ã€ŠYou Found The Door [Horror]ã€‹


 1 - The Storm Brewing

    The next page in the book turns crisply in your hand. Vivid images painting the scene rolling through your mind just as quickly as your eyes move across the printed words. The climax. A final battle that has been the culmination of so much strife and dedication for the main character. You have found it increasingly difficult to put the book down as you continued to careen toward the end.

    While the hero engages in a pitched battle against Wrathwing, the demon-dragon, reality outside of these pages adds to the atmosphere in your imagination as a rumble of thunder shakes at the distant skies. Something unfortunately briefly distracting, rather than being immersive.

    You turn your eyes, looking over to the library window. Hours have passed since you sat down with the latest in the Goreblaster series, and now even the hall, usually very familiar to you, takes a few seconds to feel natural once again. Rows of wooden shelving line the walls, dull tomes of every color filling them to almost bursting¡ªindeed, there are a few side tables with small towers awaiting a proper space to roost.

    The seating arrangement around you is empty and has been for a while. It¡¯s usually rather quiet even on a good day, but the bad weather had chased away any other bookworms. Not that a little rain bothered you, of course. The library had always been a home away from home. Especially when the rest of the family is away.

    With the dragon and the intense fight sinking away from your imagination, you focus on the raindrops hitting the wide window. A little precipitation can be nice, and you have mostly blocked it out as white noise while you dug into the story. Now that the trees are swaying erratically, the wind brings focused bursts of the rainfall against the pains of glass. It looks like things are getting worse.

    That said¡­ the library isn¡¯t a terrible place to be under such circumstance. It is slightly up a hill, on the edge of town so that it won¡¯t get flooded. Built with solid brick as it used to be¡­ what was it again? Your brain slowly trudges through the dull history homework that school gave you years ago. A fortress maybe, or barracks.

    You take a deep breath and try to get back into the finale taking place in your hands, but find yourself re-reading the same sentence twice over. Your ears are too busy filling up with the sounds of the gloomy weather. You¡¯re wondering if it would be a good idea to get home before it gets any worse.

    It¡¯s your book, after all. There¡¯s nothing stopping you from finishing it at home¡­ but that¡¯s just it. It¡¯s been a year since you moved back in with your family, and yet it doesn¡¯t feel like your home anymore. You feel¡­ stagnant, and awkward. Things just haven¡¯t been the same since-

    ¡°Storm is picking up, dear.¡±

    You twitch slightly, and your muscles tense up before you look over to the side. The librarian, Chloe Jones. Light on her feet, and fastidious about the library being in order. While she is rather aloof and disjointed with most people in the town, you have some rapport with her. You are one of the most frequent of patrons, of course.

    Today¡¯s cat-themed knitted jumper she wears is white kittens playing with feathers on a dark blue background. It was a wonder that her wardrobe had such a varied selection all under the same theme, and you long suspected she had them custom made. Her long brown and gray hair is tied up in a ponytail, and her speckled face has an expression of genuine concern on it.

    ¡°How bad is it meant to get?¡± you ask.

    She shrugs and shakes her head. ¡°Possibly one of the worst in years. The cell tower has an issue, so reception is spotty and I can''t get information in." Chloe looks toward the doors. ¡°As much as the library is a secure place to shelter, I must get home myself. Mr. Buttons can¡¯t be left alone once the lightning really starts.¡±

    You have seen a picture of her cat once before. Not usually something she cared to share with many, but the white cat with black splotches did almost look like he wore a buttoned up waistcoat. Even his facial markings gave him the appearance of having a mustache.

    With a sigh, you close the book. ¡°I understand. It wouldn¡¯t be a good idea to get stuck here if it lasts until nightfall.¡±

    The librarian gives you a brief nod. ¡°I¡¯m going to go get ready to lock up. Stay safe on your journey home.¡± She turns and leaves for the back room behind the counter.

    This isn¡¯t exactly the day you had originally planned, but at least once you are home you might be able to get this book finished up and then¡­ probably tidy up a bit. Actually, if the storm is going to be bad, then hunkering down in bed with some good music might be nice.

    From beneath the desk, you withdraw your backpack and slide the book inside. At least you had the foresight to bring your rain jacket, for as good as it would do. With the zip of the bag done up, you then stand and stretch out. If there is one complaint that you can make about the library, it is that the chairs aren¡¯t that comfortable. Not for an extended period of time. You had left a note in the suggestion box a few weeks back, but you are also sure the librarian just has it there for show. This was her domain.

    If you spot this story on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

    You adjust your top, pulling the hood up over your hair. With a stretch of your toes in your sneakers, and a gentle push to put the chair under the table, that is it. There is no option but to face the storm now.

    Just as you take a step forward, the white flash of lightning briefly illuminates the library. Walking over to the coat rack near the door, you count the seconds between it and the deep rumbling of thunder echoing through the clouds. Eight seconds.

    Reasonably close, maybe a few miles by your estimate. When the next one would come, you will need to count again and see if it is getting closer. You put your bag on the floor and pull the jacket on. There are two other coats remaining on the pegs, but with a quick glance back to the open space of the library, there definitely isn¡¯t anyone else here other than the librarian.

    Maybe a spare, or lost property.

    ¡°I¡¯m leaving now,¡± you yell out. ¡°You stay safe as well.¡±

    Several seconds of complete silence follow. You breathe in deeply and deflate. She will probably get the picture once she came out and you were missing. With a shrug, you pull down on the brass handle and open the door to the outside.

    The rough wind that immediately blows against you has you second guessing your decision to leave the safety of the library. Peppered with rain, you grimace and pull the door to close behind you, sealing your fate. Covering your eyes partially, you glare out at the surrounding trees, the tall shapes shedding occasional leaves as they sway animatedly with the constant gusts.

    A white flash illuminates everything, and you start counting. Making your way down the slick steps toward the main street, the earth-shaking rattle of thunder came at seven seconds. Getting closer.

    With a glance toward the main town, it looks deserted. Anyone with some common sense will be inside to weather the storm already. With how much worse the storm is getting, you don¡¯t want to spend any more time than necessary being cold and wet. Wasting the rest of your holiday with an illness would make things ten times as miserable as they already are.

    You curse the wind and pull the hood of your rain jacket down to stop it from blowing back repeatedly. As much as your parents keep telling you that a bicycle would be handy to have for getting around the small town, riding around in a storm was likely to get you injured. A cab will take too long to get here, even if they are out here working, which seems unlikely at this stage.

    The quickest way back home would be¡­ your eyes move over to the right as you weigh up your options. Technically speaking, through part of the woodland will be faster than going along the main road in town. Despite the brochures determining this a quaint and idyllic place, you had never cared much for nature. It was nice enough to look at, but has far too many bugs and not enough civilisation for your liking.

    For today, the woodland direction at least has the benefit of the wind not being directly in your face. You have traveled the route often enough times to know the way, and so with the pelting precipitation guiding your decision, you turn off the sidewalk and move across the grass towards the trees.

    Another flash and rumble. This time¡­ six seconds. You shiver, for as much as your jacket keeps the rain off of your torso, your legs are slowly soaking through. You have already committed to having muddied sneakers by choosing this route, but have glazed past the reality of getting drenched. At least once you got under the tree cover, it should block some of the rainfall. You have definitely earned a hot bath once you got home.

    By instinct, you feel around your pockets. Phone and keys are still there, although it is too wet out to check the former. While the town lags behind most of the world with technology, there will be some manner of back-up if the cell tower was down, you hope. A day or two without the internet will be pretty dire. Actually, you knew exactly which books on your overburdened shelf you will re-read to pass the time.

    Sometimes it was nice to stick with the familiar.

    The woodland now moving overhead and blocking out some of the gloomy skies shakes and rustles aggressively as you move beneath them. There is a rough pathway that leads in the direction you need to go. Little more than a foot-wide stretch of mud where footfall and bikes have worn away at any vegetation that wants to grow there. It was now slick thanks to the terrible weather, so you walk along just beside it.

    Although already grimacing, you scowl further, looking down deeper into the woods. They go on for a good mile or two before a main road, and then another handful before another town almost identical to this one. They are dotted about the state, each purporting to be just as picturesque¡ªif not more so¡ªthan all their sister towns.

    What you wouldn¡¯t give for some time in the city. Now that would be more of a holiday than trying to avoid whatever life you had now fallen into.

    From here, however, all you can see are thick trunks and windswept vegetation. At least for a few hundred feet, and then there is an ominous gloom. The other thing you don¡¯t like about the woodlands is that there were nearly zero landmarks. It is difficult to navigate when everything was a plant. If it wasn¡¯t for the pathway you now diligently strode parallel to, you wouldn¡¯t even attempt this route.

    Stepping on a slicker patch of grass, your foot then gave way, sliding and sinking into some softer mud.

    You curse as you stumble forwards, barely catching your footing to remain upright. Now mud completely covers your right shoe, the moisture soaking through to your sock. As much as you knew this was inevitable, you swear under your breath repeatedly all the same.

    A flash of lightning has you wince, the thunder coming only four seconds after it.

    Running would only have you ending up face first in the mud, so you just gather your resolve to set off again. Why your house has to be almost on the opposite side of the town to the library, you don¡¯t know. Suited the fact that you are trying to¡­

    Your thoughts sink out of your mind before you could grab a solid hold of them. While the long rumble echoed through the clouds, you stop and tilt your head at something that seems out of place.

    Just over to the right, about thirty feet away from the path, was a red doorway.

    Aged and worn, the ruined brickwork barely clinging to the thick frame made it appear to be the last standing piece of a house long crumbled to nothing. But there wasn¡¯t any homes built out this way in the woods.

    Nor have you seen it any other time you had gone down this route, and it was clearly visible from the path.

    Maybe it was a small shed or bunker that has been revealed by the storm tearing away at plants? You clench your fists tight and sigh through the intermittent downpour.

    With curiosity and the glimmer of hope for shelter, you step away from the path to approach the door that you have found.

 2 - The Red Door

    With each step that takes you closer to the door, you wonder if this is a good idea or not. While you were hopeful that the odd placement can offer some shelter, it seems less likely by the second.

    Lighting flashes through the treeline and then a deep rumble cracks through the air. It sounds as though the world is being torn in half. Four seconds again. Maybe this is as bad as it would get.

    Just as you first thought, the door is the sole constructed object out here, outside of the thick frame that contains it. Now only a dozen feet away from you, there isn¡¯t the ruined brickwork to the sides you had been expecting. Nor a roof clearly attached to the top that might signal it went to something underground.

    Yet, the red paintwork is aged and flaky like it has been here for decades. Muddied slightly, with the nearby vegetation growing around it, creeping vines and small weeds staking a claim in any crack and crevice that they were able to. The rounded knob is a tarnished brass, which matches the studs in the woodwork that you can now see since you are closer.

    Too far gone for regrets now, you still curse yourself under your breath. Now you are just mad, as if the door is personally slighting you for being out of place. The desire to have an explanation overcomes the notion of turning back, if only so that you can be content that you aren¡¯t a dumbass for stomping your way across the wet grass in a storm just to gawk at a discarded door. Some of the bored teens probably propped it up or something recently, you try to tell yourself.

    And now you stand before it. It is¡­ underwhelming. It is a wonder it is still standing with the constant gusts of wind. The design of it is simple enough that if it wasn¡¯t standing on its own in the middle of the woods, then it wouldn¡¯t look out-of-place anywhere else in the town.

    You shiver and grit your teeth as the trees flanking the doorway shake and pelt you with thicker drops of condensed rain that had been gathering on the leaves. The flash of lightning lights up some of the gloom from further beyond the closest trees. It isn''t impossible that you can still arc around through the door and find the path again.

    Your hand grabs at the door handle. It¡¯s cold, but that isn¡¯t unexpected. As the boom of thunder shatters the sky, you turn the handle and push against the aged wood.

    There is some resistance, as caked mud and rough parts of the wood grinds on the fittings, but after brief hesitation, it relents to your advances and swings open.

    A sinking feeling weighs on your stomach. It¡¯s just more woodland ahead of you.

    ¡°Motherfucker,¡± you whisper under your breath. Mostly aimed at yourself. At least there is nobody around to watch your foolishness in action.

    You take a step across the threshold, and immediately fall to one knee.

    ¡°Shit,¡± you repeat, ¡°shit.¡± The rainwater has pooled just behind the door, creating a puddle a good six inches deep. Now your whole sneaker is thick with slick mud. You grumble and try to push yourself up, but the earth is soft beneath the soaked grass, almost like it wants you to stay.

    You have better things to do, like not wallow in the mud chasing after stupid curiosities. So, you right yourself, leaning back to grip onto the door frame to pull yourself out and away from the bog-like ground.

    With wet and muddied trousers sticking to your legs, you step back from the wooden ledge, just as a pain pricks at your hand. You gasp and glare at the door as the wind blows it close to closing.

    A fucking splinter. Lightning blinds you as you hold your left hand up to try to spot the offending shard of wood. An impossible task with the rain assaulting your vision. It¡¯s just beneath your index finger by your palm, but other than the aching uncomfortable feeling, you can¡¯t really see it. It¡¯s certainly not large enough to pluck it out with your fingers right at this moment.

    You flip the door off as you slosh your way back to the path, fully aware this was all a problem of your own making. You placate yourself with the knowledge that even with the fruitless detour, you will still get home quicker than the road route. Just muddier instead of wetter.

    Not that travel is any more pleasant now. With your right leg and shoe thick with mud and the rain soaking everything but your shirt, it becomes increasingly difficult to keep your eyes on the swaying woodland. The wind is speeding up, and if you don¡¯t know any better, you may assume it had changed direction to spite you specifically. Half closed, your eyes focus only on the path right before you, the sheets of intense precipitation obscuring your vision if you try to look any further ahead than that.

    You will have to thank Chloe when the storm has moved on. Sure, you are in the shit now, but if she hadn¡¯t promoted you to leave when she had, then you¡¯d be in ever worse trouble. Silver linings, you think, dryly.

    After what feels like hours, the path starts to widen out. Counting still, the time between flashes of lightning and cracks of thunder has dropped to three seconds¡ªthe last being only just over two. The frequency has increased, which for the most part is just causing your head to ache. The rainfall hasn¡¯t increased, and the wind is constant. It is getting darker, however. Although not close to nightfall, if you don''t make it out of the woods before then, you will start to panic a little.

    Being able to follow the path in darkness won¡¯t be impossible, but it is a thought that sounds pretty abysmal. The only thing that could make this storm worse would be if it happened a few months later in the year. Then you will have frozen to death by now.

