Bone Jenga

There was only one rule: don’t open the door.

But the landlord hadn’t specified which door, and Jill found that amusing. The apartment had four, including the bathroom, and so far, they all worked like doors should—hinge, creak, click. Still, his face had that flash of discomfort when he said it, like he was waiting for her to ask something.

She didn’t. She’d figure it out on her own. He was too occupied with his wristwatch to notice anyway.

The door in question became clear by the third night. It was in the bedroom, hidden behind a full-length mirror that wasn’t attached to the wall, just propped up lazily like an afterthought. It was heavy. Too heavy. But she managed to push it aside, revealing a dull, gray door. No knob, no keyhole. Just a solid slab of wood.

Jill stared at it awhile, her breath steady. She wasn’t scared. She was bored.

The next morning, she dreamed of it. The door. It was different in the dream—rotted, soft, wet, like it had been decaying for years. There was a sound behind it, faint at first, but growing.

She woke up, annoyed. Dreams like that were childish. She stirred her powdered coffee into cold water before slurping it down with slices of dry toast. She sat in front of the door for hours, waiting for the dream to stop bothering her.

By midnight, she couldn’t take it anymore. She pushed at the door, hard.

It gave.

On the other side was a small, dark room. In the corner, a pile of bones, arranged neatly, like someone had been playing Jenga with them.

She bent down to examine the bones, smirking. The landlord’s wristwatch dangled unmistakably on the otherwise barren bone, still ticking.

“That’s what I call a rent strike”.