in was torn to shreds. The board itself lay on the table, and... oh God... those carved letters... it was like they had grown deeper. Some dark, oily liquid, resembling tar, was oozing out of them.

Frank forced me to sit at the table. He violently placed my fingers onto that ice-cold pointer. He sat directly across from me. His hands were shaking, but his grip was iron. He looked at me and said, "If we don't finish the game, she will take us one by one. She needs an ending. Just hold on and don't let go."

The pointer tore off with such force that it ripped the nails off two of my fingers. It flew across the board at a frantic speed, striking sparks out of the wood. But the worst part was the letters. The board didn't answer "Yes" or "No." It started writing... horrifying phrases. It dragged out every vile, cowardly, and shameful thing each of us hid inside. It brought up John's car crash. It brought up David's debts. And at the end, the pointer froze, vibrating heavily, and letter by letter, it spelled out one phrase.

Frank read it out loud with this wild, dead smile: "You played with the darkness. Now the darkness will play with you."

At that exact moment, something cracked deafeningly downstairs, followed by the sound of stomping feet. I remember the attic door bursting inward with a crash, and John appeared on the threshold. In his hands was a heavy logging axe. His face was white, furious...

And then... then it was like something exploded inside my head. You see, I had a panic attack. The panic literally burned out my memory. I only remember a wild roar, the sound of shattering glass, John's screams... I remember how the wind howled, as if the roof had been torn right off the attic. I squeezed my eyes shut, crawled under some old mattress in the corner, and just screamed until I completely lost my voice.

When I forced myself to open my eyes... there was nobody in the attic. No John, no Frank. And the board wasn't on the table either. They just... vanished. Gone in an instant, leaving me all alone in that stuffy, rot-smelling darkness. I only crawled out in the morning, when the police arrived because the neighbors called them over the noise. What actually happened up there? Where is Frank? I don't know... Ask John. He burst in there with an axe. He must know where Frank and that damn piece of wood went...»

Status: Witness. Detained while attempting to cross the county line.

Interviewer: [DATA EXPUNGED], Special Analyst.

«Let’s get one thing straight right now. I’m an engineer. I believe in the strength of materials, the laws of thermodynamics, and damn gravity. When David pulled out that piece of wood on the first night, I was convinced it was a stupid psychological trick. An ideomotor act. People unconsciously push the planchette themselves, channeling their hidden thoughts. Even when Frank raised his hands, I figured the board was just sitting on an incline or vibrating from a truck passing by on the street.

But I'll admit: I can't explain the three days that followed. The atmospheric pressure in the house dropped. Any barometer would have shown an anomaly—the air became heavy, like right before a thunderstorm that just refuses to break. David walked around like a ghostly sleepwalker, Lucy was constantly crying in her room, and Frank... Frank just stopped being Frank. He smelled of smoke and something sickeningly sweet. You know, that’s how old, abandoned churches smell, where damp wooden planks have been rotting for years.

On the third day, when the clock showed around two, I heard Lucy quietly wheezing on the second floor. Not screaming, but exactly wheezing, as if someone was choking her. I dashed out into the hallway, but her room was empty. However, the stairs to the attic were slick with some kind of thick, black sludge. The steps were slippery. And from above, that rhythmic tapping echoed down. Tap. Tap. Tap. The speed at which that cursed pointer was moving physically couldn't have been human. No living joint is capable of moving like that.

I went down to the first floor and grabbed the logging axe by the fireplace. Call it paranoia if you want, but I didn't give a damn. I assumed Frank had lost his mind and Lucy might get hurt, and I was ready to split his skull open if necessary.

When I kicked the attic door open, my breath caught. There was no wind up there, but the curtains and old rags were standing on end, as if from static electricity. The hairs on my arms stood up instantly. Lucy was sitting at the table, her fingers bloody, her face pale, her eyes rolled back. And Frank was sitting opposite her. He had no face. I mean, literally—his skin was so gray and dry, it looked as though all the water had been sucked right out of him. He was smiling at me with a mouth full of black saliva.

He was holding his hands on the board. And the board... it was vibrating with such force that the coffee table beneath it was starting to crack.

I yelled at them to get out of there, swung the axe, and struck the edge of the table to shatter that damn board. But the moment the axe touched the wood, a shock hit my hands like I’d grabbed a bare, live wire. I was thrown backward. The axe flew out of my grip. Lucy screamed and fainted, collapsing under a mattress.

And then Frank stood up. He moved jerkily, like a puppet whose strings were tied wrong. He didn't look at Lucy, he didn't look at me. He grabbed the board and hugged it like his own child. A dry, raspy laugh escaped his throat... sounding more like the cracking of snapping branches.

He turned toward the round attic window. For a second, he froze. Looked at me. And his lips silently formed the words: "Now we play."

And then, with a running start, he rammed his head straight into the glass.

There was a horrific crash. Frank flew outward, taking the frame with him. I rushed to the broken window, expecting to see a gruesome corpse with a broken neck, but he was probably saved by the deck roof.