    Your footsteps slow as you try to maintain your stability on the slick mud devoid of any grass or vegetation. The familiar shape of a picnic table to your left comforts you. You are on the right track¡ªclose, even. A few of the town''s events were held in this small clearing throughout the year. They seemed to have a celebration for all manner of minor achievements. It gave your eyes a good workout with all the rolling. Ever the stick in the mud, your parents would say. There was something ironic about the state of your leg and that statement, but you were too busy scowling through the wall of rain to hold on to the thought.

    A couple of other tables loom through the curtain of rain. Another dozen or so steps and you will- yes, there is the sidewalk. Your feet strike solid ground, and you scuff your sneakers back and forth briefly to get off as much excess mud as possible. Then, reasonably confident you won''t slip over, you start to run. More of a casual jog, given that you don¡¯t want to be blown into one of the nearby buildings¡ªor even the road, despite it being completely dead. A twisted ankle or concussion would not be nice.

    This story originates from a different website. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

    Briefly blinding you, a streetlamp flickers into life, struggling to illuminate much of value with how thick the rainfall is. You narrow your eyes further down the street to see the other lights blink alternatively before remaining lit. It must be dark enough for the automated sensors to tell them to turn on. All that did was give the stark contrast to the rest of the surroundings.

    This street has shops on both sides for a while¡ªthe edge of the town center¡ªbefore it split off back into more residential buildings. It is no surprise that they are closed, but there are no lights coming from them at all. Not even the upper rooms where the shop owners often lived or rented out to others. Rather than filling your thoughts with conspiracy, you remember that the librarian had mentioned possible power outages along with the cell and communication stuff.

    Perhaps the grid is briefly down, but the streetlamps are on a backup or a separate generator for emergencies. That sounded plausible enough.

    The familiar dip in the sidewalk let you know that you are exiting the area, and you turn to the right as soon as the option presents itself. Rather than terraced buildings, the first detached house comes into view on the right. A flash of lightning illuminates the second, and as the thunder rumbles through the atmosphere two seconds later, you see it¡ªyour house.

    Any notions about it not feeling like your home washes away with the heavy rain. It was safety from the storm. Familiar shelter.

    Your feet hit the row of shallow steps as you go up the slight hill to the door.

    It isn¡¯t very visible in the current conditions, but your parent¡¯s house is what they describe as delightfully rustic. Which mostly means they haven¡¯t been bothered to update any of the decor or structure since the 60s. There used to be a thriving community built up around a lumber mill back then, but it had closed down long before your parents had moved in.

    With dark wooden walls and faded white trim around the windows and doors, it looks more like the scene of a horror movie. Somewhere a killer would stalk a group of clueless teens. Thankfully, it isn¡¯t quite that secluded, and other than the occasional lost deer, the town was relatively peaceful, even from the reaches of nature.

    Your hand pats around your pocket for your keys. The ache of the splinter rises with all the movement, but you endure it for now, as getting inside is more important. Briefly, you panic, thinking that you have dropped them in the woods when you had slipped, but no. They have just moved to the side of your pocket.

    A click, and the key turns and unlocks the door. You push it open and stumble into the darkness. Feeling like you have been holding your breath all this time, you gasp as you inhale easily once more. Leaning against the door, it clicks back closed. The sound of the storm is muted through the brown wood, but still present. The bright white of lightning illuminates the dark house, putting shapes and shadows into your brain briefly, before it fades away just as quick as it arrived.

    You let out a long groan, fully accepting how soaking wet you are. Standing up straight again, you release your backpack to the floor. Getting rainwater all over the hardwood floors will be a bad idea. You decide it will be best to keep containment in this small lobby. At least then you can throw towels in this eight-foot square space rather than trail destruction throughout the house.

    Rain jacket gets put on the hooks on the left beside the others. You push your sneakers off with your feet alternatingly, leaving them on the rough welcome mat rather than dirty up the shoe rack on the right beneath the side table. Now that you have acclimatized, you can see the small light flashing on the answering machine. Who even leaves messages these days, you wonder.

    Something to wait until you were in comfy, dry clothes. Your current hooded top, trousers, and socks get left on the floor, so you¡¯re now left in just underwear and a partially damp shirt. You flex your toes out and sigh deeply¡ªsomething interrupted by the storm flashing and cracking through the sky. You made it home.

    The first thing on your agenda is to get to the bathroom. Bare feet padding against the hardwood boards, you step through into the corridor, ignoring the grid of nine pictures of your family on the wall¡ªone of them missing. You had long given up on that space being replaced.

    You try to flick the light switch, but nothing happens. With another sigh, you hold up your phone and turn the flashlight on. Battery was middling, but it will last long enough to find the torch and candles from the kitchen after you dealt with this bastard splinter.

    No reception, either. The small screen just presents a small blinking cross.

    Downstairs bathroom was the first door on the left. Your light illuminates the white tiles of the simple room. The mirror cabinet opposite reflects the beam of white and causes you to wince. If there is one thing you can¡¯t fault your parents for, it was that they are reasonably organized. You place your phone on the side of the sink, standing it up against the pot of toothbrushes.

    With a quick glance at the plain shower curtains and small bath, you open up the cabinet and squint your eyes at the contents in the dim light. Just to the right of a couple of bottles of your father¡¯s aftershave, there is the little set that contains the tweezers.

    As you pull them out and close the cabinet door, you pull a face at your reflection. You look like a drowned rat, your hair completely pasted to your head. Drops of cooling rain still covering your face. Next step after the splinter was to towel yourself down and find the warmest clothes you have.

    You place the kit in the sink and pop the transparent plastic lid open, bringing out the silver metal tweezers. Lightning flashes through the small window, casting dark shadows across the room. You work your jaw as you hold your hand out in front of the phone light, angling it so that you can see it better without too much glare.

    The area where the pain originates from didn¡¯t seem to have anything wrong at first, and you frown, leaning your face closer, as you hunch over the basin.

    Another tilt and then there it is¡ªyou see the dark shape of what must be the splinter. Fucker went in deep, you think as you adjust the small metal tool between two fingers. Some of your early life had been a little ¡®free-range¡¯, so dealing with splinters isn¡¯t anything new. The nice ones you could pluck out easily with your fingers. This isn¡¯t one of those.

    You hold your breath as you push the two ends of the tweezers against your skin around the site of entrance. With your brow furrowed, you try to work it back and forth to coax the offending shard of wood out.

    At first, it didn¡¯t seem to want to budge, but as the storm flickers another burst of light through the town, a darker edge of the splinter emerges from your skin. Excellent. You move the points of the tool together slowly, trying to grip at the small object. Expecting more of a fight, you exhale and gradually pull at the splinter.

    It edges out a few millimeters, and you hold your breath again, anticipating the slight sting when it releases from your hand.

    But it didn¡¯t come out.

    Instead, it continues to emerge. Even as your heart rate increases, the muscles in your shoulders tensing up, you try to wave away the worry. It must have embedded pretty deep. You are lucky there isn¡¯t any blood.

    Still, you pull out more. It is now a good centimeter long. The angle of it doesn¡¯t seem normal. Not... possible. Your heart rises into your throat as your brain tries to find a way to make sense of this.

    Pain radiates from your hand as the dark brown shape continues to withdraw. Nausea grips at your stomach as your breaths become shorter, panicked.

    Your hand starts to shake as the object slides another centimeter, now almost two. There is no stopping it, and your mind can only act in shocked autopilot. It needs to be out of you, and you convince yourself it has to end at some point.

    It also doesn¡¯t look like a rough splinter of wood anymore. Much smoother. The shape of it is too round. Like aged paper.

    Lightning and thunder rock the house, causing you to jolt.

    A burning pain bites at your hand as the foreign object exits the wound, the small round injury red and raw, but too shallow to make sense.

    The object drops into the sink, and the tweezers follow suit, clattering against the ceramic.

    Other sounds are muted, as only the thudding of your heartbeat and focus on the ejected material fill your mind.

    With shaking hands, you reach down and pick it up. Almost two inches tall and tightly rolled, your thumb finds the open edge of what looks like rolled paper. Mouth dry, you slowly unravel it.

    The storm ravages the town, another deep boom immediately following a flicker of light.

    A shiver rocks through you and your blood runs cold, as harshly scratched letters form words along the aged sheet.

    You found the door; it says.

 3 - Flickering, Fading

    The house shakes as another burst of thunder vibrates through the building, causing your rising nausea to spike. Sitting on the edge of the bath seemed like a good idea at the time, and now, as your hands cover your eyes, you focus on your breathing. Adrenaline has you anxious, your lungs still only letting in short gasps of air.

    You had seen it, yet it can¡¯t be real.

    It isn¡¯t something your brain is understanding. How can it be? It was beyond anything you could have expected. Peering through your crossed fingers at the sink, part of you is frozen in place, unwilling to glance at the paper and message again. Your phone is just sitting there, still illuminating part of the bathroom in dim light. While your brain wants to put a pause on everything and remain in place until normal order is restored, you knew it didn''t work that way.

    You should take a photo of the tiny scroll while you still have the battery power. Who knew when the grid would be back up? Not that you really have anyone that will believe you if you sent them it and told them the story. You don''t believe it, but at least having proof was a step forward.

    Finding some amount of courage, you decide to stand. Better to face it and approach things logically, you think. Even if it defies any sort of logic. As your hand reaches for your phone, your gaze snaps to the contents of the washbasin.

    The small kit with hastily discarded tweezers laying atop it is there.

    But no piece of paper.

    Instead, there''s a small dark scratch of something laying stark against the white of the ceramic. A small wooden splinter.

    You take probably the deepest breath of your life and sigh, shaking slightly¡ªyou¡¯re cold and possibly losing the plot. Wanting to be sure, you turn your left hand toward the light once more. Rather than a circular wound, there is a small pink dot. About what you can expect from a sliver of wood the size that now lies in the sink.

    Pneumonia or some kind of flu, you ponder. You raise the back of your hand up to your forehead, but it doesn¡¯t feel especially warm. Even with a fever, hallucinations aren¡¯t that common. You glare at the empty space for a few moments, just to see if the message will suddenly appear again. A flash of lightning brings you out of the trance, and you shake your head.

    ¡°Fucking hells,¡± you murmur, before looking over to the side. On the back of the door are some towels. Rough rectangular shapes of gray, outlined thanks to the light your phone is providing.

    The desire to get some proper illumination helps your brain along in trying to find a plausible explanation for what you just witnessed. Did you really see that? Perhaps you haven¡¯t been sleeping enough lately. Too many fantasy novels. Your active imagination probably went into overdrive due to your anxiety over the storm and getting home. All partially reasonable thoughts.

    You pull a towel away from the rack and look at the mirror. Drowned rat still present, but now you can pick up on the dark circles around your eyes. You knew the word for it. Escapism. In trying to avoid your unhappiness in your current living situation, you are trying to drown yourself in stories. You roll your eyes.

    Now, of all times? Perhaps that is one thing you can take from this terrible event. Some figurative self-reflection while you look at yourself literally.

    The towel is somewhat comforting, and you rub your thumb back and forth on the fabric to get a feel of the texture. It is one you had brought with you, rather than the abysmal ones your parents used, which often doubled as sandpaper. With a sigh, you dry yourself off, top to bottom. It is a process made uncomfortable by the lack of paper-bound message in the sink. As much as you try to continue on, business as usual, the doubts are still sitting in the back of your mind.

    Now your hair looks a lot worse, but with most of the chilling dampness wicked away from your body, you feel much better. Still in need of something stiffer than a coffee, but once you get into your room and under the covers, you can shut everything away and feel better.

    If your phone battery doesn¡¯t run out before you got settled, that was. There is a process to these things.

    The items in the sink can stay there. You have better things to do than tidy up after yourself right now. As the storm lit the house briefly once more, you grab your phone. Best to check those messages on the answerphone before heading to the kitchen. Maybe it was something for your parents. Your aunt always calls your mother, but perhaps left a message since they aren''t home this week. She lived out-of-state now, but in their childhood they had been pretty close - not even having the usual sibling rivalry most kids had.

    You walk out of the bathroom and roll your eyes at the bedroom opposite, towel wrapping around your neck still. It was damp, but managed to give you some warmth. Enough for you to feel slightly less miserable, or perhaps the familiar fabric just grounds you a little. With a brief glance into the dark kitchen, you continue to the small lobby by the front door.

    This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

    The rain is battering at the door, and you grimace at seeing that some of the water is seeping in underneath it. Your towel becomes a sacrificial lamb as you roll it up and wedge it down at the edge of the door. Not a long-term solution, but hopefully the storm will pass before any permanent damage can happen. You turn your eyes to the blinking red light.

    Two messages. Why is this still on when the electricity is out? Are the phones on a different system to the rest of the house? Eager to know, you lift up the receiver to your ear. Silence. A press of a couple of buttons, and other than a short beep, it doesn¡¯t do anything. A question for your father, no doubt. If you even remember by the time they get back.

    You wrinkle up your nose as you place the receiver back down and press the play button.

    Message One, the robotic voice crackles. Hi-i-i-I¡­ storm and¡­ storm-safe¡­ days¡­ f-f-fridge¡­ garage¡­ you!

    That was your mother. The line is terrible, and you barely made any of her message out. She must have tried calling when the storm was rolling in, just before the lines went down for good. Sounds like she was telling you to stay safe and then something about the fridge in the garage? It hasn¡¯t been used in months, so you have no idea what that can be about.

    Message Two, it interrupts your confused thoughts. Weather warning. Please seek shelter. Power and communication networks are likely to be affected. Remain in place until the storm has passed.

    A generic message that they had sent out earlier. Probably what the librarian had gotten, although you don¡¯t remember hearing the sound of her phone ringing at any point. In fairness, you were pretty absorbed in the book. You let the storm sneak up on you. Nothing on your cell to warn you, either.

    You lift it up to double check. No signal whatsoever, and the battery is not looking too peachy after running the light for a little while. It isn''t even that bright, yet always seems to drain the power like some kind of hungry monster.

    With one last glance at your dripping jacket and sodden clothes still on the floor, you move out of here and take a left into the kitchen.

    One of the biggest rooms in the house, and something of some pride to your mother. At least, she keeps bringing it up¡ªeven if she doesn¡¯t really cook that often. Counters running along the left wall, the windows looking out to the front yard. An island in the middle of the room, and then the stove, fridge, and more counters on the right. The decor was bland. Deep gray and oak wood. In the gloomy light, everything is shadowed and grim, as if the life has been sucked from every surface.

    You walk up to the center counter and lean your phone up against the wooden block that housed all the good knives. Well, they will be good if they are ever sharpened. They are just the biggest and most flashy, for as useful as that is. You stretch out and consider whether you want something to eat.

