Here is your revised scene with grammatical corrections and synced information for clarity, pacing, and consistency. All details and events have been preserved while improving sentence flow and cohesion:
Ryner shoved the creaking door open with his shoulder, the rusted hinges groaning like some old beast waking from slumber. Dust swirled in the dying light that filtered through shattered windows.
"Rita!" he called, his voice bouncing down the long hallway like a desperate echo from the past.
No answer.
He hurried forward, sneakers slapping against cracked tiles. The building was colder than it should've been—unnaturally so—and the air felt heavier, like he was moving through the breath of something ancient. Shadows shifted even when nothing else moved.
Thomas floated beside him, arms folded lazily behind his head. "You sure she's in here? I mean, this place gives haunted crackhouse energy, and I, for one, did not sign up for that."
Ryner shot him a glare. "You're already dead."
"Yeah, and I'd like to stay that way, thanks," Thomas muttered, frowning. "Ghost insurance doesn't cover second hauntings."
"Check the walls," Ryner said, scanning the hallway. "See if there's a basement. She might've gone deeper into the building—looking for something about the separation."
Thomas grimaced. "Why is it always the basement?"
Still, the ghost zipped forward with a dramatic sigh, phasing through a wall like a lazy comet. Ryner swallowed and pushed onward, heart pounding. The farther he went, the more it felt like the walls were watching him. Listening. Whispers tickled his ears, but when he turned—nothing.
Then Thomas reappeared.
But this time, he wasn't joking.
His face was pale, all the wisecracks gone. His eyes were wide and locked on something far worse than death.
"Ryner," he said quietly, his voice dry and brittle. "You need to come. Now."
Ryner bolted after him, down a narrow stairwell hidden behind rusted curtains in the old theater room. The basement below was steeped in darkness and an unnatural cold. It felt like the earth itself had forgotten this place existed.
Then he saw her.
Rita stood in the center of the room, motionless, her back to him.
Surrounded by rot.
"Rita!" Ryner called, voice echoing off the damp walls. She flinched—then slowly turned.
Her face was wet with tears, eyes wide with a vacant sadness that stabbed straight through him.
"I remember now..." she whispered. "Charley... Charles... he used to call me his perfect vessel. That voice... his voice. I couldn't place it before—but it's been with me the whole time."
Ryner stepped forward, fists clenched. "It's okay now, Rita. I'm here, alright? I'm not going anywhere. Whatever he did—we'll face it together."
Then his eyes adjusted to the dimness—and he finally saw the floor.
Dozens of bodies lay scattered, long decayed—bones draped in tattered school uniforms. The same kind Rita had worn in her visions. Every skull told a story of pain. All of them were girls. All of them young.
Ryner's stomach twisted. He dropped to one knee, hand clamped over his mouth.
"What... what the hell is this?"
But the horror didn't stop there. As he looked around, ghostly figures began to flicker into view—young girls sobbing, clutching their own bones, wailing silently in torment. They stared at him, not with anger—but pleading.
"Please..." one whispered. "Let us rest... it hurts..."
"We never got to go home..."
"Make it stop... please..."
Ryner swallowed the bile rising in his throat. "We need Jack. He has to see this place. We—we can't leave them like this."
Rita's tears still ran, but her voice was steadier. "I thought it was all in my head—the voices, the memories. But it wasn't. This is where it happened. Where he used us."
Ryner gently took her hand. "We'll come back, I promise. Jack'll help. He has to."
He looked back once more at the sea of broken spirits, every one of them watching him.
Charlotte was right.
The missing girls she'd found files on—they weren't just victims. They were failed vessels. That's why their bodies remained here, rotting. But with Rita, they staged a crime scene and never revealed a body.
Wait—
His heart lurched.
Charlotte. She might be in danger.
He bolted from the building like fire was chasing him, feet pounding the pavement as if speed alone could rewrite fate.
"Ryner, what happened?" Rita asked as she and Thomas floated behind him.
Damn it.
She was still at the station—alone, surrounded by secrets she couldn't fully grasp. Charlotte had chosen to help them, even when none of it made sense to her. She'd gone to her cousin's office alone that night to uncover more about him.
Now she might be in real danger.
Ryner's mind flashed back to the phone call from just an hour ago—her voice tight, urgent.
"I… I always thought my cousin Charles was strange. Weird little habits. Staring at things that weren't there. But I thought he was just eccentric. Maybe lonely," she had said. "But I found something tonight."
He remembered every word, every beat.
"I'm in his office right now. I found employment records. He worked at Martin's. Three years ago. Under a fake name."
Ryner had blinked. "Wait, what?"
"I double-checked. I even called the school's front office. They said there's no such record. But I'm looking at the paperwork. Someone's been erasing his tracks."
A chill had run down his spine.
"It might be connected to those suicides. The ones before Rita's disappearance. What if he was part of it? What if—"
She had stopped suddenly.
"Charlotte? What's wrong?" he'd asked.
There had been silence. Then her voice had returned—tight, frightened.
"The door. The doorknob's turning. Ryner... I think someone's here. I think I was followed."
"Charlotte, get out of there!"
"I'll call you back," she whispered. "I—"
Then the line had gone dead.
"Hold on," Ryner whispered under his breath, legs burning. "Just hold on, Charlotte—I'm coming."
At that moment, Charlotte Buchanan crouched behind a filing shelf in Charles Buchanan's old office, breath shallow. Her hand hovered over her phone, but she didn't dare dial.
Three figures had entered moments ago, silent as tombs, cloaks drawn tightly around them. Even in the dim office light, she could make out their masks—serpent faces stitched with strange runes. Their voices were low, murmuring in a language that made her skin crawl.
Who are they? Cultists? Followers?
Do I call for backup? No... No, they'd be gone before anyone got here. Or worse—kill me before I could even speak.
Her heart pounded. I always knew Charles was involved in something vile... but this? I thought the rumors were just grief-fueled nonsense. How long has this been going on?
Then one of the cloaked figures moved toward the filing cabinet.
No, no, no—
She held her breath, body rigid.
But they turned away.
She didn't dare move.
Back at his apartment, Jack flipped through brittle pages of an old church ledger spread across his desk like a crime scene.
"So much for folklore," he muttered grimly. "This is worse than I thought."
The file he uncovered had been buried deep—hidden among decades of exorcism records, missing person cases, and banned texts. But there it was, stamped in blood-red ink:
THE COILED EYE
A defunct cult linked to ritual sacrifice, the disappearance of young women, and staged suicides dating back to 1967. Their symbol—the serpent pendant Ryner had described—was their sacred icon.
Jack rubbed his temple, staring at a weathered photo of a woman with unnervingly calm eyes.
Mary van Hanselor. Alias: Shanda's Voice.
"She survived the Massacre " Jack whispered. "They said she died in 2015... but that gave her almost fifty years to train others. To build a system. To pass the poison down."
The most recent documents referenced a new, hidden branch—more fragmented, more secretive. A name whispered in the occult underground:
The Grave Dancers.
Jack's eyes narrowed. "So someone picked up where she left off. And now... they're doing it again."
He stared at the list of known aliases, photographs, symbols—his mind racing.
We have to find out who's leading them now. Before they get to use Rita's body as a vessel. Before they catch on to what Ryner is doing.
His fingers hovered over his phone.
Time was running out.