Don't Knock, Don't Even Whisper

There was only one rule: Don't open the door. If there was another rule, it would be: Wear a diaper. Or bring a gun, or bat, or anything that could be used as a weapon. Why're we in this creepy house with an unlocked door in the middle of it with a warning that is very clearly scratched into it by someone's fingernails. I mean, why not just paint pentagrams on our foreheads, read a book of animal classifications, and see what pops up?

I say this to our "leader", Bobby, but he ignores me. Such a Bobby thing to do. He ignored everything-no trespassing signs, dire warnings, homework, responsibility.

"We'll just knock on the door and run," he says.

"Why," I ask.

"Because it'll be fun," he says. "There's nothing in there. Trust me."

Trust me. The final words of some of history's greatest disasters. "There are no icebergs out here, trust me." "That little German fellow isn't that bad, trust me." "There isn't a homicidal, inbred, cannibal behind this door, trust me.

"Do you hear breathing," he asks.

"Yeah, man," I say. "Yours. We've been holding ours."

"No, I mean, from behind the door," he says. It was then, that Bobby has his iceberg moment. He puts his ear against the door and knocks. Nothing happens, at first. Then, we start to hear the sound of locks disengaging. We turn and run back to the front door. When we reach it, we see a tall, cloaked figure with its back to us. When it turns, we realize the sound wasn't locks being unlocked. It was the figure locking us in. Then we see its face, all teeth and a mouth the size of its head.

In that moment, I understood. The one rule was on the wrong door.