    The march through the mud and rain, and then the shock of imagining whatever bullshit was in the bathroom, has set you in an odd mood where you feel both ravenous and too sick to eat. It is good to keep your energy up, but you don''t want to feel even worse. You walk over to the fridge and pop it open, rather disappointed that the usual light doesn¡¯t greet you. Splitting the difference between your current moods seems fair, so you grab a few slices of cheese.

    You shut the fridge and turn around to the counters, picking your phone back up. The items you need will be under the sink, if your memory is correct.

    The hinges of the door creak slightly as you pull it open, causing you to wince. Old houses were terrible for random noises. You''ll have to dig around for your headphones and tune everything out.

    Dropping into a squat, you hold up the phone to illuminate the inside of the cupboard. A shape moves, a large shadow darting across the back wall. You fall onto your backside and swear, realizing too late that it was a spider.

    ¡°Fucking spiders,¡± you mutter. You push yourself up and move the light, clearly picking up the disturbed arachnid now hiding on the left side of the cupboard where it was darker. It isn¡¯t even a big one, all things considered.

    After giving it a well-deserved glare, you turn your attention to the actual contents in front of you. A bucket, several cleaning material bottles, but just to the side¡ªa small box. Candles, matches, and a torch with spare batteries.

    You give a silent apology for all the disdain you have had for your parents today.

    As you lift it out, the cardboard sticks to the base of the cupboard slightly, tearing some of the box off. Not enough to have anything fall out, but it was just another thing to tidy up once this was all over.

    The cheese was good, at least. You pick it back up from the counter and take a bite as you exhale through your nose. Today can¡¯t get any worse, but at least you have enough candles and light. The storm flashed and rumbled in the background.

    Inside the box are a few candle holders as well, to keep them stable and catch most of the errant wax. Last thing you want to do is burn the house down, so that is handy. Do you really need to put them up now? The plan had been to retire to bed and pretend nothing existed. It will be a bad idea to leave candles unattended even if the holders were supposedly safe.

    They can perhaps wait until needed. Instead, you bring out the torch. It feels cheap and old, as if it was a relic handed down from your grandparents. That isn¡¯t that unlikely. Even the simple switch to turn it on grinds against old grime as you push it forward¡ªbut it does produce dim light.

    Before then fading after three seconds. New batteries needed already.

    You pull out one of the thick cylindrical batteries and hope it only needs one or two. As two are all that is left in the box. The black plastic shell of the torch squeaks slightly as you unscrew the base, allowing the spring to relax and eject two batteries.

    Well, it can be worse. In saying that, you narrow your eyes as some of the connections look corroded. You pop the fresh power in and screw it back up. Another resisted click and the light comes back on, now slightly brighter.

    It flickers slightly as the grime obscuring the switch tries to reset it back to off. You press your thumb against it, holding it on. It will have to do. You pick your phone up and switch the flashlight off, putting yourself at the mercy of the decrepit flashlight. In fact, it will be best to turn it off for now. At least until you know when the power is going to come back on.

    You hold the button on the side and wait for the screen to go dark. Five long seconds of just the rain pelting at the windows being the only sound, until finally the phone switches off.

    From somewhere in the house, you hear the brief creak of a hinge, before the clunk of a door closing.

 4 - Houseworking

    You stare at the kitchen doorway, ears intensely focusing on trying to pick out any further sound coming from in the house. The thunder and lightning cause you to twitch, managing to make you jump despite being a constant presence every few minutes.

    An ache in the side of your face causes you to realize that you have been clenching your jaw too hard. You try to relax it and slowly sweep the torch over toward the open door and into the hall.

    Despite your heart racing, your hand is rather steady with the light. The house is old, after all. Perhaps a breeze got in and pushed a door closed, or it was a different sound that your brain just equated to being a door. With nothing revealed just outside the room, aside from the eight picture frames, your eyes went over to the right.

    The windows are streaked with rain, dotted with ever refreshing droplets. Enough to make it difficult to see the street outside, let alone the neighbors on the other side. There is a streetlight on to the right, but other than that it was just gray, constant storm.

    You pull a face at the irony of being so secluded in the house that doesn¡¯t feel like a home, but that is mostly to calm yourself down from thinking about the noise.

    Still, it has been quiet since. Your parents don¡¯t even have any pets, not since Bucky passed two years ago. Your father had said he just wasn¡¯t ready for another dog so soon, and then they never really brought it up again. Maybe that was something the house was missing. You run your tongue across your teeth, the taste of cheddar still lingering.

    Time to get some clothes on, before you really do catch a cold.

    You step back through into the hall, more cautiously than before. The beam of light from your handheld flashlight brightens up the corridor leading down past several doorways. The stairs at the end leading up to the second floor are still stripped of carpet, removed but another project that had been put off. Your parents want to restore all the hardwood flooring, but have barely managed the full ground floor before getting bored with the notion.

    Money was partly the issue, but it is also the inconvenience of constantly being under renovation that had worn their patience thin. Thankfully, you had been absent for the bulk of it, moving in after the kitchen had been finished.

    You step slowly past the bathroom door, which is still open, not even daring to swing the light in there. If you are already on edge, there is no need to feed into the paranoia. You can survive one simple storm.

    The next two doors are already closed. Not unusual, but it still makes you tense up. The one on the right is your sibling¡¯s bedroom, and is normally locked up tighter than most bank vaults. The ¡¯keep out¡¯ sign had aged, but still applied. You pause and hesitate. Even knowing better, you try the handle. Breath held, just in case.

    It is locked.

    Both the flashlight and your eyes turn to the door slightly ahead on the left. The dining room and lounge. Biggest room in the house, something even you will admit is pretty nice. There is some temptation to push through and give it a once-over, but you didn¡¯t want to tempt fate. Plus, without the heating on, it will probably be chilly in there. Maybe if the storm calmed down a little, you can set the wood fire up.

    You head for the next floor, your bedroom up there. Feet against the rougher wood of the unfinished stairs, you pause and look down at the small door against the wall shadowed beside the back of the staircase. It leads to the garage out the back, where the washer and dryer are¡ªamong many other things you don¡¯t care for. Tools and more unfinished projects. It was so cluttered that it wasn¡¯t even used for your parent¡¯s car to park in.

    The door is also slightly ajar.

    For the sake of your sanity and peace of mind, you should probably close it. Not something you are happy about deciding, but it¡¯s some forward thinking that might put you at ease next time you have a weird noise to query.

    You walk down the three steps backwards, keeping the torch on the garage door. The light flickers slightly before you press down on the button harder. First thing you¡¯re going to do tomorrow is go and get a real nice torch. None of this archaic shit anymore.

    As you step up toward the door, you can feel a slight breeze of cooler air coming through the gap. Not quite enough to make you think there¡¯s an open window or anything¡ªthe wide garage door is unlikely to be completely weatherproof, so a chill was almost expected.

    Your hand extends towards the handle.

    Something about the fridge in the garage, your mother had said in the message. Not entirely enough of a concrete request that makes you really want to go in there. Maybe after you put some actual clothes on. Your hand grips the cold metal and pulls the door closed.

    It clicks shut.

    You sigh and shake your head. Obviously you have doors on the mind today. It must have been something in your book that has made them a focus. You turn and the flashlight illuminates your path, a flash of lightning then pulsing through the hallway. As the near-instant rumble of thunder almost deafens you, you use it as an excuse to power back around and up onto the stairs. Torch and eyes kept low, just at your intended path.

    No need to linger on the darkness, or closed doorways, or even the paintings on the wall. You¡¯d seen them all a hundred times before. The house was the same as it was in daytime. It was just your perception of the darkness making it feel more sinister.

    If you come across this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.

    Or at least, that¡¯s what you tried to tell yourself.

    Up onto the next floor landing, you immediately went for your bedroom door. You open it up, step inside, close the door, and lean against it. Flashlight circles around everything within. Just as you had left it this morning.

    The window beside your bed rattles slightly as the wind pelts it with raindrops. It was even darker outside now, almost like night. You pan your light across the shelves of books on the right, just above your drawers full of clothes.

    You murmur some displeasure over the book still being held prisoner in your backpack. It isn¡¯t likely the bag was completely waterproof, at least not to the extent that you got soaked. If it is damaged, that will be a shame, but rushing down to save it now will probably be fruitless.

    After an attempt to place the torch down and it just flickering and turning off three seconds later, you resign yourself to getting dressed in the dark. Something your mother often said you must do anyway, with the state of some of your outfits. For now, comfort was more important than appearance.

    Top drawer has your socks and underwear, the second has your tops, and the third your bottoms. Aside from your bookshelf, it was one of the few places you kept some order. It made dressing yourself in this dim light reasonably easy. After completely stripping, you put on new underwear, thick socks, compression shorts underneath tracksuit pants, a t-shirt, jumper, and hooded top¡ªand then even managed to find a beanie by touch alone.

    With a sigh, you felt reasonably content now. Warmer and dry. Safer, in fact¡ªas though you have protection from whatever weirdness has affected you alongside the storm. Reading a book with the finicky torch sounded like a headache waiting to happen. But by candlelight? You smile. That can work.

    Something to get your mind off the splinter. You are doing your best to come to terms with it. There is no proof that it ever happened other than the very vivid memories inside your head¡ªand you¡¯d rather believe that it didn¡¯t happen.

    You look around your room again, torch picking out the details and casting shadows around the walls. So determined to not allow this to be your space, you haven¡¯t really decorated it much. A couple of photo frames of your best friend you moved away from, one of Bucky, and some shots from the book fair you traveled hours to get to¡ªjust to meet one of your favorite authors. Aside from those and the overburdened bookshelves, it doesn¡¯t look as though anyone really lives here.

    While you glumly stare at the rows of books, your heart catches in your throat.

    Muffled, but clear even over the rain. A creak, and a door clicking closed again.

    It doesn¡¯t sound too close, so it must be one of the ones downstairs again. You put all your eggs in the basket of it being that door to the garage again. The wind was probably causing pressure and moving it back and forth. That sounded reasonable to you.

    So why are you frozen in place?

    You shake your head. This is ridiculous. What would your parents say if you spent the whole day just jumping at every random sound and circling the house on edge? Probably nothing good. Not that your parents are ever mean as such, they just didn¡¯t get you. They waved away your issues about being here. Being dismissed felt¡­

    Well, perhaps not as bad as getting spooked by the wind moving doors.

    You adjust your grip on the torch again, the constant pressure against your thumb feeling uncomfortable. In fact, you are pretty close to finding the super glue and getting the switch permanently set in place. The adhesives are stored in the garage, so perhaps you can line all the birds up for a good stone¡¯s throw. Then, on the way back, grab the candles from the kitchen. Settle in under the covers and wait for the storm to blow over.

    It sounds foolproof. You work out your shoulders to prepare to tell that door what¡¯s good for it. Maybe find some manner of stop for it. Simple problems, easily solved.

    With another sigh, you set off.

    Out of your bedroom and onto the landing. Your parent¡¯s bedroom was opposite, their door closed. While they have an en-suite to the right, on your side there is just a storage room. Also closed. The small window at the end of this short hallway let in some dull gray light, silhouetting a short round table in front of it, the houseplant sitting there looking rather miserable.

    You turn and make your way slowly down the stairs, being careful your socks don¡¯t slip on the edges. Perhaps not the best choice for moving around the wooden floors in the house. As you descend, you turn your eyes down over the bannister to peek at the door to the garage.

    The line of gray signals that it is open by a crack again. Most likely, the closing sound was just the mechanism unlatching as the change in pressure drew it open. You almost felt like patting yourself on the back for getting that right.

    Around the bottom of the stairs, the torch illuminates the offending doorway. You step forward and grip at the cold handle again, this time pushing it open. You feel the cold air immediately on your face, and point the torch forward.

    Clutter. Shadows amongst shadows, as dozens upon dozens of unrecognizable objects fall into the glare of the light. The large garage door to the left wavers slightly, and a small amount of chilly air reaches you with a renewed gust. Just as you suspected. The fridge sits next to a large freezer on the back wall, but from this distance neither looked particularly useful nor in need of your attention. Whatever your mother had said can wait.

    Instead, your attention turns to the right. The metal workbench covered in small cardboard boxes will have the superglue on it somewhere. A corkboard is affixed to the wall above it, carrying a variety of different tools. Your eyes move across them and pick out a file that looks like it can wedge under the door to keep it closed.

    After several boxes of different sized screws, and one pot of what was hopefully just grease, you find the bottle of superglue and pocket it.

    You give the garage another sweep with your light, the lightning outside barely hitting the space that didn¡¯t really have windows. It was difficult to say if anything will be useful for your current situation, when it was mostly junk that isn¡¯t useful full stop.

    With a shrug, you turn and leave the room. You kneel down by the bottom of the door and pull it closed, wedging the file in at an angle. Not enough to break or get it fully stuck, but there is enough friction and pressure that it should stop popping open on its own in the future.

    You give it a nod, for a job well done. Now you will need the candles and to retreat to your bedroom, and this storm was as good as finished.

    The torch flickers before you press down on it again, stabilizing the necessary illumination. You walk away, back down the hallway, toward the kitchen.

    Clunk.

    You wince and tense up at the sound of the door unlatching once again. Perhaps the file has failed you.

    As you turn back around, your heart stops and you almost drop the torch in shock.

    The gray garage door is now red, but the paintwork on it is flaking and aged. Wet vines grasp at the edges of it, rain dripping onto loose mud around the hardwood floor.

    This is the door from the woods.

 5 - Here and There

    Your mind feels unhinged, like it has become a blur of half-concocted thoughts. Even down to the smell of sodden earth, this is a replica of that red door from the woods.

    Despite blinking several times, it remains there. The torch light flickers as your grip wanes, before you push it back in position to illuminate the impossibility in front of you. No longer seeping through the cracks of the garage, there is still a chill that radiates from this closed doorway. It pierces your thick clothing and you shiver involuntarily.

    The storm raging outside doesn¡¯t even make you flinch, as your wide eyes remain focused on the aged red door. Curiosity had gotten the best out of you the first time, but now you aren¡¯t so sure. You lack the focus to rationalize this.

    Another hallucination? It was lingering past the initial shock. You are in half a mind to just power through it, wind up in the garage and shatter whatever illusion your brain is forcing you to see. The other half was paralyzed, fearful of it being something more than just a trick.

    ¡°You¡¯re just a door,¡± you tell it, although there¡¯s only the slight hint of self-assurance in your words.

    It doesn¡¯t respond, which you are thankful for. Denial isn¡¯t the same as acceptance, but you would take what small wins you can get while going insane. Perhaps painkillers and sleep will be a better future for the rest of the day. You are clearly suffering.

