Cover image by idonthaveabmxbike
NOTES
We love horror. To us, it's the most challenging genre across literature, cinema, and gaming. While evoking desire, love, curiosity, or even disgust in an audience might seem straightforward, instilling genuine fear is a daunting task—and we thrive on challenges!
Hi there! We're Didymus and Deethra, and together we are Dawnborn! All our stories follow two core principles: they must be co-written, and they must remain accessible to everyone, even those unfamiliar with the original universe.
To celebrate (a few days late) its fourth anniversary, we've decided to dive into one of our favorite games in recent years: At Dead of Night. In case you haven't heard, its upcoming prequel-sequel At Dead of Night: The Great Hugo was announced just a few months ago, but since we started writing our fiction before that, we've chosen to forge our own path—and that's perfectly fine! We can't wait to see what the fantastic Huld Martha (she/her), Chloé Booyens (she/her), Nkara Stephenson (they/he), and Sofia Antonia Milone (she/her) have in store for us!
A word of caution: This story follows the tone and themes of the games At Dead Of Night and Contradiction: Spot the Liar!. As such, it will explore dark topics, including rape, domestic abuse, violence against children or self-harm. If you are personally affected by any of the situations described in this fiction, please remember: there are people out there who will listen and help you.
You are not alone.
Maya stands in the narrow corridor, plunged into an almost suffocating darkness. The wall sconces shaped like candles emit a faint, flickering glow, casting strange, elongated shadows along the walls. The light wavers, allowing the gloom to creep into every corner, as if it refuses to truly reveal what hides there. Around her, dark wooden doors line the hallway, their engraved numbers standing as silent, sinister witnesses. The air hangs still, heavy, saturated with an indefinable smell, a mix of dampness and ancient fragrances.
The young woman tries to take a deep breath, but her chest tightens further.
"This isn't real," she whispers, her own voice echoing in the confined space, too faint to reassure her.
But fear… fear is real.
She turns, searching for an escape, but behind her, the hallway stretches on, veering at a right angle, disappearing into a thick, oppressive darkness. Her instincts scream at her to run, but her legs refuse to move, frozen in fear.
"Maya? I know you're here, Maya! Maya!"
The voice pierces the air, cold and all too familiar, slithering through the heavy atmosphere with an icy timbre. The sound bounces off the walls, echoes of a nightmare she had hoped never to relive. She knows this voice, though she's done everything to forget it. Her heart races, pounding against her ribs as if it, too, wants to flee.
With an almost instinctive movement, she presses herself against the wall, her breathing becoming silent, each breath reduced to an anguished whisper. She scans the corners of the corridor, anticipating the slightest movement—the shadow of a foot, the swish of fabric. She knows he's there somewhere, lurking in the dark recesses, ready to pounce as he has so many times before. She's lived through this twisted game of hide-and-seek before and can't ignore the fear tightening her throat.
She creeps forward on silent feet, freezing at every sound, her senses sharpened by terror. The floor is covered in thick red carpeting with golden patterns, muffling her footsteps… just as it does his. She tries to guess his position, but the silence is too deep, so intense it feels like a clammy blanket weighing on her shoulders.
Suddenly, she spots a door slightly ajar. Without thinking, she dashes inside. She closes it behind her, her trembling hands clutching the cold handle desperately. Pressed against the door, she peers through the peephole, her breathing short and ragged. Her lungs burn; each breath feels like a betrayal, as though it might give her away. She feels as if her heart is beating so loudly it resonates through the walls, a morbid invitation for her pursuer.
She scans the corridor, every shadow, every silence carrying an invisible threat. A faint rustle reaches her ears. Footsteps? She forces herself to steady her frenzied heartbeat. But then she sees a silhouette pass in front of the door. She jumps back in panic, the fear overwhelming her. She doesn't need to confirm who it is; she already knows.
In a flash, she crosses the room and hides in a large wooden wardrobe, shutting the door just before she hears the key turn in the lock. She holds her breath, burrowing deep into the wardrobe, her trembling hands pressed over her mouth to stifle her gasps. A bead of sweat—or is it a tear?—trickles down her cheek.
