I had to think about her last comment for a few moments, for it was so odd, so out of place. But, I pushed the thought aside, writing it off as something odd old people say.
With her arrival and departure being the height of my day, I settled into a general laziness that enveloped my life over the next week. I managed to get a job at a small time newspaper, writing an article here and there, nothing too big. The money was ok too. It paid the bills, and even left me with enough to get the occasional book I had been yearning for. Overall, my life was finally starting out. people at the newspaper were starting to notice my above average writing skill. I was being offered more and more chances to write articles, and the money was increasingly better.
Yet as all this was going on, something was still off with my new suite. And when I say something, I mean The Door. Every day I would approach it, and inspect the intricate carvings along the edge. I’m not even sure how to classify them besides “odd”. I would try the handle every day, to no avail. Then, I would turn away, defeated. Yet every time I did, just as I was to the living room, I swore I could hear something. Nothing specific, just something: a change in atmosphere, a click or tap, maybe quiet scratching; but just barely enough to penetrate my ears with the strange sound.
And it was growing to worry me.
I kept my eye out for Ms. Weeks, yet she seldom appeared at the building. She obviously didn’t need to be here often, as there were few tenants to look after. But even that worried me, for I never saw them either. Sure, I heard them, or rather, the sound of them living. A television as I walked past their door, footsteps, a muffled voice. Yet that was it. I wasn’t too eager to try and meet them either.
I just filed all this off as nerves though, for pressure at work to complete increasingly more difficult work was mounting. I slept badly at night, with nightmares of people in the walls. And those weren’t even the bad ones. The worst involved The Door. I would approach it in the complete darkness of the hall. And the thing I dreaded most was opening The Door, because it opened in my dreams. Suffice it to say, I did not enjoy what was beyond. The door would creak open, penetrating the silence of night. I would step through to the pitch black room. Once my eyes adjusted, all I could see would be a single figure, crouched on the floor. He would look up at me, with glassy eyes, and outstretch his burnt and blackened arm. He could not stand, for his legs were fused with the wood, and his face was a twisted contortion of pain and delirium. I scream and back away, yet as I do, I bump into a solid figure. I turn to see Ms. Weeks, standing, unmoving, and smiling broadly, a sickly pale look to her.
And staring straight into my eyes.
“Problem?” she would say, yet not in her own voice. It was deep, and cracking, and far too slow.
I run past her to the front door, all the while her screaming drowning out my thoughts:
“You opened The Door! You opened The Door! You know what this means don’t you?”
I turn to look at her, fearing the worst. Her face is shrouded in shadows. Yet not for long.
She steps forward as she says the next words, revealing a face that can only be described as: Not hers.
“It means I get to feed you to George!” She cackles with glee, gripping her hands together in delight. I hear an equally maddening laugh from behind her: George. Before I know what’s happening, she’s in front of me with my arm in a death grip, and is pulling me towards George. She’s still cackling and yelling as she drags me to George: He’s laughing and cackling and gurgling, and laughing some more. My vision blurs as Ms. Weeks forces me to my knees in front of George. The last thing I’d see before waking is the mangled face of George, as he opens is his mouth wide, revealing blackened teeth filed to points.
And that’s all I’d remember. Yet I didn’t have this dream every night. Like I said, sometimes it was of the people in the walls, whispering to me as I tried to sleep, peering out at me from peepholes.
Sometimes, I find Ms. Weeks standing over me, staring at me. Then I jolt out of bed, realizing that I was just dreaming. Yet I’d always remember her face. Just as it was in the dream, her face would be different: A very sick, clammy look, with her veins showing through, her lips never completely closed, as she’s always whispering. Behind her lips, her teeth are yellow, and, like George’s, filed to points.
But it’s the eyes that always get me: Wide, and angry, almost furious. The pupils resemble that of a dog’s, enlarged so there’s very little white to show. Yet they aren’t black like a dog’s, they’re yellow. And full of madness.
I was hoping that these nightmares would end after the first month or so, but to no avail. They kept haunting me at night, and in the waking light of day. Work was the only place where I found solace. I couldn’t stay in the apartment for too long. Sure, I would see Ms. Weeks occasionally, but only ever long enough to say hello; she always had to be somewhere. So, one can imagine I was having misgivings about living here. At first, it was great, but after a while, I feared that I was starting to lose my mind. So naturally I spent much more time at work, and because of that, I was earning more and more money. And people were beginning to notice. Pretty soon, a good portion of New York was reading my articles, and I was finally able to afford an apartment that wasn’t possibly haunted.
