" It’s 56.43 N, 2.87 W, I think,” the awful voice continued. “Osman is dead, and Baines and Boswell and Rudd are dead, and I think Wilton may be gone as well. There are just too many—” Phillip had written down all coordinates but underlined the last set. He hated the voice’s gasping quality. The way every breath seemed to pain it. The phlegmy gurgle at the back of its throat. “What’s your situation? What happened?” “They’re in the walls.” The voice gasped, a choked laugh that curdled and quickly died. It seemed to say something else, but a hissing burst of static cut through the channel. Phillip frowned, straining to hear. “Repeat, please.” “In the walls…” The voice from the radio groaned, and the sound seemed to travel not only through Phillip’s headset but into his bones as well, causing them to ache. “The walls.” “Please repeat—” The bridge’s lights shimmered, flickering. Phillip pressed himself back against the desk as he stared up at the bulbs that sparked and threatened to blow. Then the voice rose, flooding his ears, filling his head, raw and battered with terror: “There are bodies in the walls. "

― Darcy Coates , From Below