...Another for the Shadows

"There was only one rule: don't open the door." Mortimer Savage, the haybale of a man who confronted me as I entered the little shack before he locked the door, told me with all the grace expected from a nightwatchman on too much Nyquil. He had a loud baby pink jumpsuit, similar to the King's in his heyday, and a quiff a mouse could ski jump from. He didn't say much, which meant the man would likely get a one-star Airbnb review. But his charm was wearing thin, so I was pleased he disappeared. I needed money, and what was the worst that could happen?

I searched the walls, and my fingers found the light switch. I felt a cold, slimy thing on the back of my hand and jumped back in horror. I am not easily scared but was surprised. I timidly reached out again and pressed the switch. I was horrified by the sight before my eyes. It was less shabby chic and more shabby-shabby. Decades-old wallpaper peeling off the walls. While the flooring had an almost mesmerising monochromatic spiral pattern. There was a bucket by the mattress and toilet paper that was, without sounding like a posh twit, 1-ply. Hardly the "unbelievable modern tiny shack living space" the listing page suggested. Though, the nutloaf on the mattress-side table was a nice touch.

The night was pretty uneventful, spent staring at the spiralling floor pattern. The shack trembled like an earthquake, tossing me from the mattress towards the door. Then came the screams—high-pitched and piercing. Stereotypical, almost. I wasn't falling for it. Until Mortimer's bloodied face crashed through the door. I froze in horror as a shadow emerged behind him. I was about to find out why there was one rule.

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