Of course, to that moment, I had no real reason to suspect it was haunted, only that I was having nightmares. Yet I shrugged that off, telling myself I was just being a baby.
Yet day after day I was racked with nightmares, and was ultimately relieved when he received word he would be getting a raise.
Which meant a lot more money.
Which meant he could now afford a different apartment. And as much as he hated to have to break the news to lonely Ms. Weeks, he knew he had to. And, just like her habit of not appearing for days to weeks on end, I had to stay until I finally managed to get a hold of her, and break the news to her.
Gently, I might add, as I still wasn’t sure whether or not she was in fact some sort of demon, or if living in such a strange place, with such a strange relic was finally getting to me.
And one day, I realized it was.

After a long day of work, I came home to find the usual: furniture where it’s supposed to be, lights off, as per how I left them for work, and door securely locked, and not budging. I wasn’t surprised, as it had been for the past few months. I approached it as I usually did, ran my fingers lightly over the markings around the edge, put some weight on it to see if it would budge (never did), and finally, tried the door knob. And, just as every day, it was locked. I know that anyone hearing of such a strange ritual that I honor every day couldn’t help but wonder why. For me, it made perfect sense. This door, that stares at me, unmoving every single day since I moved in, is mocking me. It does it every day, because every day I try to open it, to learn what memories or secrets are behind it, and every day, it denies me entry. It jeers at me with its jagged scars as cruel smiles, its markings dancing around the edge with snickering laughter. I turn my back on it in defeat and it has the gall to laugh at me. Me! What did I do to deserve this? Nothing: that is what I did. I did what I was supposed to do. I was born, I went to school, I discovered my talent, and I chased my dreams to the point in which I questioned my own actions. I did everything life asked of me, yet now, all it does to repay me is to throw a door in my face (figuratively, as we all know it’s not opening any time soon). This monstrosity, sitting in my home, taking up room and board here, where I live, owes me everything. And I don’t even ask for much. I ask that it opens up, that is all. Just a tiny crack so I may see what secrets are beyond it.
I find myself standing in front of the door, eyes fixed on the dead center of its frame. I think upon all the disgust and disease it has brought to my mind. It’s revolting, this door, and there’s nothing I can do about it. I want to tear it off its hinges, yet I can’t. All I can do is think about the door, and how much I hate it, with every fiber of my being. I think back to the long hours I’ve spent sitting in front of the door, staring. How many times I’ve yelled myself hoarse, trying to coerce it, to appease me. And then, a thought all together new to me hits: the other tenants.

All they have done is sit in their apartments, and listen to my shouting and crying and begging and pleading. And all the bastards did was sit in their rooms, and laugh. Laugh at young Jeremy, the kid who just wanted a quiet life, to settle down and write; but not anymore. Since this Thing has entered my life, all I can do is think about how powerless I am to do anything about it. And while all the others laughed, I spiraled into blackened hatred for something so simple: A Door.
I spin on my heels towards the door, feeling the need to finally have a word with the neighbors. I step into the grim hallway, walking towards the room just to my left, towards the stairs. I grab a fire axe off the wall as I pass, for I was certain some negotiation was in order. What would I negotiate? I wasn’t so sure; possibly nothing, possibly just some friendly chit chat. About sports.
Or the weather.
The first door breaks before me with the utmost ease. The axe slices through as if it hungered to taste the pine for too long.
“Don’t worry, my friend.” I whisper in its ear, to comfort it. “You will have a gracious meal before you yet.”
I knew that there were people in here, for I always saw lights on, and muffled talking. I kick through the splintered door, and step into the suite. It was the same design, yet not nearly as modern. It looked exactly as a tenement suite should. Like a complete hole. Yet none of that mattered. I had to cleanse this place, it had to be done.
“Hello, Anybody home? Neighboooor?” I called out. No answer, yet the muffled talking was clearer now.
“Just thought I’d bring over a little present: Tuna fish casserole, I made it myself.” With that I drove the axe deep in the wall, giving my friend a quick meal before the real work begins.
“I just know you’ll love it.”
I passed through the living room, spotting several signs of someone living here. Pizza on the coffee table, a television, drinks. Yet something wasn’t right. At all.
The pizza had deteriorated to a black sludge, as if no one had been around in years. The television had long since burnt out, with a scorch mark along the wall behind it, yet due to the fire previously, there was little damage it could do. The kitchen was also a very curious sight: the refrigerator had long since stopped working, and all the food inside resembled the pizza. And the sink only spat out brown liquid in spurts. Yet, most curious of all, was on the table: a tape recorder.