    Before making any kind of decision, you realize that you are flexing your left hand, some brief ache in it where the splinter had gotten you. Almost the only part of you capable of movement, but by noticing, you managed to find some manner of grounding. It is just a figment of your imagination. What can a door do to you, anyway?

    Instead of engaging with it, you can ignore it. A thought that grew in validity by the passing second. Maybe it will make more noises or stand there looking menacing, but it is a door. It could remain there and you can have that nap and break from the invisible fever currently ravaging your waking mind.

    Content enough that you have talked the panic down to an acceptable level, you let out a shaky sigh and nod at the imagined doorway. Let¡¯s see how it liked the silent treatment.

    Gathering up your strength, you turn away from it and step slowly toward the kitchen again. Back to the original plan for now. You still find yourself tense, expecting another creak or bang, but other than a rolling blast of thunder making you jump, the house was quiet once more.

    You walk into the kitchen and deflate, feeling exhausted. Briefly forgetting what you came into this room for, you wipe your head off on your sleeve, sweating despite the constant chills. It must be a fever. The box of candles and matches remain where you had left them on the island. You consider grabbing more cheese, before declining the notion. That may make your delusions even worse, unfortunately.

    Box now in your hands, you turn back to the kitchen doorway. There is no actual door on this side of the kitchen, just the open space. It has been like that for years. Removed at some point when furniture was being moved around, and then never replaced. No doubt it lurked somewhere in the garage beneath some other junk. It is the only door in the house unable to be closed¡ªalthough you wasn¡¯t sure why you needed to think that.

    A glance back behind the fridge, and the other door in the room that leads to the lounge was also closed. Lightning illuminated it, just to help you in confirming that fact. If anything, it just brought back some of the nausea again. This was way too stressful. It was a simple storm.

    With a clenched jaw, you walk into the hallway and swung the flashlight back down to the stairs. After an inopportune flicker, your light illuminates the regular door to the garage down the end of this passage. Relief sinks through you. Thank fuck.

    You wonder how people can deal with taking mushrooms or other hallucinogens when a bad trip can be worse than this. Not being sure of reality was frightening. Box tucked under your arm, you increased your pace to the stairs. Close to the finish line now, you just have to get back into your room and lock yourself away.

    The torch washed over the steps as you looked down and was careful of your footing. Your sibling had cracked their leg open one time and still bore the scar. Given how much shit you gave them for it, repeating the same action would earn you more than the warranted injury.

    But you make it to the top unharmed. Almost a smile on your face, before your torch swings back up to your door.

    Only, it¡¯s not your door any longer.

    You stumble back in panic, hitting yourself against the opposite wall. Glancing between the mud and red, flaking paint, your mouth runs dry. It¡¯s just a door, so why is it following you? A question with no real answer. You are imagining it, aren¡¯t you?

    As your hand tightens on the torch, you¡¯re not as sure as you were before. The smell seems real, but you can probably make that up in your mind. If you touch it and it feels real, then what did that mean? Finding out felt as much an inevitability as it was unpalatable.

    There was no way a real door can change places. You try to convince yourself of that fact. You needed to deal with the situation by ignoring it, like you had decided before. Just power through it, and step into your bedroom, then you can fix the torch and get some sleep.

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    In all the furor you have forgotten to swing by the medicine cabinet on your way up. Going back down and up the stairs again would either get the red door to go away or do something even worse to your mind. You waver for a second before taking the risk.

    If you are ill¡ªand there can be no doubt that was true¡ªthen some meds will help you feel more normal sooner. Something that was becoming a greater desire as the day went on.

    You step sidewards to the stairs, before turning away from the door at the last second. If only so that you don¡¯t tumble down the steps. A broken leg will do your fragile brain no good. Perhaps you¡¯d always imagine the door in some place in the house while you are still out of your mind. If you keep tabs on where it was, then you¡¯d be in control.

    Expect the door. Observe the door. Be better than the door.

    You shake your head as you reach the hallway. Things really are dire. Can you hear yourself think? Trying to exact some superiority over an intangible illusion.

    The bathroom door opened up. Had you closed it before? It had been open at some point, but now you can¡¯t remember exactly. With a grimace on your face, you avoid looking at the mirror as you step over to the cabinet. A glance down into the sink and it is as you left it. Splinter, tweezers, and kit still waiting there.

    You pop the cabinet open and look around for what you have in stock for pain relief. Some basic pills that should lower any fever and erase the light headache you have grinding away at the edges of your mind. That will have to do.

    Placing the packet on the edge of the sink, you pick up the tweezer and kit out of the way. A bit of water to wash the pills down will be great. You twist the cold tap on and reach for the pill packet.

    No water.

    Your brow furrows as you twist it back off and then on again. Trouble with the plumbing as well? The storm shouldn¡¯t cause issues there. From beneath the house, and slowly rising up toward you, comes a hollow rattling sound.

    Before you have the chance to react, the tap shudders and groans. The metal spout expels something thick and dark, whatever is produced instead of water just splattering down into the sink. You cover your mouth; the torchlight flickering as you can¡¯t tear your eyes away.

    The white of the basin is now pepped with globs of brown sludge mixed with dirtied and shredded leaves. Mud.

    You control your breathing again and twist the tap back off. One of the pipes in town must have been damaged. Good thing you hadn''t tried to take a shower. While dirty moisture runs off the blobs of mud and down the plughole, you shake your head. Fucking town and its old-fashioned bullshit.

    What you wouldn¡¯t give to be in the city with the normal amenities. Now without water, electricity, and¡ªeven worse¡ªinternet, it was a miracle that the town has survived this long. You shake your head once more; the annoyance erasing some of the panic still beating away at your heart.

    There should be something in the fridge you can drink.

    You close the cabinet door, a flash of red in the reflection causing you to spin around. Shaky torchlight illuminates nothing out of the ordinary. Just the hallway wall.

    ¡°Fuck¡¯s sake,¡± you hiss to yourself. Now you are jumping at imagined primary colors.

    You sweep the hallway as you step out into it. No woodland door here. Behind you, you shut the bathroom door again. They all needed to stay closed. Pills in your pocket, you go back to the kitchen, well aware that you have never gone on such a marathon around the house before. Your route wasn¡¯t as well planned as you first thought.

    After turning into the kitchen, you frown and twisted back around. Seven pictures on the wall. The circular beam of torchlight ran down the wall to see if it has fallen on the floor. But there is nothing there. As your light went back up, there are eight pictures, as there should be. You stared at them for a second, running your tongue across your teeth.

    No. You will ignore that.

    Keep control of your mind, it is just playing tricks.

    Back around to the fridge, you open it up to see what options you have. Your eyes skirt past the milk and pop, and waver on the cans of your father¡¯s beer. Normally you can consider it an option, but given your mental state and potential illness, it wouldn¡¯t be a good idea. You settle for a bottle of water hiding way in the back. Still reasonably chilled, which is nice.

    With your eyes lingering on the pictures just outside the kitchen, you bring the pills into your mouth and wash them down with the water. The storm had something to say about it, but you have started to tune it out. You have bigger problems than the occasional flash of light and shaking crack of thunder right overhead. The only attention you were paying was enough to know that it hasn¡¯t started to pass. The noise came almost immediately after the light still.

    Once it moves away, you could breathe a little easier.

    You step into the hallway and glance at your wet clothing and backpack in the little lobby. The towel beside the door has all but saturated with water, but is doing a good enough job of keeping more rain from getting in. You give a shrug of apology to your backpack. It will have to accept its fate for now.

    The torch illuminates the hallway as you turn and glare at each doorway in turn. All normal, as far as you can tell. Perhaps your brain has settled a little, and you will not have to worry about that door again.

    A thought that sours about halfway up the stairs, as your light picks up the mud and vines again. The red door is still there.

    ¡°No, thank you,¡± you tell it, muscles tensing up again. It should have gone by now. It doesn¡¯t seem to agree.

    You take several deep breaths. It¡¯s not real. Just go into your room and ignore it.

    With a flex of your left hand, you commit to the plan. Full of wavering confidence, you step toward it, grab the cold handle and twist.

    It feels real. The very aura of the fraying edges and decaying paint job has a more tangible air to it than you hoped.

    There is some resistance to the door opening, but you have already made your intent so clear that you lean into it. Your body presses against the cracking shards of paint, the smell of aged wood and dampness fills your nose, panic rising at the fact that you might not be able to open this very real door up.

    And then with a pop, it opens unexpectantly.

    You stumble forward, feet catching on something wet that immediately soaks through your socks as you drop to the floor. With a groan, you reach out for the dropped torch, eager to bring light back to your room.

    It didn¡¯t fall far from you, and your hand reaches for it, the black plastic picking up some of the dim ambient light to guide your hand. Back in your grasp, you hold down the switch as you push yourself up from aching knees. The light flickers on, illuminating hardwood floor.

    You frown and bring it up, revealing the downstairs hallway in front of you. Turning slowly, you look back to see your closed front door. Thunder rocks through the house as you step away from the soaking towel by your feet. Moved out of place from where you had pushed it away and tripped over it.

    Thunder rolls through the sky as you stare blankly at what is hopefully still your house.

 6 - Coming Undone

    There is no rationalizing this. You tried, but no amount of delusion can make you think you are walking through your bedroom door but actually end up coming through the front door.

    The rain outside is almost a solid sheet of water. Even if you are having a mental break and had gotten into the front yard, you will have been soaked in an instant before making it back inside.

    You shut your eyes tightly and open them again, but nothing changes. Still standing at the edge of the lobby. The box of candles hit the floor underneath you and split open after you had tripped. The weakened base of the box doing it a final disservice, spreading the rods of wax, holders, and a box of matches around on the hardwood.

    How did this even happen?

    You feel that your bed will somehow fix all of this. As if burying yourself under the covers can stop whatever you are experiencing. It might, and until things started to make sense, that was a clear as a goal as you could think of.

    Eyes still glaring out at the empty hallway full of closed doors, you squat down slowly and grab around for a candle, holder, and the box of matches.

    You step through into the kitchen, as lightning illuminates the room before your torch has the chance. It looks just as you had left it. Holder down first, candle inside it, you then put the torch down, sinking everything back into dim light as you fiddle with the matchbox.

    The first just snaps in half as you go to strike it. The second doesn¡¯t seem to have a head to ignite. The third takes four strikes, each shakier than the last, before it flares into light. You point it downwards so that the flame can settle up the wood rather than risk it going out immediately. Slowly, you move it over to the candle and the wick takes hold of the flame.

    Not exactly bright, but it is a constant¡ªif not flickering¡ªlight. Enough for you to see the torch clearly on the central island here.

    Your eyes dart to the window, and you swear you see a shadow wash past. Probably just a leaf or other debris caught in the storm. Two deep breaths later, and you stop staring at the rain pelting the glass. You now withdraw the superglue from your pocket, twist off the lid and hold it in your left hand. With the torch in your right, you press the switch forward.

    Allowing focus to drown out the back of your mind screaming away at your current situation, you dab the adhesive liquid in sections around the edges of the switch. Twenty seconds for it to dry before you do the next area. Patience will pay off here¡ªyou only want to do this the one time. With all sides done and dry, you paste the area with another layer just to be sure.

    A minute of holding it in place, and it should either be done, or won¡¯t work at all. The candle seems pretty stable in the holder, so you decide to leave it in place¡ªa small push putting it a decent distance away from the edge. Maybe setting these up around the house would help with your sanity, but then again, you don¡¯t intend on wandering the place for any longer than necessary.

    From within a cupboard, you take out a tupperware container to house the discarded candles from the hallway. As you turn to the open door, you pause. There are now nine photo frames hanging on the wall.

    After blinking a few times, it remains, the space filled. You approach gingerly until your flashlight illuminates the new picture clear enough to see.

    Slightly faded, but it¡¯s obvious to you. It¡¯s a photograph of the red door.

    You bite at your lip and exhale. As your grip loosens, you are briefly relieved that the flashlight doesn¡¯t flicker, but remains on. This small win gives you a little courage, so you reach out.

    Not wanting to give the annoying door the time of day, you remove the picture from the wall. You turn and step into the kitchen, back over to the cupboards by the window. While the heavy raindrops beat against the glass, you pull at the handle that reveals the trashcan under the other side of the sink.

    ¡°No thanks,¡± you murmur to the frame as you drop it down into the darkness. You close the cupboard and turn back to head to your room.

    Only, there are still nine pictures on the wall.

    The picture of the door is back in the usually empty spot once more. Your brain must really want to see it in that place. Perhaps just pattern recognition, you consider. What else should fill that obvious gap but another picture, and with the day going as it has, the door seems like a good enough fit?

    You scowl at your own justifications. Things were actually fucked, but part of you is hoping you could ignore it and continue with the original plan. But you have just walked in through the front door after moving into your bedroom. Hallucinations aside, that wasn¡¯t right.

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    Turning your head to the side, you look at the front door. Did you really just come through it? You can hear the wind rattling against it, the rain once again seeping in underneath. There is no way you can open it and find an answer that isn¡¯t just the storm. That almost seems unfair.

    You kneel down and place the torch on the floor while you pick up the discarded candles and holders. Perhaps putting them unlit in places will be nice for when you need to use the bathroom or whatever. No sense creating fire risks if your main goal was to hibernate, however.

    With that said, you should probably snuff out the¡­

    You stand and turn to look in the kitchen, which is once again in darkness. The candle can¡¯t have burned out already. Flashlight back in hand, you scan over the island counter.

    The candle and holder are no longer there. You check the floor as well. It¡¯s clear.

    From the direction of the garage, there is a long, shuddering creak.

    Your focus snaps to it immediately. Light up as you step into the hallway. The moving shadows cast by the roving light has you frozen in place, but there isn¡¯t anything there. All the doors are closed and normal.

    ¡°I¡¯m losing it,¡± you tell yourself, as if speaking it out loud makes things more real, or it might prompt someone to come and tell you that things are fine. That you are fine.

    You take one stiff step over to the hallway light switch, flick it up and then down. No electricity still. It¡¯s tempting to take your phone out and power it up to see if there is a signal, but that was likely to be a disappointment as well. Do you have a power bank somewhere to give it more juice? You used to, but it was a matter of whether you had bothered to leave it charged, even if you can find it.

    Chances were slim.

    You place a new holder and candle on the kitchen island. Only two of those left now, so you next open the bathroom to place one in there. The basin is no longer marred by blobs of mud. All clean, aside from a small shard of wood on one side. Splinter. You place the holder and candle on the small cabinet beside the bath, and leave. Door shut behind you. The third holder will have to go in your room.

    The door to the garage looks fully closed, and even the bright flash of lightning doesn¡¯t show any potential cracks. Stepping over to the stairs, you give the hallway behind you a quick sweep. Other than the additional photograph, everything is as it should be.

