Unarmed

Unarmed 

          by: Deevious

Nightmare #89

Hi.

My name is Deanna.

Deanna Grayson.

I have always been a follower.

Take one look at my Twitter account and you'll see it's true. 

I've never made any decisions - well, any important ones.  Today, I have chosen the black yoga pants over the gray ones, but besides that, I struggle with almost anything new.  

And I'm okay with that.  

I’ve always been this way.  

I have always been grateful to slide through life, effortlessly. 

To follow the pack;

To hang on the sidelines and watch others play the game.

I was happy with this measly existence.

Then, the monsters came.

One day, I was living a quiet, normal life - a lonely one, mind you - but it was mine, all mine.

I had a nice, little two-bedroom apartment in the city and a hub of nearbys ~ 

My favorite pizza shop, where they make the best thin crust around;

A hair studio, with reasonable prices and busy beauticians who never ask too many personal questions;

The Supermarket, which is really a gigantic warehouse where I can get anything and everything I would ever need and where I can blend into the crowd easily;

A kick-ass Fruit stand, which is super important to me;

And the book store, where I buy all of my reads and it’s literally called The Book Store.

My life consisted of a five-block radius.

I knew the people;

The hours;

The routine.

I wasn't changing the world, but hell, it wasn't changing me either.  It was a schedule, dammit.  And I was happy with it.  So what if I wasn't big on socializing with everyone I met.  I'm an introvert and that's what we do.  We ignore people and live in our heads and spend our time alone.  

That doesn't mean I wasn't here.

That doesn't mean I wasn't living.

Then, one Tuesday evening I'm sipping broth from a bowl of Ramen Noodles (a favorite of mine since my college days and I’m not talking the good ones from the Asian market down the street, I’m talking the really cheap ones that come wrapped in plastic); I'm watching a little TV to unwind from my day of repetition and disapproval (telemarketing isn't for the weak).  But now that I am thinking about it, horror isn't for the weak either.  Which reminds me of that quote by Jean Lorrain:

"The charm of horror only tempts the strong." 

Maybe I’m just that strong and that is why these things came to visit me.

That has to be it.

I'm only one of the very few who could actually handle their invasion.

But why me?

Why now?

Am I to blame somehow? 

Is it my genetic make-up, on some level, that has made me more vulnerable than others?

Should I examine this further?  Research the argument between nature versus nurture? Maybe Freud was right all this time.  Perhaps all of this could be put on my mother.

That would explain a lot.  (And totally reinforce my suspicions of her.)

But I guess I'm getting ahead of myself.

Try and keep up.

You must forgive me for jumping around in conversation.  These days, my mind takes fits and it isn't what it used to be.  (Hey, once you've been haunted to this extent then you can talk to me about focus.)

Anyways, it was a Tuesday.

After a nine-hour telemarketing shift, I indulged in my normal routine:

Oodles of Noodles;

A couple of cold beers;

The latest Netflix series;

And then off to bed.

It was sometime before the dawn - when time hangs suspended somewhere between the darkness and the first light.

All at once.

Without warning.

Without hesitation.

The monsters came.

And let me tell you something about them, they were organized.  

Organized like those flash mobs in the park.

At first, I thought it was a dream.

But the screams assured me it was not.

Nothing in this lifetime will wake you up like a bloodcurdling, ear-piercing, heart-pounding banshee scream at four in the morning.  Nothing.

Sometimes - if it's really, really quiet- I think I can still hear that scream echoing inside my head.  

And when it does, a migraine haunts me for about an hour.  

So, I try not to think too much about that night, but it's hard to suppress the horror; all those images; all the terrible creatures.

 And I believe that on some psychological level, I need to get it all out and tell someone.  I feel compelled to share my story.  

Sharing it helps calm the tremors.

It helps with the voices too.

And since I cannot share it with my grocer or beautician or on social media - well, not without consequence - I thought of you.  

Why not create a little do-it-yourself therapy session and transform these neurotic emotions into text; into words; into a story to share and pass on; to warn and inform.

Why not share the scare?

And I think to myself, what if it helps one other person out there?  

What if, someday, they come for you?  

Then you’ll know you're not alone.  

You might even survive.

And if you do, then you can come and find me and we can hash out these demons as one.  

We can face them together.

