Death has Left the Building

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

That rule was bullshit.

He'd been standing out here for centuries ( not an exaggeration ) and nothing had ever alerted him to danger emanating from the plain wooden door, not even when others had come out of the door ( seriously, random people just walked out of this thing ) draped in cloaks of white.

He wasn't allowed to speak to them, and they sure as hell didn't want to speak to him. Every time he saw their eyes glancing out from under their hoods at him, he could see their spines lock up and their temperatures drop as the blood left their faces. Then, they would quickly scuttle away as if he was the odd thing here ( and not the door that didn't allow entry ).

That was the thing, people came out, but no one went in, not even himself who was tasked with guarding it ( the worst job he's had yet; no PTO ).

He couldn't be the only one who thought this was all bogus? If people were coming in, why couldn't he or anyone go out?

"Don't open the door for anyone," they said. "Especially not yourself."

Why? Surely the rule was meaningless. No one ever bothered to explain why they shouldn't, and that usually meant there wasn't a good reason not to open the door ( besides, it had been seven centuries without a raise; they had this coming ) so he was going to do it.

He turned, gripped the door handle, and pulled.

Beyond the doorway was a lonely mirror surrounded by flowering vines; glorious unbound life. He walked up to it and looked at its surface, and reflected in the mirror was death.