    On the bottom step, you pause and remove your socks. They are wet now anyway, and a detriment to your safety on the stairs. The house will look quite the state in the morning once you¡¯d recovered to find clothing and household items strewn around everywhere.

    You walk up, keeping an eye on the door to the garage as you ascend, before switching your light to your bedroom door. Normal, although that isn¡¯t the main concern. You almost don¡¯t need to use your torchlight, and as you crest the top of the stairs, you see why.

    Down at the end of the landing, on top of the small table, is the candle from the kitchen. Flickering wildly, as if there is a breeze coming in through the cracks of the window there. Whatever houseplant had previously lived in that space has vanished. Maybe somewhere else in the house.

    Your tired eyes switch between your bedroom door and the wavering illumination. So close. With how old the house is, it doesn¡¯t surprise you that there is enough of a gap for some of the harsh wind to make it in. Potentially enough for the candle to fall?

    It seems like a risk that is not worth taking. A house fire in the storm sounded even worse than dealing with your weird imagination, although you curse yourself for putting that out into thought. You can blow it out and then return to bed. Something that sounds more like hopeful permission than a statement of capability.

    You place your own box of candles down on the floor near your door before walking down, as if it helps with tethering your intent to that place. As you approach, you can definitely feel the chill radiating from whatever gaps the window has. You barely remember it being this bad, even in winter.

    With a cautionary scowl at the candle, you lean down slightly. The flame flickers beneath you, briefly drawing you in as if you are a moth. Almost as if you could find some sort of safety or normality within the slight warmth it offered. If only it were that easy. You blink away your stare.

    And then you blow it out.

    Darkness surrounds you, as even your flashlight flickers off and the window doesn¡¯t provide any dim ambient light. Your torch flickers back on almost immediately, and you find yourself leaning over the kitchen island.

    The smell of smoke wafts from the snuffed candle in front of you, filling your nose as you stand back up slowly. You stare at it for a few moments, your breathing slow and labored. Another teleportation themed hallucination. You were blowing out the candle, but have been imagining where you are actually standing.

    That must be it, surely?

    You turn to reveal eight photographs on the wall just outside the kitchen. Maybe the delusions come in waves. For another few moments of thought¡ªonly briefly interrupted by the storm shaking the house¡ªyou consider just hunkering down in the kitchen instead. You can¡¯t go crazy remaining in the corner of the room, right?

    The box of candles and matches aren¡¯t in your grasp anymore, however - you have left them upstairs. With a quick pat around your pockets, you check your inventory again. Keys, phone, tube of superglue, and the flashlight in your hand. Maintaining the facts is important to keep things together. Mostly your sanity.

    You have to accept that you are going through something and approach things systematically. After shaking out your tense muscles, you decide getting the matches at least will be important. You could relight this kitchen one and then avoid blowing out any imagined ones. Simple.

    A sweep through the hallway reveals nothing out of the ordinary. You pause to press the sodden towel back up against the front door, using your foot. Then you walk as confidentially as you can to the stairs, and climb up them.

    Your brow furrows as soon as you reach the top. The plant has returned to the table down the end, sure, but that¡¯s not what has you confused.

    Now, not only is the box missing from where you left it, but so are all the doors up here. Your bedroom, the storeroom, and your parent¡¯s bedroom door entrances, all gone.

    Plain wooden wall greets you on both sides, as another loud creak reverberates from back downstairs.

    This one is not as shy as the others, and shakes and groans for a good four seconds before becoming silent.

    I am fine; you tell yourself. You aren''t.

 7 - Overdue Rest

    With your heart beating loudly in your chest, you run your hand across the wall where your bedroom door should be. Smooth wood. Any hope that you can feel the ridges of the frame beneath the illusion are shot. To pieces. Withdrawing your hand slightly, you then rap your knuckles on the wood.

    A dull knock that didn¡¯t feel as though a hollow room beyond exists. You frown and knock again, twice, to be sure.

    From somewhere downstairs, two muffled knocks repeated, like an echo.

    While you remain frozen in place, you try to make sense of that. When you had blown out the candle, it had actually been the kitchen one, not from up here. If you knocked up here, were you actually physically downstairs knocking on something else?

    There will be no better way of testing, really. You knock again twice.

    No response. Your brief assumption is now thrown out of the window. You sigh and put your palm flat against the wall. The place where the splinter had pierced ached again. You wonder if you caught tetanus or some other infection. It was an old door. It was a very persistent door.

    With nothing else to do up here other than pull a tired face at the houseplant and hope it will answer your unspoken questions, you turn back to the stairs. Time to teleport or find yourself somewhere else in the house. As much as this was soaking your very core with stress, your brain had started running on fumes. If it was a fever, there will only be so much before you passed out.

    You didn¡¯t even need to make it halfway down to the ground floor before you can see that there were no doors down here, either. Bathroom, your sibling''s bedroom, and¡ªlooking over bannister¡ªthe door to the garage have all vanished. Replaced with plain wooden walls like the rest of the house.

    Flashlight picking up little detail, you swing it ahead to the end of the hall. Picture frames on the wall, but you can¡¯t see how many from this angle. Front door had vanished. Kitchen doorway was open still, your delusion clearly unable to paste over something that didn¡¯t have an actual door before.

    So where is the knocking coming from? Or the creaking?

    You continue on and look at the picture frames. Usually, they are full of happy faces. Family members and close friends. All eight are now of the red door.

    ¡°Someone¡¯s desperate for attention,¡± you murmur, rolling your eyes at the small squares. On the off chance this is some paranormal event instead of your brain losing wrinkles, then you are glad it was just a boring door of all things to be haunting you.

    You sweep the flashlight into the open kitchen, half expecting the red door to be sitting beside the island counter - a steaming mug of coffee beside the handle and earnest intention to have a heart-to-heart discussion with you about why you don¡¯t like living here. Maybe you are going insane. The fact you had imagined that scene first over all other potential options probably says more about you than the door.

    But the kitchen was as you left it, except now the box of matches is beside the inert candle. The side door next to the fridge that leads to the living room is even still there. Closed. Maybe that is the intended route you were guiding yourself toward. Or being led to, by something else. You grab the box of matches slowly and stow it in your pocket, partially sure that it can¡¯t take things if you have them on your person.

    ¡®It¡¯ being potentially yourself.

    You walk around the island and over to the fridge, briefly considering more cheese. Where did your bottle of water go? You frown and glance back around the kitchen. The bathroom was the most likely place, although that doesn¡¯t seem to exist anymore. You should keep hydrated.

    Before continuing, you glance at the notes stuck to the metal surface of the fridge. Most of them haven¡¯t been changed in weeks, so you have been pretty blind to their existence. Three receipts for things long past the date that the items could be returned now. A list of possible vacation destinations, one of which your family was currently on. Shopping to be picked up.

    You switch the flashlight into your left hand and grab at the pencil dangling by a string, adding ¡®cheese¡¯ to the list. Now the rest is practically all yours to consume guilt-free. Torch back in your dominant hand, you sidestep the large refrigerator and glance at the door to the living room. Seemed normal.

    If you can¡¯t get to your bedroom, then the couch might take second place as a good place to¡­

    You pause and look up as heavy footsteps run through the floor above you. That will be your parent¡¯s bedroom. As your eyes follow the path the unknown person is taking, they seem to stop or evaporate just before getting to the doorway out onto the landing. After a few seconds, with only the storm providing background noise, you assume that whatever that was can be ignored.

    Mostly because you can¡¯t handle the possibility that you might hear it coming down the stairs. Toward you. A shiver runs down your spine and you return your eyes to the door.

    Clearly, you have been going about this all wrong. Rather than keeping all the doors closed, you should have them wide open. You step forward, taking hold of the handle and pushing into the living room.

    The fireplace was alight. Flames flickering as the wood crackled from the heat consuming it. Couches, the mini-bar, and table and chairs all illuminated in a soft amber glow that wavered as the wind blew down the chimney. You wonder how it had been lit, considering you have the matches. That seems like the most important question.

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    Did you light it? It had been a consideration at one point, you seem to remember. Especially after getting soaked through three times. No, just the once. You shake your head as your mind feels fuzzy. Exhausted. It has been a long day of doors. The storm. Switching places. More doors.

    You close the kitchen door behind you and lean back against it, your eyes so drawn to the fire that you can¡¯t look away.

    This is safety, right?

    The usual door to the hallway on the right is missing, made obvious as there is a gap in the dozen or so paintings littering that wall. You were never a fan of them. Each of them is a very minimalist watercolor painting of rivers and streams. The sort of places you¡¯d go fly-fishing or canoeing. Nobody in your family has done either of those activities, not shown any interest in the slightest. It was maddening.

    On the left side, there are supposed to be glass sliding doors. Plain wooden wall occupies that space at present. At least you won¡¯t have to stare out at the storm. Not that you can really hear it at the moment. There is an audible hum in the background, the wind and rain still active, but muted. The living room was usually awash with natural lighting, but with all windows now gone, there is a dark aura that clung to the edges of things. The corners untouched by the firelight just a deep red hue.

    You take a couple of deep breaths, your lungs feeling heavy. The air struggles to fill you. Maybe it is the heat causing the air to feel thick. You briefly worry that the chimney is blocked, and the room is filling with smoke, but it doesn¡¯t look likely. Still, you have had your fill with this place. Your bedroom would be better than here, and it may have returned by now.

    Turning around to face the door you came in from, there is now just a plain wall there. Trapped. A brief spike of anger rises through your core. It is unfair. You have been drawn in here and now wasn¡¯t allowed to escape. The crackling noise of the fireplace is no longer comforting, but gets on your nerves and makes you feel uncomfortable. You detest it, and the red door that constantly haunts your waking life.

    ¡°Let me out,¡± you request quietly, before repeating the phrase in a more confident tone. ¡°Let me out.¡±

    Your voice fills the relatively empty room and falls on deaf ears. Or not ears at all, is the more likely result. Despite knowing you can¡¯t really negotiate with the apparition of a doorway you met in the woods, you have the hope that speaking the words out loud will shunt your brain toward normality once more.

    Hopefully that will happen soon, as you are starting to lose sight of what ¡®normal¡¯ really was.

    Was it normal for a family to leave a member behind when going on vacation? Sure, you weren¡¯t a baby anymore. You have been without them when you lived in the city. You don¡¯t need to follow them around everywhere.

    Was it normal to be so detached from your family home on return? Probably not. Growing older, you have come to accept that your family aren¡¯t exactly your sort of people. They aren¡¯t bad, you have just found a different path through life. Parted ways with the rut they all seem to follow.

    Was it normal to be haunted by a door that has the ability to change reality, or your perception of it? Doubtful. This wasn¡¯t an allegory about adulthood or life moving on from the past. You are starting to think this wasn¡¯t even your ill mind hallucinating things. Delusion probably had a limit, and you are certain you had passed it by now.

    Partially because even with things getting gradually more off the walls¡ªsometimes literally¡ªyou are still capable of some rational thought. Exhausted and on edge from the waves of alternating panic and adrenaline running through you¡ªsure¡ªbut there is a lucidity to your thoughts that should have been reduced to mush if you truly were sick or going mad.

    You turn your focus back to the living room, unsure as to why you have been brought here. There is no red door in sight. No danger or explanation for the weird sounds you have been hearing. Just a fireplace that shouldn¡¯t be on. A warm flame that beckoned you closer. It had been a long day, and you deserved a rest. Not just deserved, you needed it.

    What else are you supposed to do here? You already feel your eyelids getting heavy. If you are being offered a safe reprieve from the storm, the living room was the second best place for you to hunker down. You idly pat around at your pockets as you take a single step away from the wall.

    Phone. Keys. Superglue. Matches.

    Four things. Four things, you repeat to yourself. Keeping inventory becomes the method used to ground yourself. If there were ever more or less than four, but you don¡¯t know why, you knew something would be up.

    That doesn¡¯t really help in the current situation, however. Another step took you forward, before you stopped. You would feel a lot more comfortable taking a nap if you knew who or how the fireplace came to be lit. Perhaps it was your imagination. Despite being quite some distance away from it, you hold up your left hand to feel for any heat.

    Surprisingly, it does seem to be warmer in that direction. A couple more steps closer to the couch confirms that. If the windows and doors are as they should be, then you might even accept the fire for what it was and just enjoy yourself.

    Instead, you take a few more steps, now up against the back of the couch. The flame certainly seems real. Flickering from the torment outdoors, the ambers and golden yellows are comforting. There is something about fire that hits the primitive part of your brain. Enrapturing. A place of safety.

    Running your tongue over your dry lips, you circle around the couch slowly. Perhaps a little rest will do you some good. Five or so minutes and then you will get back to finding a way out of here. Hopefully back to your own room so you can sleep this all off properly.

    It will be best not to get too comfortable.

    Rather than sit on the couch, you place yourself down on the floor, your back resting against it. Your right hand aches from having such a tight grip on the flashlight for so long, so you place the light on the floor. In fact, a lot of you ached. Pacing through the muddied woods had been a slog, and the light jog before the tension of the house had done a number on your muscles.

    Exercise under duress was a terrible thing.

    You close your eyes¡ªjust for a minute, you tell yourself¡ªso that you aren¡¯t staring at the warm, comforting flames for too long. Basking in the heat, your mind drifts away from your current problems.

    Then your eyes flicker open. In your heart, you know it has been much longer than a minute, but the darkness that greets you is unexpected. Your hand feels at the floor for the torch, but doesn¡¯t find it. Rather than hardwood floors, there is the rough texture of worn carpet.

    Your disorientated mind tries to make sense of the shadows coming into view as your eyes slowly adjust. Have you been transported again? Even without the warmth and light of the fire, you can tell this new space was way too large to be any of the rooms in the house.

    Before you can push yourself to your feet, a flash of lightning briefly reveals the truth, illuminating familiar blocky shapes.

    You were now in the library.

 8 - Page Turner

    It takes you a few moments to really understand the situation. When it had just been inside the confines of your house, you could somewhat understand it. This was not your house, and while you had been at the library an hour or two ago, there is no way you could physically be in the actual place right this moment.

    Not without being soaked from the storm. Your hand grasps at your top, and your stomach churns at the fabric not only being dry, but there is still some warmth to it. You haven¡¯t been away from the fireplace for long.

    So why here? You flex your bare toes against the carpet, trying to get your bearings. From what you can make out, you are currently over in the seating area, not too far from the seat in which you had sat earlier today. You pull a face as you take a few steps over to the nearest bookshelf. Narrowing your eyes against the dim lighting, you pick out the titles of the first dozen. All of them seem normal, and they fit the section in which they are placed.