There's always been a certain safety in numbers, and I've come to learn that company can be a good thing and that being alone all the time isn't the best way to spend a life.  Maybe these leftover morsels of screams and fits of anxiety are actually a reminder - 

A memory designed to keep me in check; to stay on point; to be appreciative, grateful, ferverous. (If that is even a word.  I think it should be, so I'm leaving it in.)

There I go again, spouting off crazy shit and examining my neurosis.  

Sometimes it does get the best of me, but I'm working on it.

Aren’t we all a work in progress?

Okay, back to it.  I was caught somewhere between REM and reality - in and out - in and out - kind of like that sleep you get on an airplane - short, refresher naps that always end in a head jerk, where everything is a bit broken up and foggy.

I did a final head jerk and opened my eyes.   

I immediately knew something was off.  The air was electric and it was wearing static like a pair of leggings out of the dryer.

You could actually smell the energy in the room - a strange, warm scent that seemed to replicate more fire than smoke.

And I'm back there again...

The little blonde hairs on my arm lift up and I strain my eyes into the darkness, blinking and waiting for them to adjust.  But I cannot see what I need to see.  I can only hear those awful shrieks - each one in unison, as if they practiced before they came here - and they're coming down the short hallway to my room.

Mixed with the shrieks are the pitter-patter of feet.  It sounds as if hundreds of footsteps are pounding against the ground, like the corridors of a school after the final bell for summer break.

What the hell?

Is it a parade?

A herd of animals?

A crowd of people?

Could it be a colony of ghosts?  

But do ghosts have feet?

I would assume ghosts would be somewhat quieter than this group that’s out in the hall.

Maybe it's rats?

It is the city.  It would not be unheard of here.

My guess is some salt heads looking for cheap jewelry and their next fix.

But how many are there?

If only the lights worked.

The television set, that's usually on all hours of the night, sits quiet.

My cell is off.  I know it had been fully charged at bedtime, but now it sits dead and of no help to me.

My arm reaches out to the lamp beside my bed.

I flip its switch.

I click it again.

And again.

And again.

Nothing.

Everything is dead.

What - or who - could cause this?

Living alone for this long - and having seen enough Criminal Mind episodes to know one must always be prepared - I am a little surprised by my lack of protocol.  I do have an alarm system (thanks to the previous owners); a gun (thanks to an over-protective dad) and a bottle of hornet spray next to my bed (thanks to an episode of 20/20) but what I want right now is to be able to see in this room.  I want to be able to see what’s about to come through that door.  (Which brings up a very good and debatable question.  Would you want to see it coming?  And by it, I mean death.  I guess the answer is different for all of us.  Personally, I’m not convinced either way, but I sure would like to know who the hell is on the other side of my door.)

I'm guessing from the parade of footsteps that the alarm has either been disabled or broken.

As for the gun, I know I’m not fully awake enough to find it and load it with bullets, which I think may be in the closet anyway.  (I curse myself for not taking safety more seriously and for not having it ready for such an incident.) 

So, as the stampede of footsteps inch closer and closer to my door - playing more with my over-active imagination than my nerve - I grab for the hornet spray on my nightstand, 

cock the bottle, and say a silent prayer. (I'm sure God is wondering who I am and where the hell I've been up until now, but I figure it's worth a try.)

With my finger on the trigger, I am ready to defend my honor, my collection of glass unicorns (don't ask), and my measly lifestyle.

I stare, wide-eyed, into obscurity - still trying to make out any kind of shadow or light that might seep underneath the door.

Nothing.

I stare in apprehension and into complete darkness.  

I am ready to fight.

The screams and footsteps stop abruptly.

I sit poised with my bee spray.

I wait to attack whoever - or whatever - is about to come through that door.  

But, I hear nothing.

I hear nothing for a long while.  

The silence deafens my ears.

It feels like time, too, has decided to stand still.  Maybe it's taking a short break from running itself.

Perhaps a time warp of sorts?

Who knows, but this time lapse is making me sleepy again.

My body relaxes a bit, it's initial adrenaline-rush replaced by fatigue.

Finally, the door creaks open - ever so slowly and just like in a mother-fucking horror movie or like one of those ghost-hunting shows after they brow-beat the spirit into communication and it decides to show them a sign. (Probably just so it can be left alone or go back to sleep.)

I take a quiet, but deep breath.

I hold it in.

I aim, ready to open fire of hornet poison to whatever stupid son-of-a-bitch has dared to enter my humble dwelling.

Wham!

The door slams open and I almost piss myself.

My heart smacks against my rib cage.

A loud whoomph echoes through the apartment as the door hits the wall.