And it was playing on a loop, with nothing but muffled voices blaring through. It was surprisingly new, as if it had only been here a short while. Barely more than a few months-
And it hit me like a ton of bricks. Frantically I searched the entire place for life. Yet it was deserted. The first place I went was the door at the end of the hallway, as it was identical to my suite. As much as I wanted to tear the door to pieces, I simply opened it, relishing the feeling of having control over something again. My eyes swept over the room, analyzing all I could, and realizing that this is what the room looks like. Tears welled up in my eyes at the intimacy of the moment. Yet it was short lived, for this was not the room, merely a copy. Now, only tears of rage greeted my eyes.
I left the room, and this time, my axe tasted the buildings flesh. The door lay in heaps of splintered wood, and the last if my innocence. I destroyed the other two doors, giving my friend a feast it would not soon forget.
Then I moved on to the next suite. I was not surprised to find it empty as well: and the next one, and the next one. A few had tape recorders, playing the same recording, yet at different speeds and tones.
After I was done with all the suites I believed were inhabited, all that was left was my own.
I walked slowly through the door way, and from the entrance I glared at the door at the end of the hallway, as it was clearly visible from where I was standing. I let the door see me, and realize what I was about to do.
And then, I started forward. Slowly at first, simply walking towards it, as I called out,
“Don’t try to apologize; it’s useless at this point. Although, it would be a nice gesture.” My voice was rising to a yell as I went from a walk to, to a jog, to a sprint at the door, the last word emphasized as my axe bit into it with all the ferocity I could muster. Months of ineptitude leading up to this, my anger and hatred and fear and happiness, all flowing from me, through my arm, into the axe, and finally, through the door.
It was difficult, at first, for the door had been reinforced with a sheet of metal, so no one would get any ideas, like the one I had now. Yet it didn’t matter. I was almost free, and such a feeling I had never experienced before. Tears of joy flowed freely, as I felt the axe begin to bite through the metal. We danced my dance of rage, and emotion, the door and I, until I bathed in sweat and the axe tasted the blood of my hands. It had deserved something more substantial than mere wood, so I gave it blood. And it feasted like a king. We both did, in that moment.
I never tired for a second, and such a tiresome action would have worn most out, but not me. I needed to end this doors life. I needed to kill it, to send it from this world. For it represented what I, a writer, feared most. It was a door that could not be opened; at least, not within the safe waters of sanity. Yet I knew what separated me from the rest of my kind. I was not afraid to cast aside such restraining shackles, and dove, headfirst, into enlightenment.
Finally, the door gave way, and I sobbed a sob of relief, of hope, of happiness, of freedom. My vision blurred as I stepped through the door, and breathed in the smell of musty old curtains, mothballs and- and something else.
This room smelled different than what I had imagined it would smell like. Among all these things, I caught the scent of death. Not death, as in a coffin, that lingers for years. It was almost fresh.
My eyes adjusted to the darkness, and I squinted through the heavy curtains of black, until finally, I found what I was looking for.
And I felt my core physically shake. For in the middle of the floor, hunched, on its knees, was a single figure. Legs, fused to the equally burnt hardwood floor, arms, curled inward with the flesh that still clung to the burnt bones yearning for freedom against its bonds. What clothes that were left were in tatters, and were forever melded with the withered figures pitiful scraps of flesh. It turned its head to look at me, and I saw in the glassy eyes, my reflection. Yet, for some odd reason, I was no afraid of this thing, for I had finally broken down the last barrier between me and it, and I felt we were connected. I was not afraid of this being, for I pitied it. No longer could it enjoy the streaming light of day, or the sweeping fields of green upon which to rest, and watch the sun set. The tears were back, yet only in sadness. I wept silently for the creature, vision blurring before me. I watched as my tears fell upon the floor, glistening for a moment, before fading away.

It was then I noticed the peculiar shape, in chalk, upon the floor about the creature. As I stepped back, I noticed the creature was directly in the center, with a crisscrossing pattern throughout. It took me a moment before I realized what it was: a Pentagram. I looked around the room, noticing for the first time the blackened shapes that used to be furniture, sporting a large amount of candles, all having been used before. I was then that I realized what, or rather, who, this creature was, and what I was looking at. And then, the rest dawned on me. All I could think about was what Ms. Weeks had said the day I moved in: “We were living here at the time, in the best suite that we had, feeling we had deserved some luxury.”
I realized now, that she meant my suite. I thought back to the nightmares, of people in the walls. There weren’t any people watching me, just one person: Ms. Weeks. I then noticed what else was horribly wrong with what I was looking at. All around the room were figures, each more or less along the line of decomposition. All were hung on the wall by hooks. That was the scent I had first noticed. And suddenly, a light fell on both me, and George.