    If this is some manner of dream or madness, there can¡¯t be that degree of detail. A fidelity that only has a basis in reality. You even pluck one from the shelf, flicking through the pages angled toward the best lighting¡ªwhich wasn¡¯t saying much. All words, sentences, and paragraphs are arranged as they should be. Salient context and the content was-

    Your thoughts stopped abruptly as a loud thunk came from behind you. Like a dropped book, maybe? You turn slowly, eyes burning as they try to pick up any useful information from the dimly lit library. It had sounded like it came from the back room behind the main counter.

    The librarian may have decided to stay put.

    You go to call out to Chloe, but a second loud thunk from that direction has the words catch in your throat. That wasn¡¯t books falling to the floor.

    A third thunk came, this time closer to the closed doorway. Loud, despite the wall muting it. Any notion of calling out to whoever is there quickly left your brain. Thoughts screamed for you to move, but your legs were frozen in place. Another bang, right in front of the office, as lightning and thunder rippled through the air.

    The door cracks slightly, a crimson light pouring forth from within¡ªand you move, as if by instinct.

    Bare feet padding across the floor, you circle two bookshelves before ducking down behind a large one stood parallel to the counter. With a few of the books already withdrawn, you have a small view port across the room to the door.

    Rather than a head or figure emerging from the crimson gap, a long limb stretched through. Something that looks like the arm of a praying mantis, but a pale fleshy color. Pointed at the end and jagged in appearance. Your stomach knots up, unsure as to what you are even seeing.

    The door groans and shudders as this sharp arm moves it open. And then the face of the unknown entity pushes its way through.

    At first, you hardly recognize it as a face. If it wasn¡¯t for the two eyes burning bright yellow, sunken in pits of black, it would be much harder to make out. Smooth and featureless other than these sinister orbs, the creature had no nose, ears, or hair. In place of a mouth was a foot-long tentacle, barbed with small shapes that could be teeth. It writhed and waved through the air as if it was trying to taste something. Your presence.

    Your heart is beating loud enough that you fear the monster will hear you. Breathing is difficult, and your right hand shakes as it grips at the bookshelf. The back and forth with the red door in your house had been quaint in comparison to this being you barely understand. It is like a horror movie turned real. Without the telltale signs of puppetry or CGI, it is beyond normality to the point of being damaging to your psyche.

    Risking taking your eyes off whatever the fuck it was, you glance over toward the exit. At first you think it isn¡¯t there anymore, another sick joke being played at your expense. But it was there, just smaller. More aged. Red.

    For lack of any better options, you might have to go through that cursed door again. Even if it takes you out into the storm, or a different version of the library, or back home. Anything will be better than being stuck here with that abomination.

    Now that you have taken your eyes off of it, it was difficult to switch back to looking at it. As if you could ignore its presence. Clenching your teeth together, you force yourself to look back.

    More of its body has emerged now. A second long arm that it is using to crawl forwards like a spider. The body is coming through now as well, and it is long and jagged, the rib cage large and visible through thinly stretched pale skin. As the two eyes scoured through the library, it started to make a noise.

    A low wail, constant. Like an alarm or siren. It was haunting and runs down your spine immediately, overwhelming your senses. It stops after a few seconds of ear-piercing discomfort, and the monster pulls itself through the opening fully. As the door closes behind it, you pull a face at the four legs moving behind it. These are also spider-like, or perhaps similar to a crab. Shorter than the arms by far, but almost constantly moving back and forth in an unsettling way.

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    Lowering yourself even further against the bookshelf, you watch as it takes a few steps out from the counter. The body then rears up as it brings both arms into the air, before slamming the tips down on the carpet, creating a loud thunk sound that reverberates through your head.

    About twenty or so feet to your right, a couple of books fall from their shelf because of the creature''s stomp. Your eyes widen and you say a few silent curse words as it''s head snaps almost immediately to the sound of the dropping books, and as their tentacle-mouth probes the air it starts to clack against the floor in that direction.

    You will need to move to the left to avoid it potentially seeing you. Away from the the door and potential salvation.

    There was no doubt in your mind that if it found you, that is it. It didn¡¯t look friendly at all. Any brief thought of dying bringing you back to the real world was squashed in an instant. There is no chance you are going to take that risk. Death to that tentacle and sharp, bladed arms wouldn¡¯t be pleasant either.

    You glance off to the left and start to pace your way along this bookshelf. As it draws closer, you can almost feel an aura around it. Like pure dread. You pause at the edge of the current shelf and hold your breath. The chitinous cracks of the sharp feet cutting through the carpet and into the stone floor draw closer.

    As soon as its body and back legs have passed your position, you move.

    Out from the shelf, around the next¡ªyour heart leaps into your throat as you almost barrel straight into a metal wheeled unit for moving books around. You skirt it, and circle around another shelf, before dropping quietly to your hands and knees. Only now you feel it was safe enough to exhale deeply. You even try to close your eyes briefly, hoping to escape this place, but a loud crash from down the room has you on edge again.

    The creature has found the fallen books and isn¡¯t too pleased about it not being something more interesting. In a rage, it had slashed through the offending shelf, splitting the wood and sending the rest of the contents to spill about the floor. It stomped around on these discarded tomes before shrieking again.

    You peer through a slight gap in the books before you, only barely able to see the shape of the monster moving. It stepped away from the rows of books and into the area with the chairs and tables. Rather than shriek, it emitted a strange purring sound. Like a cat, but wetter and more shrill.

    As you try to calm your short breaths, you slowly draw a book out from the shelf in front of you. You manage it without causing a single sound, and retain your grasp on the withdrawn piece of fiction, narrowing your eyes through the newly created gap.

    While the creature purred, a thick mucus-like liquid ran from the tentacle, dripping down onto¡­

    You tense up. Onto the chair you had been sitting on earlier today. The creature raised up a limb as it continued to slobber on your seat, before bringing it down on the table. The split wood cracked loudly, something echoed by a flash and then a rumble of thunder from the storm outside. Was that a slight gap? It''s finally moving away? You are too distracted to focus on it properly. It may just be wishful thinking.

    Now you are even further from the red door. Your breathing comes out shakily as you try to draw up your options. From memory, there is a back exit to the library that was seldom used. Mostly just a fire exit, other than the times it is opened during especially hot summers. Did the back office have an exit? Scouring your memory quickly, you don¡¯t believe so.

    If any of the doors are locked, that back room will have the keys. Trapping yourself unnecessarily seems like a terrible idea. Risking it all to rush through a door that is locked is another abysmal potential occurrence, but what options do you really have?

    The thing wailed once more, having satisfied itself with whatever it had been doing with your chair. Now you are being hunted. While the library could feel sprawling at times, it wasn¡¯t large enough to a point where you could lose the monster for good. There was no way you could kill it, unless it was allergic to sweat and fear. That would be a terrible allergy for an unspeakable horror.

    You glance away from it to try to find the back exit. Usually, that may be visible from here, but you can¡¯t even see the back wall. You blink several times before realizing this end of the library is much deeper than is supposed to be. The shelving units duplicate in a pattern that repeats at least three times¡ªthat¡¯s as far as you can see from your current position.

    Do you want to go deeper? The question weighs on your mind. Being as far away from the creature as possible sounds like the most positive outcome to whatever you choose to do, but getting further away from a known doorway seems counterintuitive.

    Perhaps if you throw this held book to just the right place, the monster will stomp deeper in and you can circle back to the red door. Then, if it is locked, you won¡¯t be too far away from the counter and office. Hopefully the creature can busy itself far away and you¡¯d be free¡ªor at least as far away as possible. There must be a point where you could escape it fully.

    You take your eyes off to the side and weigh up the projectile in your hand. It is a risky plan. If it just opened and floundered, or clipped one of the many nearby shelves, then it will land too close and put you at risk. You will need to step back and stand up, do the full motion required to really put decent distance on it. Thankfully, your current cover was taller than you were, but any potentially excessive movements made you paranoid about being seen.

    It had eyes, but seemed to operate by sound. The weird tentacle-mouth can taste the air or something. Does it have your scent now? You shudder at the thought, but really your options are limited, whatever it is and however it worked. You just needed to survive it and escape.

    You stand slowly and take a step away from the books. With one long breath, you pitch your arm back and ready yourself to pick a target destination.

    As your muscles tense up, there is a loud thunk from the seating area.

    Behind you, a book shuffles and drops to the floor, barely five feet away.

 9 - Hanging on Every Word

    The plan changes in an instant.

    Rather than toss the book currently in hand, you run. Shelves rush past you as you slalom between rows, the sound of the monster¡¯s sharp feet biting into the ground echoing behind you. You slide yourself across the floor at the same time as it collides against the shelf where you were previously standing.

    Despite your lungs burning, you hold your breath, causing your heartbeat to pulse rhythmically in your ears. You can¡¯t see it, but the sound of cracking wood and collapsing books told you all you needed to know. It was too close. By being on the floor, you are hopefully out of sight, but being blind to it isn¡¯t helping your nerves, either.

    While the sound of the creature rifling through the pile of books continued, you let the lungful of air out of your nose slowly. You don¡¯t have the space to stand and throw something to distract it now. If it wandered back, further away, then you may have some breathing room. If it got closer, well, you try to keep that thought out of your mind.

    Just how far back will the library stretch? Moving further from the door isn¡¯t a great option if it means an infinite maze.

    You glance at the book in your hands. It was titled Eldritch Entities and You. That seems either completely coincidental, or you really are in a bad place. Instead of throwing the book, keeping onto it might be a good idea just in case it has any information on weird doors.

    Before you have a chance to consider your next move, you wince as the creature stomps and thrashes through several bookcases. Clearly angry that you have evaded it once more, it is taking its pent up frustration out on the wood and books. Given that it is shredding through them as if they are paper, you didn¡¯t fancy your chances against it.

    Time was running out.

    Wearing several layers has you overheating and sweaty, but you try to keep cool and think about what you knew about the library. Front door was now red door. The office was where the monster had emerged from, so probably isn¡¯t an ideal place to go. Any rear entrance was far out of sight with how the building has extended beyond its normal bounds. What else is there?

    Bathrooms. Although locked most of the time after some delinquents sprayed graffiti on the stalls. Chloe had left it open earlier because you were the only one there and were trusted, but did she lock it up before heading home? There are a couple of windows that could open enough for you to squeeze through. Out into the storm wasn¡¯t great, but it beat whatever this nightmare was.

    With your muscles tensing up as another bookshelf tilted over slowly, clattering to the carpet, you wondered if it really mattered. Things aren¡¯t normal. Things aren''t how you left them.

    You are also reasonably sure there is a cellar. A couple of times you have heard in passing the mention of a storage area for old furniture and the like. Where the door for it was located was another thing entirely. It might even be outside.

    At the risk of getting lost forever, scouting out the back door sounded like the best idea. The red door hasn¡¯t exactly been a friend, so aiming to get to it might be a fool¡¯s errand from the outset. You run your tongue across your dry lips and try to plan your next move.

    The monster is annoyed with the newly toppled shelf, and it sounds like it has rotated to turn that into splinters. It¡¯s making quite the racket, so you take another held breath and push yourself up into a crouch. You take measured, cautious steps. Always remaining behind the taller shelves, giving the books enough of a wide berth not to jostle anything.

    Your legs burn from the tense exercise in this awkward half-squat movement. Time stretches out as your adrenaline-fueled mind picks up every microsecond as if your life depends on it. It might. You pause, now almost four more rows away from the creature as it becomes silent.

    Slowly, you lower one knee down to the carpet to keep yourself stable. Your ears work overtime to pick out footsteps or the next wail or stomp of the creature. Nothing comes.

    Not even the flip of a page or grunt of disappointment. It is deathly silent in the library.

    It can¡¯t have gone. You won¡¯t let yourself believe it can just vanish. Sure, plenty of things had been disappearing and reappearing today, but this is different. A candle or picture frame is one thing, a whole living being with intent and purpose is another.

    Despite part of your brain telling you to run for it - pick an exit and move, you hold steady. You close your eyes to help focus your hearing even further. At first there is only the constant dull grumble of the storm still raging outside. But then¡ªalmost making you gasp in realization¡ªyou hear the slightest amount of movement.

    A scratch, almost like someone running a pencil lightly across the carpet.

    The monster was doing exactly the same thing as you. Waiting, acting silently so that it could listen intently. You are facing away from it, angled toward the prospect of being deeper into the building. With how silent it was being, you couldn¡¯t estimate how close it was to you.

    A fresher wave of panic washed through you, as your brain unhelpfully filled in the gaps of information with what-ifs. What if it knew where you are and is stalking you? What if it is already close enough to see you? What if this is all futile?

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    You blink away the dire thoughts. Delusion or not, you aren¡¯t going to give up. You¡¯d much rather be at home with the weirdness than hunted in the library.

    No looking back. You gradually rise into a squatting position again. Throwing the book was always the plan if you accidentally made noise, but being barefoot was perhaps a boon in this instance. Your toes hit the worn carpet first, slowly easing into the rest of your foot, barely audible to even you, right above them.

    The monster isn¡¯t getting any louder. Even if they are heading your direction, you have a few rows lead on them. Assuming you can keep out of sight, then you may be able to lose them entirely over time.

    You pause again to lean on your hand and catch some controlled breaths. The process of moving is uncomfortable and slow. Taking a brief second to glance around, you spot something that makes you frown.

    Around five rows off to your right, against the side wall of the library, there¡¯s a light. Not one of the normal wall-mounted ones that usually dotted the place. It wasn¡¯t a green exit sign either, as nice as that will have been. Instead, there is a sign for a bathroom, slightly illuminated in dim white light.

    You narrowed your eyes at it, and lean closer to the bookshelf to get a look at it through the gaps in the various books. It didn¡¯t look like the library bathroom door. If it wasn¡¯t for the sign, it would look like it belonged on a bunker. Metal. Heavy duty. It was cracked slightly ajar, so you can tell it wasn¡¯t locked.

    After a couple of seconds staring at it, you decide to make that your goal. Too good to be true? Perhaps, but you were fast running out of options that didn¡¯t involve getting your guts ripped out by some monstrosity. You still can¡¯t see the back wall of the library, and the creature is getting smarter about-

    Your leg suddenly cramps up after being forced into this odd angle for too long. You manage to hold in a gasp of pain, but you lean into the bookshelf too hard with your shoulder. A handful of books shift under your weight, pushing through to the other side.

    As two books hit the floor on the other side of the shelf, your blood runs cold.

    From less than a dozen rows away, the creature screeches. The shrill wail pierces straight through your ears and into your skull, drilling home one simple instruction.

    Run.

