What Lies Beyond The Door?

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

It was scrawled everywhere, gouged deep into the walls, the words weeping red. Lately, they seemed to pulse with urgency. At times, muffled voices and strange noises tempting me to open the door called me and cajoled me into paranoia.

When I was younger, I recall they were angels. But I’ve grown old here, imprisoned against a freedom I can’t remember. The once cavernous space has shrunk, pressing in around me. My body fills every corner now, but it can’t keep expanding forever. The walls now resist my movements, stifling me, while the voices coo softly.

The door promises escape. Room to breathe. But the warnings are clear: don’t open the door. I close my eyes, afraid to wonder what horrors might require such adamant warnings.

Yet the temptation gnaws at me, growing with each passing day. What lies beyond could be a relief from this crushing existence! The warnings ooze a mucouscular pus, silent in their repetition.

Suddenly, a shudder rips through the walls. My feet are pressed into my chest, the walls now crushing me further. Panic surges as my eyes pop open. I can see the door, only it has changed. It’s cracked. Through it, a cacophony of earthly moans and screeches penetrate my sanctuary, icy tendrils of air lashing my skin, knifing into my lungs.

I feel alive. And I scream.