“Problem dearie?” said the sweet voice of Ms. Weeks.
I felt my entire body grow cold. I slowly turned to face the sweet old lady in the door way. She was not like in my dreams, evil and demonic looking. She was the same old Ms. Weeks that I had grown to know. Yet her eyes were definitely different. Not yellow, or dilated: just cold, and angry, and more than slightly amused.
Yet again, I realized I was not afraid: I was angry.
“What have you done to him?” I asked, the blood pounding in my ears.
“Whatever do you mean dear?” she asked, toying with me.
“You know damn well what I mean. What did you do to George?” I said, motioning to the figure on the floor. Yet now, I noticed, he wasn’t like in my dream. He wasn’t the large, monstrous, cackling figure as I imagined. He wasn’t even trying to get to me, or harm me. He just sat there, forlorn at his predicament. He was barely capable of moving. All he could do was tap the floor with a long blackened nail, or drag a withered hand across the floor.
“Oh god.” I whispered to myself, realizing now that every time I tried to open the door, he was trying to signal me. The look in his eyes told me everything I need to know: he wasn’t some malicious creature out of a young man’s nightmare; he was in pain, that was all.
Ms. Weeks noticed that my attention had been drawn from her, and quickly amended that.
“All I have done here, though it’s none of your business, is help my poor husband through his struggles.”
I stared at her blankly, not fully understanding. She sighed, frustrated. All sweetness was out of her voice now.
“I was so distraught with losing my husband, and my business, that I decided to get them back. Though getting my husband back was ultimately they easier of the two. Go figure. So, I simply turned to some necromancy, a bit of devil worship, and a few sacrifices, and voila!” Her voice rose an extra octave, and lathered on the sweetness, with the last word.
“Unfortunately, the sacrifices, former tenants, were only good enough to keep him, well, sort of alive. I haven’t been able to find a pure enough soul to fully pull him out of this dilapidated state.” I narrowed my eyes at here with every other word. After all, even though I had momentarily lapsed into insanity, I still found even this hard to believe. Before I could voice my incredulity, she continued:
“Luckily though, I have found a good enough sacrifice: You!” her last words sent me staggering.
“Wha- What?” I blurted out, unable to believe.
“Yes, you! You’re young, handsome, and you have a very pure grasp on both life and emotion. Simply perfect! Do excuse me if I gush somewhat, I’m just so excited!” she was grinning again, all happiness having returned. Yet it was such happiness that left me uneasy. Here was this frail, old woman, barley 5’6, yet she was so confident about “sacrificing” me. I was easily 6’3, and the better half of a 170 pounds, and a good portion was muscle.
“What makes you so sure of yourself; after all, look at the two of us. Also, I have an axe.” I said, holding up the axe, as if that would be sufficient proof that whatever she was planning was folly.
“Well, whatever wasn’t enough for my husband to regenerate with I sort of, well, absorbed myself!” As she said this, she stepped forward, grasped the hand that held the axe, and with strength that should not belong to a woman of her age, ripped it from my hand and sent it into the wall. I staggered backwards, hands in front of me, trying desperately to find an escape as she continues advancing.
But she was surprisingly quick as well: before I knew what was happening, I was on the floor next to George with a knife at my throat.
I looked frantically into Ms. Weeks eyes, hoping to find some sort of resolve there, that maybe she could change her mind.
I realized she wasn’t going to the second I felt the steel of the knife entering my neck.
My eyes began bulging and the pain seared through my entire body, and blood flowed freely from the wound, both onto the knife, and into my throat. I began choking almost immediately. After a few moments of struggling against her iron grip, I felt my body start to go limp. My head lolled to one side, and the last thing I saw was George, a look of utter defeat in his blackened, burnt face. And just before I slept, I swore I could see his face growing less blackened, his eyes returning to normal. But maybe that was just the blood loss. I was happy though, with what I got to spend my dreams with. He had green eyes, and they were pleasant.



Samantha Kirk stepped out of the taxi, and, with a look of utter distaste, eyed the tenement that was to be her new home. It was a dilapidated old building, with grime along the front, and scorch marks along the windows edges. She was fresh out of college, having studied literature, and was ready to take on the world. She was fairly confident that she would get a job at a local newspaper. After all, apparently one of the best writers they had had disappeared. No one knew where he went though. A shame, she though. He sounded like a nice guy. She had also learned that he lived here too; and If he was so successful, why not her? As she approached the entrance, adorned with new paint and workers busily scrubbing away the grime, two elderly folks stepped out to greet her. One was a sweet looking old woman, barely chest height, and the other