The footsteps echo in the room, slow, deliberate, dragging, filled with malicious satisfaction. They stop just in front of the wardrobe. Maya closes her eyes, trying to make herself as small as possible, as though she could disappear. A heavy, oppressive silence falls, each second stretching into an unbearable torment.
Then, the footsteps finally recede, and the door to the room shuts with a dull thud. A breath escapes her, and she slides slowly against the wood, releasing a sigh of relief, her muscles finally loosening after the unbearable tension.
But suddenly, the wardrobe door flies open, and a maniacal laugh erupts in front of her. She looks up, terror-stricken, to see that familiar silhouette towering over her, his eyes gleaming with a cold madness.
"I told you, Maya… You're staying here with me… Forever."
The young woman opens her eyes, panting, her whole body tense as her fingers clutch the armrests of the chair convulsively.
"Maya, it's okay. Breathe deeply, gently," Dr. Leclerc murmurs in a soothing voice.
He gazes at her calmly, a gentle smile on his lips as if to anchor her in the present moment. She tries to obey, inhaling with difficulty as she struggles to find air. The psychiatrist watches her features closely, noting every tension, every sign of resistance. Then she mechanically accepts the glass of water he offers her, her hands trembling.
"I... I saw him again."
"I know, Maya. But remember, it was just a projection of your mind, a way for your unconscious to process the trauma you've experienced," Dr. Leclerc settles comfortably in his chair, observing her with professional kindness. "Hypnosis is a way for your mind to explore, safely, memories you consciously avoid. You see, our brain has an incredible ability to repress what scares us or what we're not ready to face. But sometimes, that fear gets stuck inside, and it starts to fester."
He pauses. She looks up to see that he's waiting for her eyes, making sure she's following.
"We can revisit these events to untangle them bit by bit, like unraveling a ball of yarn. Each memory we address will, in time, lessen the emotional weight attached to it, allowing you to regain control over your fears."
Maya nods, slowly absorbing his words.
"Are you continuing your self-hypnosis exercises? The ones we set up to help you manage the flashbacks between our sessions?"
The young woman averts her gaze, her hands mechanically tightening around the glass of water. She remains silent for a moment.
"No…" she finally murmurs, her voice barely audible.
Leclerc tilts his head slightly, his expression open and patient, encouraging her to continue without pressuring her.
"And why not?"
Maya hesitates again, her eyes drifting toward a corner of the room. How could she explain what happens when she does it, what she really sees, what she doesn't want to see anymore? She returns her gaze to him, her face tense.
"A lot of things… come up when I do it," she explains, her voice barely louder than a whisper. "It's like… too many images come all at once. I can't sort them out, can't control them. It overwhelms me."
The doctor nods slowly, attentive.
"Imagine hypnosis as a kind of conscious swimming through your unconscious. The more you practice, the better you learn to stay on the surface without being sucked into the depths. If you feel yourself sinking too low, it's a sign to return to the surface. This process can be difficult, but over time, it will help you understand that these memories are just that… memories. They can no longer hurt you physically. And the more we explore them, the less power they'll have over you. So it's very important that you continue practicing them. Do you understand?"
"Yes, doctor…"
"Good. For now, we're going to try something else."
The psychiatrist leans toward his leather bag beside him and pulls out a folder. He opens the file carefully, takes out a newspaper article, and places it on the coffee table in front of her.
"I would like you to read this article. And, if you feel able, tell me what you feel as you read it."
Maya hesitates. She takes a deep breath and grabs the article from the previous spring, her eyes first landing on the bold headline. "SIX STUDENTS ACCUSE A HOTEL MANAGER FROM NORTH YORKSHIRE OF ATTEMPTED KIDNAPPING AND MURDER." She feels a coldness creep into her chest, a heavy weight slowly sinking down to her stomach.
Her gaze fixes on a black-and-white photo placed under the headline: six young women leaving a police station, escorted by officers, blinded by the flashes of cameras bursting in the pale morning light. She recognizes her own face, frozen in an expression of exhaustion, her eyes rimmed with black, her disheveled blonde hair falling out of a ruined ponytail. She wears a wrinkled pajama, just like her friends, all frozen in a scene of exhaustion and incomprehension.
