Behind the Door

There was only one rule: never open the door. It was a simple rule I created for myself, one I clung to tightly as if it were the last thread holding me to my sanity. But Biter never listened. With his jagged, filthy claws, he would shove me aside and grasp the doorknob, rattling it just to hear the anguished moans wafting through the wood. It used to be my room on the other side, but Biter insists that little boys like me have no authority over beings like him. He takes pleasure in reminding me of my powerlessness every chance he gets.

During the day, when the sun bathes everything in light, the shadows shrink, and the air feels a little lighter as I dwell in solitude. In those precious hours, I can almost forget about Biter and the horrors that await beyond the door. But as the sun sinks below the horizon, darkness creeps in like a slow tide, bringing Biter back to taunt and toy with me. I dread his visits, knowing he thrives on pushing my buttons, testing how far he can go before finally prying that door open.

When he does eventually manage to open it, a parade of sinister figures spills in, each more terrifying than the last. They rarely acknowledge me, as if I’m nothing but an afterthought in their wicked games. The Crooked Woman stands out as the worst of the lot. She never speaks, but her laughter echoes in my mind like crackling ice, sending a chill cascading down my spine. When she glides in, I curl into a ball, clutching my knees, praying for invisibility. On those nights, the other little boy on the other side screams and cries—a haunting symphony of terror that resonates deep in my heart, amplifying my own fear.

And then there’s The Radiant King in Wretched Repose. His mere presence frightens me to my core; his blinding light pierces the darkness, illuminating things I’d rather not see. I can only retreat into the darkest corners of the closet, praying he will pass without noticing my trembling form. But Biter revels in that crimson illumination, growing larger and bolder, drawing strength from the chaos that follows. Those nights leave an ache in my chest, one that lingers long after dawn spills its light, a reminder of the turmoil I cannot escape.

Biter constantly taunts me, reminding me that if I were truly alive—if I weren’t just a shadow trapped in this twisted nightmare—I could confront him and his monstrous companions by uttering their true names. He takes pleasure in chanting these names in a mocking sing-song, relishing the pain of my own helplessness. Each time he does, I feel my defiance chip away, replaced by the chilling realization that he is right; I am powerless.

Sometimes, during moments of sheer desperation, I break my own rule. I tiptoe toward the door, heart pounding in my chest, and whisper the secret names of the monsters into the ear of the other boy sleeping on the other side. I want to give him a fighting chance, to offer a flicker of hope where I have none. If only he knows what lurks in the dark, perhaps he can stay one step ahead of Biter and his ghastly entourage. In my heart, I yearn for him to succeed where I have failed.

Yet as I retreat back to my corner, I can still hear Biter giggling, his claws tapping eagerly against the wood of the door, confident that the darkness will always hunger for another soul to torment. My heart sinks with the weight of hopelessness as I await the inevitable. All I can do is wish to escape this hellish game, even if it’s only to let another child pass through safely, to spare them from the torment I endure night after night. In this twisted existence, the pursuit of freedom is relentless, and every whispered name is a desperate plea for salvation.