The Understudy

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

Myra hated that rule. The door was hideous and needed to go, but her stage director insisted it had to stay and that it must never be opened. This always baffled Myra. It was a stage door for Christ's sake, it was designed to be used.

One day Myra couldn’t take it anymore, so she asked around. Everyone either repeated the rule, told her to stop asking, or suggested she quit. She wasn’t about to quit, but she had to figure out the door's secret.

After a few months, she couldn’t take it anymore. Once everyone left for the night, Myra wheeled the heavy eyesore on stage. The door’s paint was peeling, chunks were missing, and its lock was rusting off.

Myra rubbed the flakes of white paint on her pants and whispered, “What are you hiding?”

A muffled voice came from behind the door.

“Hello?” Tested Myra.

The muffled sound returned. Myra wrapped her hand around the knob, and it shook.

“What the hell!?”

Myra released her hand from the cool metal and chuckled nervously. This was all an elaborate prank, she thought, the team was just messing with her and they would all joke about it tomorrow.

“Nice try everyone,” She yelled, “but you aren’t scaring me!” Then she flung the door open.

On the other side was a figure with no face. Myra tried to shut the door, but the figure wrapped its hand around the wooden frame preventing it from closing.

Myra screamed, but as the figure stepped through the frame she could no longer hear her voice. She placed a hand on her mouth but all that was there was flesh. Then the door slammed shut, and all was dark.