She continues reading, the words reverberating within her like dull blows. The article describes how the six girls, during a music festival, had to change their plans and spend the night at a seaside hotel, the Sea View. A shiver runs through her as the article recounts how Jimmy Hall, the manager, allegedly locked them all in, taking pleasure in frightening them, playing with them like a predator with its prey.
Each word sinks into her chest like a blade, waking a terror she thought was asleep, the image of Jimmy, his sinister smile, his eyes shining with a mad gleam. She skims the text, the memories surfacing like sharp shards.
The article feels almost mocking. The journalists have captured only a surface, a reductive version of reality. It turns their night of horror into a "case of impressionable students" who "misinterpreted" the eccentric behavior of a "strange but harmless manager, already persecuted enough by life." For the media and the police, it had been a simple case of collective hysteria, a rumor amplified by young women seeking thrills.
She slowly releases the article, her fingers leaving a barely visible mark on the paper. If they only knew how far off they were. But then again... how could she have explained it to them?
"What does it make you feel, Maya?" Dr. Leclerc's calm voice pulls her from her thoughts, an anchor in the present. "In one word or two?"
She searches for her words, but a mix of emotions seems to bubble beneath her calm exterior.
"Anger."
"Why?"
Maya's gaze fixes on the psychiatrist, her eyes burning with an intensity she can't hide. She clenches her fists on her knees, her body taut with a simmering anger.
"They didn't understand anything," she finally spits out, her voice betraying the emotion she's been holding back. "Jimmy was dangerous. And what happened in that hotel before us... Those weren't accidents."
"You're talking about the various incidents that occurred at the hotel?"
"Amy. Doctor Bose. Harvey. Even Rose, Jimmy's mother... None of those deaths were accidents."
"Amy Bell," he carefully flips through his notes, consulting his records. "Ten years old. A little girl whose parents were staying at the hotel in the late 80s. She died falling down the stairs. A tragedy, but at the time, it was considered an accident. Jimmy Hall himself was just a child, barely older than her."
Maya grits her teeth but doesn't respond, only staring at an invisible spot on the coffee table.
"Then there's Doctor Bose," he continues, his tone still neutral. "A psychiatrist from the National Health Service. Rose Hall, Jimmy's mother, called him in to try and understand and manage her son's erratic behavior after Amy's death. But… he was suspected of inappropriate behavior toward the young boy." He pauses, searching for the right words, then looks up at Maya. "He committed suicide in the hotel's basement. That's what the reports say."
He turns a new page in his notebook.
"Harvey, Jimmy's stepfather. He started showing increasingly violent behavior toward the child. They say one day he tried to physically harm him, and Jimmy, in self-defense, fatally injured him with a letter opener. As for Rosemary Hall... she died in an accidental fire that ravaged the second floor of the hotel."
Maya remains still, her shoulders tense. Her fists tremble slightly, and she eventually nods.
"None of that was an accident," she repeats with icy determination.
"How can you be so sure?"
Maya feels her throat tighten. How could she explain the whispers of spirits, the voices that tried to warn her, the supernatural dread that no one else could understand? How could she reveal the unspeakable, the supernatural horror that had really trapped them in that hotel? How could she say that her most reliable sources, her only proof, came from the voices of ghosts, of lost spirits forced to wander the halls of the Sea View, ephemeral testimonies that no one would ever believe?
She presses her lips together, her fingers clenching tightly. She feels torn between the urge to shout, to scream the truth that no article could ever convey, and the bitter clarity that reminds her no one would ever believe in the story of pleading specters. Her only evidence remains invisible to the world, escaping the flashes and the interrogations.
Maya's mind flashes back to Amy's terrified little face, the desperate words of Dr. Bose trying to justify his actions, Harvey, boiling with rage, and Rose, trapped in her own remorse. And… Another spirit, another horrifying memory surfaces. Maya knows what she saw, what she heard. But how could she explain that it was the dead themselves who had revealed the truth to her? No, that would only make her seem insane… and maybe she is.