    Now flooded with adrenaline again, your limbs comply. There¡¯s no use trying to distract the bastard monster anymore. Even as you pop up and move away from the furniture you are using as cover, you can hear your pursuer barrel through several shelves as if they were matchsticks. It isn¡¯t going to slow down trying to maneuver through all the furnishings, but just make a beeline straight toward you.

    You don¡¯t have that luxury, and you almost clip your hip on the next bookshelf you have to circle around. There¡¯s no time for any thought. You won¡¯t look behind. It was getting closer, you could tell. Your bare feet slap across the carpet as you round the next, and then another row.

    The door is clearer to you now, with only two large shelving units and five waist-high ones to get past. There isn¡¯t much light coming from with the crack, but it is do or die now.

    Behind you, the monster sounds like an earthquake. The rhythmic stomps of its sharp feet vibrate through your bones, as books and wooden boards are trampled and shredded in droves.

    You almost trip by trying to turn too sharply, but you maintain footing. Swerving past the last of the shelves, you make it to the door, feet splashing on a shallow puddle of water at the base. Your fingers dig into the crack and you pull with all of your waning energy.

    It opens slowly. The heavy metal doorway is sluggish to respond to your request.

    ¡°Come on, come on,¡± you plead with it, your eyes finally darting back to see where the creature is.

    And you wish you hadn¡¯t immediately, as it almost drains the strength straight out of you. You have seen it at a distance, mostly obscured by the furnishings of the library. Now, seeing it out in the open, furiously charging at you with malice in its eyes¡­ you almost freeze in fear, soiling yourself. Almost.

    Your survival instinct kicks in and you get one last burst of effort to move the door. It swings open another few inches as the creature smashes through eight rows away. The door groans as it struggles to open more. Five rows away. An errant book slams into the wall beside you, flung as the thing hunting you slashes at the third row from you.

    And then you slip through, barely squeezing in the meager gap you were able to open. You stumble away from the door but manage to grab onto the interior handle along the way. It shudders and changes direction to close, slightly faster than opening.

    With a loud bang, the monster slams into the door, forcing it closed as the sharp leg squeals down the side of the metal on the outside. It only just missed getting the long claw into the gap.

    You fall back from the force, landing in inch-deep water on the floor. Trousers immediately soaking through, you just stare at the metal door in shock.

    Two sharp strums ring out, filling the room you¡¯re in, as the monster tries to break through. It looks like the door will hold.

    You groan and sigh, leaning your face forward to press against your knees. As if covering your eye-sockets will make this torment end. You give your heart a few moments to stop trying to escape your chest. Given that you hadn¡¯t been torn apart by something else, you have accepted that this room must be reasonably safe. The monster has stopped making a racket on the door, hopefully to leave for good.

    With a shiver, you finally find the amount of water soaking you unpleasant, and you stand up to your feet. Your tired eyes look around at your new surroundings. It is a bathroom, to some degree. The actual library had something quite small and modest. A stall, a urinal, basin, and a trash can.

    The fact that this place had ten stalls in a row meant that you aren¡¯t¡­ well, you don¡¯t know where the fuck you are anymore.

    Each of the faded green stalls are closed, but a quick glance at the lock symbols of those closest said that they aren¡¯t occupied. The puddle that soaks half of the room originates from the fourth stall along, it seems.

    To your left, there are five washbasins in front of a long mirror. Dirtied and not especially reflective. Above this is the dim light source. A wide bulb of white that looks as though it needed replacing a decade ago. You frown in realizing that there are no windows once more. Staying here long term isn¡¯t an option, so it looks like you¡¯ll have to explore.

    With a sigh, you clasp the book tight. Foot extended and dripping water, you gently kick open the door of the first stall. It swings slowly, to reveal a shadowed toilet. No paper, you note. You take a sidestep to the left, ready to repeat the process with the second stall.

    As you lift your foot back, you pause.

    From two stalls down, a deep and irregular gurgling sound echoed through the tiled room.

 10 - Pools

    There is a certain amount of stress the brain can take before it just gives up and accepts things, if only to stave off insanity. You are about at this limit. Right on the edge.

    Now standing in some unknown bathroom having escaped an eldritch horror hunting you, the stall that is slowly flooding the room is gurgling at you. Or just gurgling in general, but you are taking it personally.

    Your right eye twitches as the light above the long mirror flickers slightly. The rise and fall of the panic and adrenaline mixed with the water now soaking half of your clothes has you shivering. The only benefit is that the cold is helping you stay awake.

    As you clutch the stolen book to your chest like a shield, you take two slow steps through the cold water, in the direction of the gurgling sound. If it is going to be another monster, you can¡¯t think of what you can do about that. Running back out to the mantis-thing will be certain death. Freezing to death in the toilets isn¡¯t a great deal better, but at least less violent.

    You pause outside the fourth stall, where the sound is coming from. Your imagination paints it as a blocked toilet, expelling air through the risen water level. Overflowing. The pattering of drops and ripples through the puddle that you are standing in does point to that being possible. The question then is - what is blocking the toilet?

    While your foot lifts into the air ready, you hold the book out ready to clobber whatever might be inside. Not that you have the strength to do any damage with it, but it¡¯s better than nothing. You hold your breath and give the door a light kick.

    It swings open slowly, and the sound of pattering water dies down. As the light behind you illuminates the inside of the stall, you are only partially surprised to see that there is no toilet there.

    ¡°We have to stop meeting like this,¡± you say, deflating. You shake your head at the red door, which is now affixed to the back wall of the stall. Water seeps from the crack at the bottom in pulses, still creating the puddle.

    There is still no reason you can think of that has earned you the curse of being haunted by this doorway. All you did was walk through it, a mistake you seem to be paying for by ever-increasing degrees of insanity. Why was it even here now?

    You work your jaw and watch it, expecting something to jump out, or the room to change in another way. It is mad to try to apply rationality to the red door, but it must have a purpose. Some motivation for doing all this.

    ¡°You have my attention,¡± you tell it. ¡°If there¡¯s something I need to do¡­ just keep me safe and I¡¯ll work it out.¡±

    It doesn¡¯t respond, which is fine. You need to get somewhere safe and well-lit to have a look through the book to see if it has useful information or is just a red herring. If the door can just take you back home so that you can do that, you will¡­ be happy? At least a little less panic-ridden. Happy is a stretch. You are sure you will be having nightmares for weeks to come, if you survive this.

    The water seeping in underneath the door reminds you of your leaking front door. You somehow convince yourself that pushing through might lead you back into the lobby. Or perhaps out into the storm, if this is still your broken mind imagining things while you potter about the house mentally lost.

    You shake your head and take a couple of steps toward it. The cold water around your feet is unpleasant, and the bottom edge of your tracksuit soaks up as much of the moisture as it can. Hand once again on the brass handle, you twist it and open up the red door.

    It groans loudly as it swings inward, the shuddering sound echoing deeply through what lays beyond.

    A tiled passageway. The small squares of ceramic that match the bathroom¡¯s flooring encompass not only the route ahead but also the walls and ceiling. A caged lightbulb clings to the wall about fifteen feet in, and at twenty-five the corridor takes a sharp left turn. The water still moving past your feet comes from a small spigot in the wall just beyond the threshold. Angled as if the only purpose it has is to spray the underside of the door.

    You narrow your eyes at the dimly lit passage and sigh. The scenic route home, you hope.

    What are your options, after all? Giving the cracked paintwork of the aged door a glare as you pass, your feet step onto ceramic tiles that are at least dry. Well, there is an air of something across the place. Not wet, but running your finger along the side wall gives you the impression that everything has a thin film of condensation on it.

    It reminds you of a pool. One from your childhood. Your brow furrows as you continue walking, the memories long forgotten needing effort to dig back up. It was a long time ago, way before the current house or your time in the city.

    The smell of chlorine hits your senses, but you aren¡¯t sure if it''s something real or imagined. Either way, it brings the pictures back into your mind with greater clarity. The splashing of water. Yells of children echoing around the large room where the light ripples, reflecting off the moving pool water.

    That memory has some warmth, or at least vibrancy and light to it. Your current situation is dingy and cold. But the sounds of your feet against the tile are almost enough to have that familiar connection.

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    Less of the embarrassment in dressing in swimwear around your peers. The feel of water lapping at your neck as you almost get deeper into the water than you were comfortable with. The shivers before the warm towels dry you off.

    Well, that last part is partially real¡ªas you are still shivering and cold. You pass the light fitting, which hums, before fading away from your hearing as you step away. You are close to the turn now, but any hopes that you are about to emerge in any part of your house are starting to dwindle.

    You look back down the passageway to see the red door gone. The entrance is now just a flat wall of tiles. No choice but to continue. You mutter a few choice curse words under your breath as you arc around the sharp edge of the wall, a longer corridor of similar tiles ahead¡ªbut there is also a turning to the right about twenty feet in, while the main route goes on for maybe fifty more. Every so often, another caged bulb barely lights the area.

    The far end looks brighter, but it may be a trap.

    A strange way of thinking, you consider. Part of your dissociation from this fever dream was to pin some of this reality against the backboard of your extensive fantasy knowledge. As if you were an adventurer on a quest. If it wasn¡¯t something that is genuinely helping you stay calm, you might roll your eyes.

    This was a little more contemporary and horror-adjacent than most of the heroes from your books have to endure, but you can take up pointers. Maybe if you play your cards right, you can win a sword or learn a magical spell.

    Chances were slim. You weren¡¯t that crazy yet.

    At the first turning you stop and look down. Stairs descending to a darker area, where the usual bulbs are flickering, plunging the chamber that you can see in pitch black in regular pulses. A glance back to your left to the end of this passageway, and the brightly lit area is visually inviting. It looked warmer, even if there isn¡¯t anything to signal that it really differs in temperature.

    A choice to be made, where the scales are heavily tilted in one direction. It makes you want to go the darker route, although in reality things are usually as they seem. Indecision has you looking back and forth, as if a clue will present itself. It does not. You close your eyes and focus on your breathing.

    Whether this was real or not, you have to take it seriously. There was danger here, and you needed to-

    You jolt, your eyes opening as you stumble into the wall. Cold water. You look down to see that a widening puddle has started a dozen feet back down the corridor without you noticing. It isn¡¯t enough to give you concern¡ªother than the brief spike of heart rate¡ªbut it leaves you with a lingering amount of dread.

    The potential things that could go wrong down here. You don¡¯t even want to think about them, just in case it makes them come true. You glare at the stairs in front of you and take one step down.

    You have convinced yourself that the lighter path is a trap, and that the appearance of the seeping water is to push you to make that decision. So you will go down the other route. You aren¡¯t happy about that decision, especially as you continue down and the chamber ahead comes into view, but you continue.

    The room you are walking toward is three times as wide as the corridor, and the bigger area is something of a silver lining. It looks like the size of it would require four lights to keep it illuminated¡ªone near each corner, perhaps.

    There is currently one humming away on the close right side, and then one on the close left side is the one flickering and struggling to stay on. The back of the room is pure darkness, aside from the slight gray rectangle on the back left¡ªthe corridor leading out of here.

    You run your tongue across your dry lips. The taste of chlorine hangs on your tongue. All you have to do is step confidently across the floor¡ªwhich is surely just plain tiles like the rest of this place¡ªand head into the next corridor and find the next lit room.

    Part of your mind tries to convince you that it isn¡¯t too late to turn back and find the other path. There are still three steps before you are in this chamber, so things aren¡¯t so set in stone.

    A glance behind you at the dripping noise now hitting your ears, and you can pick up the puddle starting to run down the steps at the top. As if it was following you. While you had given the flashlight a lot of disdain before, you will do anything to have it back here with you now.

    You shake your head. Stay focused, you tell yourself. You glare at the faint exit to the chamber and take a deep breath.

    Then you walk.

    Down three steps and into the partially lit area. Your eyes twitch as the bulb to your left flickers violently, but you keep your gaze straight ahead. Several long steps, and then you sink into the darkness. Somehow, it is remarkably cold.

    Your bare feet hit the tiles as a slice of your confidence fades. But you made the decision, panicking and turning around now will not achieve anything.

    The blinking of the faulty light fades from your peripheral vision, and all that you have is the sound of your feet slapping against tile, echoing slightly off the walls you can¡¯t see. Your brain reacts to the sensory deprivation and your hearing starts to dull and feel disjointed. Like you are underwater.

    Your eyes run as you stare at the approaching gray doorway. Heart beat echoes in your head now as your mind doubts not only your decision-making skills, but where you truly are. Lost, maybe. If you don¡¯t make it to the door, then what? You will, you convince yourself. It is just the darkness putting pressing on the parts of your mind that were lagging from the madness.

    Another dozen feet and you¡¯ll be there. There is definitely light somewhere ahead, and once you have that as a focus point, then it will make the journey that much less stressful. You realize you have been holding your breath as if you were swimming, and this was an underground cave system you were trying to squeeze your way through.

    You are being your own worst enemy. The gulp of air comes in as a panicked gasp as if part of you are half convinced you will get a lungful of water instead. It¡¯s just air, albeit colder than you were expecting.

    Three more steps and you arrive at the threshold. A brief amount of elation fills you, still unable to see much other than the outline of the edges of the walls. This next corridor swings to the left for a short distance and then opens up into another chamber. Also dark, aside from a light at the far end, where the next passageway held your illuminated salvation.

    Not being able to see any of the next room at all was worrying, but you have made it this far. You could even take it a little slower to make sure there was nothing in your path. A sigh of relief helps comfort you.

    Right before there is an audible splash from back at the stairs behind you.

    You grimace and freeze in place. The puddle must be making gains, and you aren''t keen on getting cold, wet feet again.

    As you lift your foot up to take a step forward, there is the heavy slap of something wet from the stairs again. And then a second, slightly closer.

    Something that sounds sodden, but more solid than just water sloshing around.

    Footsteps.

 11 - Liminal Spaces

    The darkness distorts everything around you. In a room of pitch black, only the distant light ahead as your guide, you have no idea how wide the chamber ahead of you is. Or even if it is just flat tile. If it''s safe to move across at speed.

    The footsteps slapping against the tile behind you give you little option. They move with purpose, advancing into the darkness of the prior room with no hesitation.

    Panic aches around your mind as you start off with a longer gait, still attempting to step cautiously, just in case there are steps or a drop. As your feet pad against solid, level ground, your pursuer speeds up. The loud splashes as they stomp in your direction now hold a clearer purpose¡ªthey want to catch you.

    You aren¡¯t keen on that happening, so you run. A risk when you are nearly blind, but the alternative is worse. A few steps across tile and then you stumble as your foot strikes water. Only a few inches deep, but the surprise resistance has a flash of panic grip at your chest.

