They’ve been pounding on the door more often.
At first it was gentle—a soft tap tap tap. A friend at the door, that’s all. I stayed quiet until they went away. It was the only thing I could do. The ones who answered were taken. Easy prey. I never thought living in a fourth-floor walkup would be why I was still alive, but here I am.
I didn’t trust the door, so I dragged the fridge in front of it. Piled some furniture. Some of the noise is muffled now. Power went out weeks ago, and cardboard over the windows keeps them from seeing the candlelight at night. Supplies are low, but I’ve got at least another month of ramen and Chef Boyardee. After that, I’ll have to make some decisions I’ve been putting off.
The thing is… they talk now. Not just random voices. People I knew. People I cared about. At first it was locals. Roger from the office. The girl I’d been seeing. Even my old boss.
Then they switched gears. Police. A paramedic.
“Wellness check, sir, please open the door,” one said, in their cleanest game show host voice. I said nothing. They whispered after that, low and insect-like in the hall, then left.
Today it was my mother’s voice. “Mike? Just open the door, honey. We’re all really worried about you.”
Nice try. She lives six hours away.
The world may be ending, or already ended, but at least I don’t have to show up for work anymore. Countless hours for a “Yeah, but will it sell in the Midwest?” or “Oh, we’re going a different direction.”
Now, at least, my time is my own.
I just listen, and wait, and wonder what happens when they stop asking.
Michael writes dark fiction that explores psychological breakdowns, fractured identity, and the strange absurdities of life. When not writing, he works in B2B marketing, renovates a possibly haunted Victorian house, and wrangles twin daughters with his wife in New Jersey. He’s most active at @mizov.bsky.social
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