She clenches her jaw, then turns her gaze away. The doctor waits for a response, but Maya remains silent. Dr. Leclerc shows no signs of frustration at her obstinate silence. He tilts his head slightly, signaling a silent understanding, then, with a measured motion, takes out a new article from his file and places it on the coffee table in front of her.
Maya hesitates before lowering her eyes to the page, her breath already growing shallower. The black-and-white image shows a pile of smoldering ruins: the unrecognizable remains of the Sea View Hotel, its foundations exposed, its structures charred. All that's left is twisted, destroyed, reduced to ashes.
In bold capital letters, the headline bluntly announces: "CRIMINAL FIRE REDUCES SEA VIEW HOTEL TO ASHES; OWNER MISSING." Below the headline, a provocative subheading feeds into media suspicions: "Students Accused of Inciting the Tragedy."
Maya feels bile rise in her throat. Her fingers tighten on the armrest, turning white from the pressure.
"Take your time," the psychiatrist reassures her. "What does this bring to mind?"
She scans the following lines. Brutal, relentless memories flood back. The day after that night of horror, once the six young women had managed to reach the nearest police station, the officers had gone to the hotel… only to find it engulfed in flames. No sign of Jimmy Hall, who was declared dead. After that, rumors spread like wildfire. Sensationalist journalists pounced on their story, turning the victims into culprits, their pain into spectacle.
Some accusations hinted that they had pushed Jimmy Hall—the already tormented hotel owner—to the edge, driving him to suicide just like his mother before him. More insidious allegations went further, blaming them directly for the fire, suggesting they had set the hotel ablaze to erase evidence of some unknown scheme.
Maya closes her eyes for a moment, overwhelmed. She's never been able to forget the crushing weight of those cruel rumors. Even though no concrete evidence ever led to charges, the scars left by those suspicions poisoned their lives. The young woman hesitates, her fingers crumpling the edges of the article without her realizing it. Her lips part, but no words come out.
"There's no judgment here, Maya," Dr. Leclerc gently inclines his head, his tone still kind and patient. "Take your time. Speak what you feel, honestly."
"Guilt," she finally admits, her voice low, almost trembling. "We didn't do it. My friends and I, we didn't set that hotel on fire. And Jimmy... his disappearance, that's not on us either. When we ran from the Sea View, he was still inside."
"Then why the guilt?"
Maya falls silent for a moment, then slowly reaches out to pick up the first article again. Her gaze stops on the photo of the six young women. She lingers on each face, one by one.
"About them. One of them left the country. She erased everything: her friends, her family, her studies. She went to the United States and never replied to our messages. Another... she threw herself into work. She exhausts herself trying to forget, filling her days so she doesn't have to think about that night. A third... she spiraled. She fell into such a deep depression that she had to be hospitalized. And the last one..."
She closes her eyes for a moment, her features tightening with the pain of that memory.
"She didn't make it."
The silence in the room becomes palpable. Dr. Leclerc gently breaks the tension.
"And Hannah?"
"Hannah still talks to me," A faint smile crosses Maya's lips, though it is heavy with sadness. "But even she... she struggles. She never wants to revisit that night. She says it's behind her, but I know... I know that's not true."
Dr. Leclerc insists, convinced she has more to say.
"Why the guilt, Maya?"
She lowers her gaze, uncomfortable, as if saying it out loud would make her thoughts heavier still. Her memories, though closely tied to those of her friends, are different, more intense, more disturbing.
While the others were locked in their room, Maya had experienced something else entirely — a strange game of hide and seek, the rules of which she still didn't understand. She still wonders what had caused this difference. Perhaps it was simply because she had arrived alone, late after the others, with a camping bag on her back and a certain vulnerability in her eyes… or was it something else, something in her, hidden in the dark?
As soon as she stepped into the hotel, she had run into Jimmy Hall at the reception. An odd man in his late thirties, whose social awkwardness seemed enough to create discomfort for no apparent reason. Yet, behind his clumsy manners, there was something almost charming — a visible effort to make himself likable, even funny, which only added to the confusion he inspired.