I scream.

I jump out of bed and in the process drop my only line of defense.

The spray can clinks to the hardwood floor.

The room fills quickly with hoards of floating entities. 

In unison, these ghastly figures give out one long, loud, horrendous scream from their throats.  The mirror on my wall cracks beside me. I can hear glass break in my bathroom. Their sound makes my ears bleed.

I scream back just as loud, out of fear and pain and panic.

I drop to the floor, struggling on my hands and knees to find that spray bottle.

I cannot find it.   

I am doomed and I decide to use profanity as an imaginary shield.

Incomprehensible words fly out of my mouth.

In retrospect, it wouldn't have mattered if I had emptied that whole can of spray on these beasts or unloaded a whole chamber of lead into them.  They were coming for me one way or another and they were not leaving until their job was finished.

It was obvious to me and to any onlooker - had they been there - that I was 

out-numbered;

Unarmed;

Undermanned.

My eyes, however, were adjusting to my circumstances and I was finally able to get a good look at my intruders.

That's when I started to cry...

Picture a balloon head, thin, pale and veiny, almost blue in color.

Think hollow, white eyes, like that Undertaker dude from wrestling.

A triangular mouth - almost like a beak - that was oozing some sort of  brown, foul-smelling mucus.

A shrouded body - like a monk robe or graduation gown- with tiny stick arms and legs that protruded out like tree branches. 

And their feet were simply two bones that jutted out like salad tongs.

That was what made all of the clatter in the hallway.  Those tiny, grotesque, tong-feet.

I was sobbing now.

This is what’s coming for me.

And not just one of these creatures stand before me.

Hell, if it were only one of them I could snap it like a twig.

No.

It’s an army of them.

And right now, they’re all floating.  Why can they fly?  Do they have wings hidden underneath their garments? Do they only use their gross tong-feet to scare you?  To announce their arrival?  What sense does that make?  Who are they?  What are they?  And what do they want with me?  What the hell did I do? 

I shudder and I think about hitting my head off the wall to knock myself out, just so I don't have to see this happening.  I contemplate it but realize I’m too afraid to make a movement of any kind.  I am frozen in place and I choose to scream instead of act.

After a moment they start to move.

Some of the monsters choose to float around the ceiling and some of the other monsters choose to use their tong-feet to prance about the room.

I watch, helplessly, as they block off all the exits - the one window (that doesn’t even open), the door in front of me, even the air duct near the ceiling.

If I could will myself to move, I would.  But I cannot make myself do it.  I cannot function, although my instinct is telling me to try and get out of here.  But to run out of here would mean going right through one of them.  Or did they only look translucent?  Maybe they're  solid as a football player?

I am too scared to find out.

I scream again.

I scream at my hopeless situation.

I scream at my cowardice.

They scream back, this time exhaling some ghastly looking, greenish-color of fog from their mouths.  It fills up the space between us, making them almost invisible.

I scream some more.

I wonder if my neighbors can hear me?  Will they call the cops?  Run for help?  Come rushing in and save me?  I don’t even know their names or who they are to call out to them through the wall.  I don’t think they know my name either.  I never so much as made eye-contact with them.  Damn it, Deanna.  You’re such an idiot.  People are important.  So very important.  Especially in times of a paranormal invasion.  Idiot.

I am frantic;

And desperate;

And I search again for that damned hornet spray bottle.

I feel if I can reach it, I can somehow survive this attack.

Maybe finding this spray bottle will jolt me back to reality; to a time that isn’t so unfuckingbelieveable.

These creatures creep closer towards me.

Their empty eyes study me like a specimen.

Their foul odor pollutes the room like a stink bomb.

I feel woozy and weak and I can no longer scream.

I've lost my voice somewhere between the smell and the fear.

Shaky and unsure, I stand up to face my judgement, my knees barely holding it together.

Tears fall down my cheeks.

My mouth, dry as a summer lawn.

The one creature speaks.

Maybe the leader?

Is it a ghost? 

A ghost camouflaged as a decrepit creature for special effect?

Some souped-up version of an old entity?

Is it a demon?

The devil himself surrounded by his army of evil minions?

Could it be an alien?

Part of the infamous Greys?

Maybe a descendent of the reptilians?

Was it a monster?  Some remnant of a childhood boogeyman?

Or were these creatures just that.  

Creatures.  An unidentified species?

Some new breed of mammal?  Worthy of a cryptozoologist?