    The unknown character chasing you down is gaining distance, bouncing against the turn in the corridor. Images of some manner of fish-like or bog monster covered in seaweed flood your mind, dripping fresh horror at the imagined sharp teeth eager for your flesh. The water you are running through deepens by another few inches, slowing you down as you fight against it. You¡¯re still twenty feet away from the next passageway where the light flickers in promised hope.

    But what then? There¡¯s no metal door to throw yourself behind. It¡¯s just more tiles. More maze. Exhaustion burns through your muscles as you do everything you can to keep up pace. Yet it is getting closer.

    The water is almost up to your knees now. Part of you feels claustrophobic, your lungs struggling to filter in the oxygen needed to keep your legs moving. You expect a sudden drop, your feet to strike nothing and you will just fall into the darkness.

    Your pursuer hits the edge of the water behind you, sloshing through via their momentum. Cold droplets spray around as they closed in. They didn¡¯t seem to be as slowed by the liquid as you were. Now you could hear them - muffled grunts and a snapping maw. Your breaths shorten, sharper. The creature hisses with excited anticipation. Passageway is close. Tired. Cold. Hopeless.

    Relief runs through you as your foot strikes solid, dry land. Something brief, as you can feel the air shift, the creature lunging at you from behind.

    You spin in place and lash out with the book, striking empty air. As your eyes scour the darkness for the shape of the monster, you see nothing but the dissipating ripples of the water barely illuminated by the light behind you.

    Expecting to see glowing eyes or for this to be another trick, you freeze in position. Breathing haggard as your heart thumps through your temples. After half a minute of tension, you allow yourself to relax.

    The water is still now. It¡¯s quiet around you¡ªsilent, in fact. Whatever was chasing you has now vanished. You are growing to suspect that this is all some sick joke being played on you. Like one of those reality prank shows. They wouldn¡¯t have this kind of budget though, and this is way past the point of being amusing.

    You glance back toward the light, the empty passageway ahead rather neutral despite the horror that had just occurred. What a miserable place. With a quick shake of your head, you move toward the light, ears listening for the reemergence of the water monster. Silence, aside from your light footsteps echoing down the hall.

    After passing the light, you find this direction opens up into another room. Maybe fifteen by twenty-five feet, extending from where you are to the right. Part of the floor opposite is recessed and filled with calm water. Three feet wide, maybe nine long, and barely a foot deep. It seems to serve no purpose and has no method of filling or draining. As you walk through the single exit down at the right side into a similar room, you feel very lost.

    You had heard of liminal spaces before. Areas of repeating terrain that were reflections of reality, but odd and confusing in their setup. As if put together by someone with zero understanding of normal structural conventions. Ever repeating, like a maze with no end.

    Is this something like that?

    It is nice to think there can be an end. You are really cold, your tracksuit soaked up to your knees, and sweat from the run cooling off and taking your body heat with it. In terms of energy, you are running on fumes. The constant fear and panic being switched on and off has completely drained you. You¡¯re hungry as well, despite feeling like you need to throw up. The only thing keeping you going is the desire to be home again.

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    Your legs want you to stop and sit down. Toes wrinkly and your soles aching from walking around barefoot. Even your spine feels rough after all that crouching in the library. Maybe you have earned feeling whiny, but this is unfair.

    Second, third, and then a fourth room passed through. Each is similarly designed. Plain tiles, small pools of calm water in various sizes and shapes. Caged bulbs lighting things, the reflections repeating over each small ceramic tile.

    You stop in the fifth and hold the book up. It hasn¡¯t gotten wet despite all the trouble you¡¯ve been through. Maybe you should see if it was actually useful before lugging it around further.

    A low groan echoes around from somewhere deep in the maze.

    Your right eye twitches, but you decide to ignore the sound. If your heart palpitations can be on that same page, you will appreciate it. Instead, you step over to the closest bulb and lean yourself against the wall.

    With a sigh, you hold the book up and give the title a tired look. You open it up to a random page.

    And there was the door. On the left was a drawing of it in red ink, almost like an architect''s design. Thin lines detailing the grooves and cracked paintwork to a fine degree. What a coincidence. You turn to the page before it. Red door. In fact, you flip through the first half of the book, and every page is the same.

    As another groan radiates through the passageways, closer, you roll your eyes and turn your attention to the right side page, which is labored with paragraphs of text.

    If this book is to be believed, the red door is indeed an eldritch entity. Despite that making sense, it doesn¡¯t quite sink into your brain properly. There is even an actual name for it. Rot Portal.

    You were expecting something Latin-adjacent for some reason, but it is actually bastardized Germanic, as far as you can tell. Rather than decay, it meant red. The Red Portal. Which is close enough to saying red door, so you feel rather underwhelmed with this information.

    As your eyes switch to the next paragraph, your brow furrows.

    The narrative reads as if it is describing folklore rather than something factual, but is serious and dry with the prose. Unlike the fantasy stories you are used to, it just plainly stated the door was bad news.

    It sought out the lost and tormented them. Presented different worlds beyond reason or care. There was no emotional reason for the action, it was just a function it performed, like a robot disjointed from the need to have reason.

    You weren¡¯t lost; you were just curious on your way home.

    The next section is about documented types of experiences people had gone through after going through the door. You skim this, not wanting to have anything else to plague your nightmares. The important point is that if they knew this, then some people must have survived.

    Below this, there it is. The red door can be escaped. You have to perform three acts to satisfy the entity, although they seem to be different for everyone who entered. You can not damage the door and ignoring it will just make it torment you harder.

    Great.

    That is it. Pretty useless, other than giving you the glimmer of hope that you may be able to survive this. Still, the book does little other than annoy you. You are mad at this whole event, to be honest.

    A groan emanated from one of the many chambers.

    ¡°Oh, fuck off already,¡± you growl. Not quite done enough to shout your exasperation, but your frustrations threw a heavy blanket over the fear. Maybe it was the door that needs tormenting instead.

    It is tempting to throw the book into the nearby pool. Instead, you snap it shut and keep it in your grip. Even if the words give you no salvation, you never knew in what other ways it can become useful.

    You flex out your aching toes and continue forward, some stiffness in your legs. As soon as you make it back to the real world, you will start up running regularly again. All it took was for an afternoon of horrors beyond your comprehension to agree to start looking after your fitness. You pause and look out at the inert chamber, hoping that your acceptance of that may have been one of the trials to complete.

    If it was, the pools don¡¯t seem to care to let you know.

    Rolling your eyes, you head to the next room. Just getting out of this tiled bathroom area will be nice. The next room has five different exits, arranged all around the circular chamber. There is a hole in the middle of the room that you assume at first is another small water area, but as you approach it is not.

    It¡¯s just a dark pit. After around five feet, the bulbs of this room do not reach, so it is just pure pitch black - an unknown depth. You don¡¯t have anything in your inventory that is worthless enough to test it out.

    Briefly, you wonder if this is the way you have to leave the room, rather than one of the doors. It is more likely to lead to your doom, but it is hard to really know for sure. Are there any real answers to this sort of thing?

    You step around it, and over to the first door. It leads off into a passageway, same as any other. Rotating to the next, you note that they all look the same. Other than the different directions, they are equal¡ªalmost to the point you think it could be the same hall that has some spacial distortion or something.

    With a glance back, you work your jaw. The door you entered from has vanished. It is playing with you¡ªyou have always been at its mercy. The door is tormenting you.

    Do you want to spend the rest of your life wandering around these endless tunnels, feet raw, just hoping it would switch up the horror for something slightly less miserable?

    No. You will take control of your own destiny.

    With two confident strides, you take a deep breath and hop into the hole in the center of the room.

    Darkness envelops you as vertigo whips around your exhausted form.

 12 - Just Playing

    For most of your life, your experience with the concept of falling was often just a short trip between two places. You recall once back in school where you had been leaning on your chair in chemistry class¡ªand the time between the legs slipping out from beneath you and you being sprawled out across the floor had felt like a split second. Nearly instant. Another event, where taking up parkour to impress your peers had seemed like a good idea, had given you a brief second to regret your actions before you got off with a warning in the form of a twisted ankle.

    So now, as you drop through this tube and air whips around you, it is something of a novel feeling to consciously have these thoughts as you continue to drop¡ªto what you can only assume is something that will shatter you legs up through the rest of your torso. It is both horrifying and abstract, as realistically, you must be an unfathomable distance below the pool area now. Not that anything has been realistic as of late.

    The noise bouncing off the walls of this tube has long sounded like a rhythmic hum, your passage downwards unchanging in any way. There is just darkness and the constant vertigo and sensation of having nothing below your feet. Your muscles ache from keeping yourself bundled up like a torpedo, not willing to flail and accidentally clip the walls.

    Just as you are about to calm yourself and find some calm in falling in perpetuity, you hit the side.

    Expecting to rag-doll and bounce around the cylindrical tube from the force, you slide instead. The reason for the sudden contact is a slight curve in the passageway. You feel the pressure against your back as the gradient changes slightly, the wall oddly smooth instead of tiled like expected.

    Before you have a chance to consider what this means, dull light washes over you as you are ejected from the tube. You plow into something that you at first believe is the shattered parts of your lower body, before you slow to a stop¡ªburied beneath the light weight of something that clicks in the back of your mind.

    The sound rubs away at an old memory of yours, and as your shaking hand grasps at the plastic sphere closest to you, the texture is undeniable.

    You sit up, like a zombie rising from the grave, allowing a tide of multi-colored balls to roll away from you. While your eyes adjust, it¡¯s just as you think.

    This is a ball pit.

    Even now, as you struggle to right yourself against the soft and unstable hoard of plastic, the place you are now in strikes a scene that is so familiar but can¡¯t be right. You haven¡¯t been in a place like this for probably a decade, yet as you look around, you aren¡¯t comforted by the sight.

    It¡¯s some manner of indoor children¡¯s play park. Short-legged tables and chairs painted gaudy colors sit under a dim light on the left side of the room, atop carpeted flooring in a patterned design that has long aged from the vibrancy it should have. A shuttered off kitchen sat at the far end, signs with illegible text from this distance, but there was a cartoon lion painted on one wearing an apron and chef''s hat.

    As your eyes turn further, the right side of the room has a netted off section full of different levels of obstacles. Padded shapes of varying design, rollers, rope ladders to climb, and pipes to crawl through. To your direct right, where you have emerged into this place, sat a small house with the slide that delivered you here¡ªbut the top is clearly visible as something you could enter if you climbed up into the house.

    The air is stale here, but you still shiver as it is barely warmer than the pools. Once you get moving, you should warm up. You push your way through the ball pit, the clattering sound as the light plastic parts way an echo of the last time you had been somewhere like this. A time when things were better. Given the current situation, that is a vague platitude.

    If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. Please report it.

    You roll your eyes to yourself as you swing out over the wall and drop to the faded carpet. At least this place has some lighting, even if it is dull and sporadic. It looks closed for the night. As you turn to find a place to exit here¡ªor find some manner of trial to overcome¡ªyou stop at the sight of something in the obstacle course.

    A figure, although short, like a toddler. It was a doll. Barely over a foot tall, maybe. Curled brown hair and fair skin. An innocent enough smile. Standing motionless with stubby arms out to the side like it was requesting to be picked up. Even with the scant amount of light, you could see that it had no eyes. Just pits of darkness.

    Out of the horrors that have been pursuing you through this nightmare, this was perhaps the least intimidating. It still has you pause, of course, and you aren¡¯t about to goad it into doing something you will regret - but you almost have some confidence in you that this area can be beaten easily enough.

    Your eyes glance over to the doorways that lead out of this area¡ªthe Party Zone according to a sign you can now read over on the left wall. There¡¯s a door beside the kitchen that says Fun Jungle Chefs Only, and another exit just behind the main body of the obstacle course. This one doesn¡¯t have a sign.

    Given that you are nowhere close to the title of being a chef of any kind, the other direction seems like the best way to go.

    You look back to the doll and are unsurprised to find it is no longer there. Although you aren¡¯t much for horror movies, you have always thought that showing the monster too early ruins some of the horror. Of course, the library creature was frightening enough being in plain sight, so perhaps living the horror differs from being part of it.

    After a couple of steps away from the ball pit, you turn your head back to see the doll sitting in the window of the plastic house. Same inert pose, just staring at you.

    ¡°You might have to do a little better than that,¡± you say, before walking toward the door out of here.

    The loud crash of something slamming into the metal shutters of the kitchen ahead has you jump, regretting your goading immediately. There is an angered growl from within the kitchen, as a second heavy bashes up against the covering again, denting some of the long panels. Whatever it is, getting out of this room remains the best idea.

    You run on tired feet over to the door. Expecting it to be locked, you let out a gasp of relief as the handle turns and allows you entrance. You step through immediately, and close it behind you as quietly as possible. While the raging chef has become silent, you do not want to clue them in to where you¡¯re going. Not that there are many options.

    This new room has a stage on the right side. Thick curtains of deep crimson hang across the back of it, inert lights affixed around the curved edge. The rest of the room is a mess of single chairs. A cheap kind that folded up, and in three different pastel colors. Blue, yellow, peach. Probably arranged into rows at some point, but they have been shuffled around as if something had charged through. You are finding that exact situation more likely by the second.

    Over on the left side, past the chairs, is a long table that looks to have items on it. Papers, the wall-mounted light on the wall seems to indicate. You walk along the left wall and circle around to the table.

    There are a few faded flyers for several shows that would be put on here. The theme seems to be anthropomorphic animals, this building known as the Fun Jungle. With dots over the ''u'' to look like a smiley face. There is a lion, a rhino, a giraffe, and something else that has faded away. Zebra, perhaps? Scanning over these themed shows, your eyes focus on something unlike the others.

    An aged and dirty piece of paper that is square rather than rectangle, and if it wasn¡¯t for the thick lines of red across it, it would be blank.

    Your muscles tense up as you pull it closer with your fingers.

    You found the door, it reads.

    Something you have known for a while, and is slightly less shocking since you didn¡¯t have to pluck this message out of your own body.

    There¡¯s something about this message that is different. The way the text is aligned and the style of handwriting makes it look more like there is a secondary message hidden within it. A key or secret code?

    You take it and add it to your inventory. It folds neatly and fits in your pocket behind your phone.

    With a twitch, you turn your head and see the curtain shuffle slightly. As if something was watching you from the gap but has ducked out of the way rather than allow you to spot them. The doll, maybe? Glancing over to the door, you figure that the angry figure in the kitchen might be the rhino. Somehow you don¡¯t believe it will look as chummy in real life as the cartoon version on the posters are keen to indicate.

    This room has two new exits. The closest door to you says Locker Rooms, and further down is Jungle Arcades.

    You sigh, and make your way over, deciding which sounds the least dire.