It’s the end of a chilly Sunday evening. Everything in my room is the same, all plain. I have what I’m supposed to, so they say.

I reach for my radio that picks up a station playing exclusively calm violin songs. I set it on my nightstand, next to the lamp illuminating my space with the help of the moonlight peeking through the little window out of my reach. 

With it on, soothing music fills my room from the bottom to the top. I turn it down, so I can think. My feet meet the rough rug beside my bed. Better than the cold, hard floor underneath. 

Another song starts, but something is unnerving. I notice a faint, angelic voice amid violins playing as I open the top dresser drawer for my evening gown. 

The next song includes clearer singing. No matter how bizarre, the melody is something sweet. Why didn’t they play this before? 

I return to the bed, and a dim light escaping from the crack beneath the closet door catches my eye. It lacks windows, so nothing should be inside. Unless you count the usual never-ending darkness. 

While I make my way to the door, the once nice singing grows in volume, exceeding the violins at this point. My nose is met with a terrible scent when my hand reaches the warm metallic knob. 

I turn it, trying to ignore the increasing stench of sour sweat. Inside, a waiting woman’s distraught face is staring straight at me through a hole before my feet. 

Her singing is louder than ever, making me want to stuff my ears. The light shines behind her within the hole, allowing me to see her. Her mouth continues stretching; space growing between her lips, past the point any human should reach. Her jaw continues dropping and forcing out sounds that only increase in volume. 

She isn’t stopping. Her singing distracts me as a hand pushes through tangles of her greasy black hair. Scorching fingers with sickeningly long fingernails wrap around my thin ankle, yanking me down into the blinding white light.