At this moment, I have no idea.

I look at this thing with both fear and respect.  Glaring at it with eyes begging for a chance of survival.

"Oh.  Look," a voice, deep and brooding, speaks.  "Now, she wants to live."

The group of monsters laugh.

I’m in shock that it speaks through that beak of a mouth.  And I’m surprised that I can understand Its words.

"Why now?" It asks me.  “Why do you want to live now?  What would be the point?”

I didn't understand the question.  

Or why it was a question.  

Or even if this thing wanted me to answer. 

I think it might have been rhetorical. 

But I answer.

Also in the form of a question.

"What do you want?"

Another laugh from the army of hideous onlookers.

"What do you want?" I squeak again, my voice trembling and weak. 

"We heard your soul is up for sale," the leader says.  "And we've come to collect it."

In unison, this colony of creatures releases another deep breath of billowing cloud- smoke throughout the room.  (Can they do nothing by themselves?  Are they all followers of the crowd?)

“Losers,” I mumble out of anger.  “You’re all puppets.”

At that moment my body betrays me.

My muscles seize-up like one big Charley horse, as that foul-smelling smog encompasses me.  The vapor fills the room end to end.

My body hits the floor.

I ache for sleep.

I ache so badly.

I am tired.

Exhausted.

Spent.

My body feels so heavy.

So heavy like a huge sac of potatoes.

I crumble into a ball.

My eyes surrender and close.

I succumb to slumber.

And that was all I remember from that horrifying night.  

I don’t know if they really did take my soul or if it was all one big humorless joke.  I know I don’t feel any different.  I’m assuming if someone steals your soul you would know about it.  I’m thinking you would feel lighter.  Drop a few pounds on the scale?  Eat more to try and fill the void?  

Would the loss of a soul make you angrier?  Sad?  More evil?  Would I go around hurting people?  Pinching kids?  Kicking animals?  Wouldn’t I know?  Wouldn’t I know if I lost something that important?  That precious?  And wouldn’t there be changes in me?  Even if they were only subtle changes?  I would have to know.  Right?  Wouldn’t music sound hollow?  And sunsets burn my eyes?  Would food taste different?  More bland?  Less savory?  Would I get colder quicker?  Need an extra sweater in the winter?  How would the loss of a soul affect you?  And wouldn’t we notice?  

I wonder.  Just like my mind does.  Sometimes I cannot control it.  What if they’re gorging on my soul right this very minute and I can’t even feel it?  Wouldn’t I feel some sort of pain?  Loss?  Worry?  And I do worry.  I worry because I have been wearing heavier socks these days and I don’t enjoy the new Taylor Swift album as much as I should and I’ve switched from beer to vodka because beer has lost its taste for me recently.*  So, maybe all of this means that I am soulless.  I’m changing because deep down I’m not really me anymore.   I just don’t know and I fear I will only find out some day when it matters the most.

And then I think, well, what if they didn’t take my soul.  Why not?  Was it not good enough for them?  Was it too tarnished already?  Or the opposite?  Maybe too angelic for them to snatch up?  Or were they interrupted?  Distracted?  And will they come back for it?  Will they try again?

This not knowing is a such a burden.  It takes up most of my time; most of my thoughts; almost all of my energy.  All I do is prepare.  Because what if they plan on coming back?  Or what if they’re hiding in the walls right now, plotting their next attack? Too many what- ifs and not enough medication to ease my mind.

  

I do not have any answers or advice.  But I can tell you this.  This was not a dream or some unruly nightmare.  I woke up on the floor, where I had passed out from their chloroform fog (those bastards), holding an empty can of hornet spray.  Maybe I had defeated the creature mob after all?  I’m not holding my breath on that matter, but I do know that I have a plan.  I put together a slew of back-up, battery-operated lanterns and flashlights and nightlights.  I also have my gun locked and loaded and enough ammunition that should put me on some sort of government watch list.  And of course, I go out now.  I’m still not the social butterfly society would have me be, but I am much better. (Even with my flawed theories and demented thoughts.)  I have opened up my life to family and new friends and social gatherings and birthday parties and movie nights and trivia Tuesdays and a book club at the local library where we talk more about sex than books and I get a little perturbed about that but I keep that to myself and push it down and listen and share stories with other human beings.  I even found God - not in a weird joining-a-cult-to-drink-the-wine kind of way or going door-to-door-to-spread-His-word kind of thing - but I pray.  A lot.  

