Beyond the Door

There was only one rule: don’t open the door.

The room was small, but far from empty. There were two cots and a small nightstand. A wardrobe housed their clothes, and there were books and board games in a chest in the corner. The shelves were lined with canned food and water bottles; the kitchenette had a sink and a small stove. A single lightbulb offered harsh light, but candles and a large box of matches softened the nights. There was even a small, functional toilet behind a curtain.

Tabitha couldn't remember how long she had been in the room. She knew it had been years; she had entered the room as a young girl of fourteen, but she was now a woman. In fact, she had been in the room for so long that she no longer remembered why they had locked themselves away from the world. John refused to talk about what happened, and the events of their last day outside were now clouded in her memory.

What she did remember was the one rule John had repeated over and over. Don't open the door. Until he had, of course, opened the door and ventured out into the world, searching for something Tabitha had long since forgotten. He never came back.

Tabitha had grown bored and curious without her brother. Whatever danger existed beyond the thick, oak door seemed less of a threat as the days passed. The screams and thumps from the other side had lessened slowly, until they stopped.

Without hesitation, she gripped the cool, metal handle and pushed the door open. As she stared at John's mangled body, lying on the floor next to her parents' remains, she remembered the creatures too late.

The last thing she saw was its teeth closing around her head.