The Red Door

You are on the floor.
The bacon fat is now bacon fat.
Plate shards scatter as they run under the bed.

You reach to grab one, peering into the shadow.
Eyes stare back at you. Yours. Fearful.
A finger to the lips — your lips — urging you not to make a sound.

You scream.
Race back.
Plate shards discarded.
On your knees, closer to the door.

The red door.
It was not red.
It is red now.

“Did you have a fright, darling?”

He bends to look under the bed, inhuman, his body folds in on itself and melts to the floor.

You are moving backwards on your hands, closer to the door.
You are leaning against it, too scared to rise.
Your eyes find the wood — red wood.
Scratched into it, with a fingernail intact, the words:
do not let him see you.

His shape slides, glitches, half under the bed, half out.
He stands, forms, wears your face.

Your voice.
“You found me.”

You scream.
Stand up.
The doctor stares at you.

Behind her is a door.
The red door.
It was not red.
Now it is.