I am trying to live better.  I have even increased my five block radius to ten and am amping up my social media posts and chats.  Yep.  It’s a new me.  The headaches are starting to wear off and my focus is crawling back out of the haze that once consumed it.  And even my jitters are controllable most of the time.  I’m a work in progress.  I need to be.  I need to be ready in case they come back for me; I need to save this new life I have created for myself; I need to protect this soul I think I might still be toting around.

And when I think long and hard about it, perhaps those creatures weren’t here to destroy me after all, but to warn me.  Perhaps their threat of taking my soul was just that, an empty threat.  Maybe all they wanted to do was scare me into a little appreciation for life and for the people around me.  Maybe it was a scare tactic to start embracing some new adventure that will inevitably save my soul; my life; my sanity.

And who knows?  Maybe these creatures aren’t ever coming back; Aren’t even around anymore; Are no longer interested in me and my measly existence.  Maybe they’re in the next building over or down at the local pub or traveling out of town or flying to the West Coast or heading your way into your town or into your home, searching and hunting their next meal. 

Or maybe they’re waiting in the shadows, watching, laughing as I tell myself lies and write my tale.

Maybe they never left at all.

Maybe they never will.

The End

#ReadOn

#CreepOn

#ShareTheDarkness

(*For the record.  I absolutely love every Taylor Swift album.)

Unbearable

She would've recognized that house anywhere, just as sure as she would her own reflection.

It was on this back country road - in the middle of nowhere Pennsylvania - that she saw the exact two-story building she had seen in her dreams – the faded red-brick casing; the boarded-up windows; even the crumbling gray sidewalk was broken in all the same places.

And just like that feeling in her dream, she knew she shouldn’t be here.

She wasn’t invited.

Or was she?

Was she to believe that this was some sort of coincidence?  That after years of awakening from the same dream she finally became its reality?  That being here, out-of-state and visiting, she just happened to come across a replica of her dream?  No.  This wasn't an accident.  It was a sign.

She had to see it up close and touch it.  She had to see what was inside of it.

“Stop the car,” she yelled at her husband.

Startled by the urgency in her voice, Mark slammed on the brakes, throwing the couple forward with a jolt.  A pick-up truck swerved around the car’s rear bumper; its driver blasting the horn, screaming an obscenity out his window.

“What the hell?” Mark barked.

“Pull over, honey,” she ordered.

Mark pulled the car over onto a gravel clearing.  “You can’t do that while I’m driving, Emma. I don’t know the area and-”

“Sorry, hon,” she cut him off, grabbed for the door handle and hopped out of the car.

“Where are you going?” he asked the empty passenger seat.  Killing the engine, he fell in behind her on the crackled sidewalk.  “Emma.  What are we doing here?”

“I just have to see it,” she said.

“See what?” Mark asked.

“This house,” she answered, looking up to him with a child-like excitement. “This is the exact house as in my dream.  Remember the one I told you about?  That dream that keeps coming back to me over and over again?”

“Are you sure about this?” he asked, eyeing up the decrepit mass.  "It looks more like a shack than a house."

"Oh, It's identical," she replied.  “It is so crazy how it stands here - right before me - beckoning me to come and visit."

Mark looked at his watch - a watch that he hardly ever wore, except for special occasions like weddings and funerals and - if he remembered to - Sunday mass.  Today, he broke it out of its box for the family wedding.  “We better go, Emma.  Maybe we can stop back here and check it out after the reception.”

“We have to check it out now,” Emma demanded.

“But people are expecting us.  We cannot be late.”

Emma strutted up the chunky sidewalk. “I’ll just be a minute.”

But Mark could tell by her tone - and after ten years of marriage, he knew just about all of her tones by now, and this one said that she’d be more than a minute.  And after a decade with her, he also knew that no amount of arguing was going to make a difference.  Still, he tried.  “Come on, Emma. It’s getting late.”

Ignoring her husband, she took the three steps up to the wooden door.  As if on cue, a gush of wind whisked through the air, paused to play with her hair and hit against the decaying door.  It pushed it open.

Emma stopped, turned around to look at her husband and began to giggle.

Mark relished her smile and her curiosity.  He found her giggle contagious.  And in this one moment, he could not have loved her more.

She gave him a big, goofy smile and scurried through the open door.

“Don’t go in by yourself,” Mark yelled, running after her.  He took the steps in one bound and grabbed for the door handle, just as it slammed shut behind his wife.  “Emma!” He pounded his fist against the door.  “Emma!”  His voice was strained.  “Open up!”

