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The Apartment #96

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Images. Words.
He recalled the seance.
Numbers.
He felt his fingers, number than numbers.
Feebly smiled at feeble wordplay. I'll be better when I'm warm, he muttered, his blue lips mouthing the words.
Struggled upright.
Numbers.
Rubbed his numbed fingers.
He looked around again. Everyone else, apparently, trapped in their own private hell.
He caught a fragment of a thought: something like "this possessed apartment is trying to communicate", but the thought had hardly formed before he discarded it.
This wasn't demonic possession. Definitely not.
Eyes twinkled, knowingly.
He knew demonic possession far better than he knew the Aramaic alphabet.

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