Out of Sight

The short, wide hallway acts as a corridor of captured memories, its walls adorned with an assortment of picture frames, housing a chronicle of Jason and Lizzy's past. Within those frames, a past version of themselves smiled, kissed, and intertwined in intimate embraces. A delicate tapestry of self-portraits, encapsulating their love. Beyond this section of corridor, the cream-colored walls diverge, revealing two paths. One leads to a commodious living room, where a large flatscreen TV illuminates the area, projecting a rerun of a John Wayne western. This is a comfortable place, embodied by a plush sofa and a recliner, where Jason lay asleep. The other path guides one towards a solemn, dark brown wooden door, safeguarding the couple's jackets, no longer needed in the warm summer season. A palpable air of antiquity clings to the house and its weathered door, paying homage to generations past. The tarnished brass handle, slightly askew, beckons visitors with a stoic invitation, permitting only a sliver of light to shine in.

A faint, incoherent whisper lingers in the hallway, dissipating into the ether, unheard by any soul. Stealthily, a black hand emerges from the crack in the door, its elongated fingers tentatively testing the boundary of their confinement. In a disconcerting parallel, the television abruptly cuts to a commercial break, unleashing a grating cacophony of electro beats, as a local car dealership's sale is thrust upon the senses. The sudden intrusion jolts Jason from his slumber, compelling him to rub his eyelids. The obscure hand retracts, vanishing into the shadows, as if similarly startled. Jason reluctantly pulls himself up from the recliner, his drowsy state impeding his movements as he trudges through the living room, past the enigmatic closet, and stumbles towards the kitchen. Unbeknownst to him, the figure concealed within the confines of the wooden door silently observes his passage.

Opting for the path of least resistance, Jason fetches a bowl and spoon from the cabinet, a soft melodic hum escaping his lips. Absentmindedly, he retrieves a bottle of milk from the fridge and began pouring a modest amount into the awaiting bowl, filling it halfway. With practiced ease, he returns the milk to its chilled sanctuary, sealing the refrigerator shut. The closet door inches open, slowly revealing its hidden mysteries once shrouded in darkness. Jason reaches into another cabinet, retrieving a box of cereal. The corner of a sinister figure's pitch-black head peers cautiously into the kitchen, its piercing white eyes standing out from the rest of the shadowed figure, concealed by the man's oblivious back. The cereal cascades into the bowl and is diligently stirred with the spoon, each piece succumbing to the embrace of the cold milk.

Turning on his heels, Jason retraces his steps to the living room, unaware of the black claws that are grabbing at him but missing their mark. A demonic voice erupts, piercing the air with a screeching declaration of "HERE!" Yet, the man presses on, seemingly impervious to the chilling resonance, the voice unheard. Settling back into the recliner, he idles away the minutes, savoring each morsel of his cereal until the final dregs of milk are devoured, his spoon scraping the porcelain. A muffled thud emanates from the closet, seizing Jason's attention. He rises from the chair, cautiously approaching the door, his curiosity piqued, head slightly inclined. An interlude of silence hung in the air, the next disturbance being the flow of water as the bowl is washed and refilled, then set aside in the sink. Turning away, Jason resumes his path back to the couch, where the allure of sleep beckons him, but his journey is abruptly halted.

Midway down the hallway, he picks up an unfamiliar scent, a fragrance that had evaded his senses until now. Intrigued, he ventures closer to the source, inching towards the door, a growing awareness stirring within. Grasping the worn handle, he pulls the door open, peering into the abyss. As he steps forward, his gaze falls upon the figure crouched on the floor, lifeless and cold. "We're going to have to do something about you soon, darling. You're starting to smell," he utters, his voice devoid of emotion. Jason leans closer, his eyes fixated on Lizzy's corpse, her rigid form frozen in a grotesque display, her mouth agape, as if eternally screaming. A wicked smirk tugs at the corners of his mouth as he indulges in a twisted desire. "God, I wish I could kill you again." With deliberate intent, he closes the door shut, concealing the grim tableau behind it, and continues his humming as he walks away. Thoughts contemplating where he should dispose of her play in his mind as he settles back into the recliner, swaying gently, his eyes surrendering to the allure of slumber.

The closet door remains shut, devoid of any grasping hands or menacing claws. No obscure figures peer out into the room. Silence drapes the house in an uneasy tranquility as Jason descends back into his dreams. Yet, that silence does not endure.