The tape ended.
The camera zoomed in on the high-backed chair.
“I am the eleventh man,” he said. “And the house is hungry.”
The VHS tape had no label, just a number—14—scrawled in faded marker. I found it in my late uncle’s attic, nestled between a broken lamp and a box of war medals. He had been a quiet man, a retired postal worker who spent his evenings in a shed at the end of his garden. We never knew why. We called it “the shadow workshop.” Sombra Filmes Caseiros.
They were silent. Not a cough, not a shuffle. Just the slow, synchronized blinking of eleven pairs of eyes.
Still nothing.
But I know what it will be called.
Static. Then, a frame that smelled of dust and cigarettes. The image was grainy, shot on a camcorder from the early 90s. A living room. Yellowed wallpaper, a ticking pendulum clock, a single high-backed chair facing away from the camera.
Last week, I started hearing footsteps in the attic. Eleven pairs. Slow, deliberate. And yesterday, I found a blank VHS tape on my doorstep. Volume 15. No title.
“You watched,” he said. “Now you’re in the chair.”
“Rule two,” the baker continued, stepping forward. “Every door has a price.”
His voice was too deep. Too old. It filled the room through the TV speakers like black water.