Inside, she couldn’t hear a thing.  She didn’t hear the door slam behind her or the rustle that came from the upstairs bedroom.  To her, there was only an awkward silence.  A hush so quiet it was deafening.

The empty room she stood in was spacious.  Her feet met a hardwood floor, brittle with age and covered with a thick layer of dust and grime.  Yellow,  peeling wallpaper hugged most of the room and the only light was a single beam that shone in through the boarded window on the far left wall. A dilapidated staircase hung on the opposite wall, most of the steps rotted away and looking like sink holes.  The banister was overrun with glossy spider webs.  The place had to be hours away from caving in on itself.

Emma stood in awe.

“So beautiful,” she breathed out, unaware of the decaying mess about her.  All she could see was a house well kept; a sitting room fully decorated with glass tables and an antique hutch, lush brown carpeting and posh furniture, thick gold-encrusted curtains, and a dangling chandelier that cast the most beautiful shadows about the room and over its white walls, like the way a diamond ring catches the afternoon sun.

For a brief moment, Emma was at peace, admiring the house and all of its charm that she had so often visited in her dreams - unable to believe the good fortune she had to stumble upon it.  But her respect for the place was fleeting.

In the next moment, she stumbled about the room like a drunk, trying to keep herself from falling over.  She caught herself on the sofa, but it disappeared.  She fell to the floor, smashing hard against the splintered wood.  Her leg bruised instantly.  It was as if she was being thrown about by some invisible force.  

Next, she was gathered up and tossed against the front door she had just entered.  She gripped the handle for support, but it wouldn’t be enough.  She was thrown across the room again and ended up near the staircase, her head hitting off the banister; her hair now adorned with those silver webs.

“What the hell?” she mumbled, the blow to the head finally jolting her out of her daydream.  She stared about the room with what seemed to be a new set of eyes, now aware of its decay.  She forced herself up and scrambled for the door.  

She needed to get out.

She needed Mark.  

The feeling of immediate danger swelled up in her throat like the thirst for water.  She knew she had to get out of this place.

As she fumbled with the doorknob, a sharp pain grabbed hold of her.  It was like someone took a screwdriver and lodged it right up under her jawline.  Emma screamed out.  She could hear a faint knock on the opposite side of the door, and wondered for a brief moment if it was Mark; if he would be able to save her; if they really were going to miss that wedding reception.  She would give anything for a stiff whiskey sour right about now.

Emma screamed again as another invisible jab hit her neck.  Her knees buckled.

The pain was excruciating and overtook her body, just like a seizure.  What started out as a dull ache - like a tooth festered with infection - grew, spreading throughout her body like a warm heat, intensifying with each passing second.  Emma writhed in pain, smacking the back of her head against the door, pounding her fist into the rotting floor boards and releasing a howl, like that of a wild coyote.  It was as if she was being slaughtered from the inside out.  A deep cry erupted from her diaphragm as a mix of saliva and blood slid out of her mouth and dribbled onto her chin.

The pain was unbearable.

Now, she finally understood why some people would welcome the end; why some people overdosed on pain medication; why some craved death over life. 

Everything was happening too fast and it was too much for her body to take.  She wished for the reaper to come for her.  She wished for it all to be over.

Actually begged for it. 

Begged for relief.

Begged for death just like some would beg for life.

And - as if reading her mind - a rustle from the staircase roused her attention.

She looked up and beheld the most frightening creature that any horror movie could ever conjure up.  A shadowy figure that was made up of raw meat, dead body parts and lost souls began its decent down the stairs - its gaze never wavering from Emma’s.  Its skeletal face housed the most wicked smirk.  Empty black holes that masqueraded as eyes looked down upon her.   The figure moaned a deep, endless wail, as it glided towards her.

Emma whimpered with fear.  A small pang of desire arose within her; an instinct to live.  She mustered up all of her energy and fear and bundled them into strength.  She grasped at the doorknob again, her one last attempt at life. 

It wouldn’t budge. 

The creature made its way closer and closer; an awful stench - like a mix of urine and fish - radiated from its form. 

Emma screamed out again. 

And again 

And again.

Outside, Mark was screaming back at her.  His fists bloodied to a pulp, trying to beat down that rickety wooden door that wouldn’t budge.  “Emma!” he cried out.  “Emma, baby, just open the door. Please.  Just open the door...”

The End

written by: Deevious