But Frank didn't fall. He landed on his feet. With a soft, dull thud, as if there were no bones inside him. He didn't even stumble. Without letting go of the board pressed against his chest, he turned and ran. He bolted across the backyard toward the woods at a speed no Olympic champion could ever reach. His legs moved... unnaturally fast, while his torso remained absolutely motionless, pinned to the board.

I don't know what came over me. Adrenaline, probably. I jumped after him through the shattered window, badly bruising my knees when I landed, but I got up and ran after him. I kept shouting his name. He vanished into the thicket.

He ran deep into the heart of the woods, right where the old abandoned mine shafts begin. And you know what the most chilling part was? He was running, tearing through thorny bushes, but I couldn't hear the crunch of branches under his feet. Instead, I could distinctly hear, for hundreds of meters around, that dry, methodical tapping of bone against wood echoing through his steps... Knock-knock-knock. The board was still working right as he ran.

I lost his trail near an old mine shaft. His footprints just stopped at the edge. Frank jumped down there with the board. I'm certain of it. The police searched the shaft, they went down on ropes—they didn't find a body.

I'm sure he's alive! And he has that damn board!

When I went back to the house to pack my things, I stepped into Frank's room. On the wall where he’d been writing those endless rows of letters with a pencil, a new inscription had appeared. It was clawed by his fingernails right into the plaster. It read: "She is looking for new fingers and eyes. Soon she will open for everyone."

I packed my bag and drove to the border. I don't give a damn if you're trying to pin a murder or complicity charge on me. That thing is on our trail. It's no longer locked in the attic. Frank carried it out, and they could be anywhere! You think I'm crazy? Look at your hands. Now your fingers are on her list too...»

Status: Subject wanted. Location unknown.

Source: [DATA EXPUNGED] brand smartphone, discovered on the attic floor. Extracted: 4 unsent voice messages from a messaging app.

Recipient: Contact registered under the name "Redroomlogic".

---

[AUDIO RECORDING 01 — Time: 02:14]

(The sound of heavy, ragged breathing. In the background, a faint, monotonous rustling is audible, resembling the peeling of old wallpaper).

«...Hey. You there? I know you won't answer, your profile has been grayed out for two years, but I have no one else to send this to. I need to record this somewhere, or my skull is going to crack open. The guys think I'm joking. David thinks I pushed the planchette. They're idiots, measuring the world with their tiny little categories... "Frank is just messing around."

This isn't just a piece of wood, do you hear me? It's... an interface. It's a conduit. A heavy, analog interface to something massive that is buried deep beneath this town. It weighs so much because it's being held down by whatever is underneath. When we covered it with the tablecloth, it didn't turn off. It stayed in standby mode. And now it wants to say something...

Letters rain down whenever I close my eyes. Endless, solid streams of them. I write them down on the walls to free up space in my head, but my memory is filling up too fast. It needs a conduit. It needs new fingers to hold the pointer and maintain the connection with this side...»

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[AUDIO RECORDING 02 — Time: 04:40]

(The voice sounds noticeably quieter, more raspy. A distinct, dry tapping is heard at regular intervals: tap... tap... tap).

«The board needs eyes. It doesn't want to be hidden away in a closet. It wants to be played with, and it wants people to look at what it shows. It draws its strength from those who look at it... you understand? From anyone who gives it their attention. Because now, there is something in the shadows. It's peeking back.

I can feel my fingers changing. The skin on the fingertips is drying up, it's becoming hard, like bone... but We will find me a replacement! Do you understand it?! Soon, distance won't matter anymore...»

---

[AUDIO RECORDING 03 — Time: 01:12]

(Rapid, shuffling footsteps are heard. Frank's voice drops to a feverish whisper. The sound of footsteps abruptly stops).

«Lucy... She's sleeping behind the wall. I can hear her heart beating. Fast, like a trapped bird. The board wants her. Lucy is perfect—she's soft, pliable, her fear is so pure, untainted by skepticism like John's. I'm going to her door. I'm going to call out to her. The board wants to finish the session. We just need to complete the ritual we started!

John is staring at me, looking for logic. Foolish engineer. The logic is that the door is already open. We just need to make sure someone else sees it. The darkness doesn't want to stay in the attic. You played with it... you touched it with your warm, living fingers. Now it's her turn to play. I'm going for Lucy...»

---

[VIDEO RECORDING 04 — Time: 00:18]

(File corrupted. Video track missing, only the audio track is available. In the background, Lucy's wild screams and deafening axe blows against wood are audible. Frank's voice sounds completely calm, almost happy).

«I’m going to run a live stream for you, Everyone needs to see this!

(Static, heavy digital noise, crackling)

...John? Is that you? Brought an axe... You think you can break the conduit?! A materialist to the bone... You have absolutely no idea what you're dealing with! The door is already open! This can't be stopped anymore! From now on, We are in every home...»

(The sound of a heavy impact, the shattering of glass, a sharp whistle of wind, after which the recording cuts off).