Jimmy hadn't wasted any time mentioning his show, insisting with a mixture of childlike enthusiasm and nervous expectation.
"I do this comedy character called Hugo Punch," he had explained, visibly proud. "He's sort of this comedic sociopath, says things that you're not supposed to say and that sort of thing. It's quite popular with students."
Maya had declined, a wave of suspicion washing over her, her sixth sense whispering. He didn't hide his disappointment, pressing on with a casualness that felt false.
"You're sure I can't... twist your arm on this?" he had insisted.
Those few words had been enough to sharpen Maya's instinct: something was wrong. Everything about him screamed that he wasn't harmless, that behind his affable smile and attempts at humor, there was a darker shadow. She had declined again.
And yet, a question still haunted her sometimes: what if she had said yes? What if she had accepted his invitation? Could she have changed the course of events? Or had her mere presence, and this thing inside her, not been the trigger?
"I don't know," she finally answers, more to herself than to him. "But sometimes… I wonder if I could have avoided all of this."
"How?"
"I don't know… By not being there? Not being… me?"
Dr. Leclerc watches Maya closely, his pen hovering over his notepad. He re-reads some lines from his notes, his brow slightly furrowed as if trying to piece together a complex puzzle.
"You told me during our first session that Jimmy treated you differently from the others that night. That he seemed... particularly focused on you. Your friends confirmed that, too. They said that when they managed to escape after you freed them from their room, they crossed paths with Jimmy again in the hallways. He didn't really block their way. Not seriously. He just scared them, almost like he was hunting them away. Only you mattered."
Maya doesn't answer, but her gaze hardens slightly, an imperceptible tremor crossing her features.
"Do you know why?" Dr. Leclerc asks, his tone measured, as if treading carefully on a tightrope.
The silence thickens. The young woman stiffens, the invisible weight of a horrific memory settling heavily on her shoulders. She closes herself off, her whole body seeming to tense under an unseen force. After a moment, she slowly shakes her head.
"I don't know," she murmurs at last, but her voice lacks conviction.
She rubs her face with both hands, her fingers sliding over her skin as though she wants to erase something. Fatigue shows in every movement and in the sigh she lets out as she sinks back against the backrest of her chair. Dr. Leclerc lets a few seconds pass, offering her a brief moment of silence.
"Maya, I believe your guilt plays a central role here. It acts as a barrier, a weight you've been carrying for far too long, one that keeps you from healing. These emotions you can't express or resolve are like invisible chains. Perhaps a more... specialized approach could help untangle all of this. One of my colleagues, Dr. Elizabeth Ashford, recently founded a private institute, the Phoenix Institute for Cognitive Advancement. She uses advanced psychological methods to help people like you break free from their trauma and overcome personal limitations."
She furrows her brows slightly, her attention piqued despite herself.
"If you're open to it, I could contact her to discuss your case. The center is still not open to the public and currently operates only by invitation. But I'm sure she would be interested in working with you. Her therapies, though intense, are designed to help you process your memories differently, and free you from the fear and anxiety that continue to hold you back. What do you think?"
Maya finally lifts her eyes to meet Dr. Leclerc's. Her gaze, initially evasive, finally settles into his, and she takes a deep breath. Although a shadow of doubt still lingers in her features, she gives a small, tentative nod. Dr. Leclerc smiles warmly, proud.
"It's a courageous decision, Maya. I'm proud of you."
He stands and walks to his desk, rummaging through files to find the necessary information. As he searches, he continues speaking, mentioning Dr. Ashford's expertise, explaining how he would reach out to ensure Maya would receive the help she needed.
But she no longer listens. Her gaze is drawn to the mirror in the corner of the room, a simple framed surface where her reflection silently watches her. She shifts slightly in her chair, her eyes fixed on the image before her. What she sees seems strangely distant, almost alien. A cold, persistent sensation washes over her, like a breath from a past that refuses to die. The mirror reflects her own face, but behind her tired eyes, Maya senses something else—something that still lingers, unseen but very much present.
Something that has been following her since, from the dead of night.
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