“The Further isn’t a place. It’s the part of us that won’t stay buried.”

A metronome clicks in an empty room—and then counts backward. Charcoal sketches of doors begin to open by themselves; frames warp as photographs steal a second from anyone who looks too long. The Lamberts are pulled back into the noise: Dalton’s paintings bleed into corridors that shouldn’t exist, Josh hears his own voice knocking from the other side, and a red line of thread snakes through the house like a vein. In the dark, Elise’s whisper returns from beyond, guiding a new séance wired with old sins while two ghost‑hunters rig cameras in hallways that keep changing length.

Cuts bite hard: an MRI that lights up with handprints inside the glass, a baby monitor spitting laughter in reverse, attic floorboards bowing to footprints that never step off. Doors multiply; rules break—don’t follow your voice, don’t answer your name, and if the metronome stops, something else will finish the count. A shadow with a smile like a wound leans from the ceiling, and the red door blooms across an entire wall.

Final sting: the metronome hits zero, the light dies red, and the door opens behind the camera.