THE WRITER MUST EAT -> patreon.com/trn1ty <- | \ | | blah! |\ | `\|\ | the rantings and ravings |/ |(_|| | * of a depraved lunatic <^ 2024-08-20 : story p1 One summer evening about a year ago, I was sitting next to Tracy watching television when there came a terribly loud series of knocks on our door. I got up to go find out who it was when Tracy silently raised a hand, reminding me I couldn't answer. She walked over to the door and was about to undo the lock when the knocks turned to thuds. I ran, as silently as I could, to the door and grabbed the aluminium baseball bat from the small coat closet across the narrow hall. I positioned myself to the right of the door, the opposite side from the hinges, and readied the bat before nodding at Tracy. She shook her head. Still - thud! Thud! Thud! She squinted through the peephole and looked back at me and shrugged. She raised her fingertips to the deadlock. "Ah!" she let out a yelp as her fingers contacted the wooden door. I didn't understand why at first but as she withdrew her hand from the door I noticed the residue, or film, or syrup, or some sort of non-Newtonian fluid that was following her index finger, like a string of melted cheese following a piece of pizza. "It's melting." "The door?" I asked before I realized. The door had a matte, waxy texture to it - a texture I hadn't really seen since dropping acid. The deadlock and doorknob both began - subtly, or perhaps it was my imagination - to fall down the fluid and the top of the doorway started falling backwards, outwards. Little red drops, colored by the paint, presumably, crawled towards us along the surface like drops of water on a shower wall. "How is that possible?" The thuds stopped. Tracy and I looked at each other. Tracy looked uneasy. Then her eyes widened and as I turned around, swinging my bat with me, I watched pitch black fingers gripping the door from the top peel it from the wall, then blend into the inky darkness that had replaced our usual lit porch. The bat slipped from my grip and was flung into the darkness, landing about 10 meters away at the same height of our apartment floor despite our living on the fourth story of this building. "I'm calling the police. Something's wrong. Something's really wrong." Tracy started toward the phone but I grabbed her sleeve. "Please. We can figure this out." She looked into my eyes and held her gaze there before slightly smiling. A quiet: "Okay." I went over to the kitchen window. I could still see the bright, yellow night sky polluted by the thousands of streetlights below. I opened the window and took the screen out. Tracy waited behind me, watching the doorway. I crawled out onto the porch and helped her make her way with me. All seemed normal. We crept to the front door of the apartment. I turned the corner to the entrance but nearly ran into a man, dressed in a suit and tie, sitting on a folding chair outside our intact, red door. I could feel the blood leave my face. Behind me, Tracy gasped as she found us. The man stood and looked me in the eyes. His irises were gray. <^ No rights reserved, all rights exercised, rights turned to lefts, left in this corner of the web.