The figure lanks from air to floor. A black rug hung for dusting.

A step. A stick. A step. A stick. Its shadow bastes the locked, oaken door.

A sharp rap admonishes the silence within.

The chaos of keys. A scrape of a latch. Hoarse hinges breaking rusted slumber. A desiccated waft of quit-witted souls regain the light.

No mind. There are always more.

The entrance confronts it, black-hole mouth thirsty with eternal gravity.

Stick. Step. Stick. Step. Stick. Step.

The figure is gone. It never was.

Bryson Thomas