We are in the business of writing and publishing
“I tried to warn you,” the reflection murmurs. “But you didn’t listen.”
Janelle’s pulse thunders in her ears. Pounding like a drum beat out of an African jungle, or a native war camp in the late 1800s.
“No. This isn’t right,” Janelle can hear herself say.
She squares her shoulders, forcing her breath into something steady, controlled.
Janelle stiffens. She knows this voice. She shouldn’t. How could she know this voice? But she knows the flow of the words rolling off the stranger’s tongue.
The floor shifts beneath her, tilting ever so slightly—not enough to move her, just enough to remind her that nothing is solid anymore.
Her fingers tighten around the key, but it is gone. And the door behind her? It is no longer there. The light flickers again, stronger this time, revealing the silhouette of a figure—not the stranger, but someone else, someone waiting.
The basement stretches longer than she remembers, the darkness pressing in thicker now, hungrier. The stranger does not follow, yet she can feel his presence wrapping around her like a lingering shadow.
She stops before the door. Something about it is different now. The wood cracks open like veins, pulsing with something deeper beneath its surface. The doorknob is no longer brass; it gleams silver, smooth, expectant, waiting. Her heartbeat hammers against her ribs.