Dr. Creepen's Dungeon - S6 Ep300: Episode 300: Horror Stories from behind the Doors

Episode Date: December 16, 2025

Use the promo code SUPERBAD for 10% off all T-shirts! https://dr-creepens-vault.creator-spring.com/listing/the-devil-is-in-the-detail Tonight’s opening work of unmitigated genius is ‘I The Door at the End of the Hallway’, by Hate Singer, kindly shared with me via the Creepypasta Wiki and read here with the author’s express permission under the conditions of the CC-BY-SA license: https://creepypasta.fandom.com/wiki/User:HateSinger Next up this evening is ‘The Pale Green Door,’ an original story by Owen Porter courtesy of Chilling Tales for Dark Nights, kindly shared directly with me for the express purpose of having me narrate it here for you all.  Author Profile: https://www.creepypastastories.com/authors/craig-groshek/ LinkTree: https://linktr.ee/chillingtalesfordarknights YouTube channel: https://www.youtube.com/@chillingtalesfordarknights  Chilling Tales for Dark Nights: https://www.chillingtalesfordarknights.com The Simply Scary Podcast Network: https://www.simplyscarypodcast.com Creepypasta Stories: https://www.creepypastastories.com  We round off proceedings with ‘We Opened a Doorway to Hell’, an original tale by Jrubas, kindly shared directly with me for the express purpose of having me exclusively narrate it here for you all. https://www.reddit.com/ r/DrCreepensVault/comments/yguzzh/we_opened_a_doorway_to_hell/ https://www.reddit.com/user/Jrubas/

I find myself reliving old patterns and having heavy thoughts. I feel stuck. I struggle to feel secure and authentic. You don't have to stay stuck. Mental health professionals at the Center for Interpersonal Relationships are available to provide you with confidential, compassionate services customized to you to help you feel well, secure, and alive. Psychotherapy starts at $75 per session. Book an initial session online or in person in Toronto at 790 Bay Street.

Visit cfir.com.ca. Welcome to Dr. Creepin's dungeon. Doors are frightening because they exist to separate us from what we can't see. They promise safety while hiding uncertainty, turning a simple threshold into a question mark. What's on the other side? Does it know I'm here? Closed door invites imagination to fill the silence,

footsteps that never arrive, breathing that isn't ours, the fear that something might open it without permission. Even worse is a door that shouldn't open at all, yet slowly does, reminding us that barriers are fragile and that whatever waits beyond them doesn't always respect The rules we rely on to feel safe. As we shall see in tonight's two feature-length stories. Now, as ever before we begin, a word of caution.

Tonight's tale may contain strong language as well as descriptions of violence and horrific imagery. That sounds like your kind of thing. Then let's begin. The door at the end of the hallway. By Hate Singer Cartwright. Jeremy Bowens was curious to see what his new tenement was. would look like. Yet, it being a tenement, his curiosity was not born of high expectations. His knowledge of the world outside that of his hometown, high school, parents' home, and regular

hangout spots with friends was limited at best. Yet it wasn't completely non-existent. He knew what a tenement was, and he knew he'd be staying there due to his ineptitude at choosing an appropriate career to follow. I was expecting to get that big break right out of college whilst relying heavily on his writing skills to pull him through, he majored in literature, all the while answering the unending program of questioning friends about what he'd do with his life. The answer was usually the same. I'll figure it out. Or, that's fine, I'll get a job easy. Or, what do you mean wasting my life? Yet despite the great amount of support he was not receiving from his friends, he continued down the path of several page long essays,

late nights reading up on long-dead poets and authors, and an overall sense of dread that his friends were right. Yet that last obstacle was not fully known to Jeremy, as he kept it locked away into the farthest corners of his mind, refusing to acknowledge it. So here he was, looking up at the large, dark, and overall, decadent building with a growing sense of, what the hell have I gotten myself into?

he wrapped his coat more tightly around his person as to protect himself from the midwinter chill that came with living in New York. Having moved to here from his hometown a few hours away, he was anxious to finally get a taste of big city life. Unfortunately, this is not what he had in mind. Glancing up and down the street as if to find some sort of escape from his troubles,

he stared long and hard at what was to be his new home. It was an old building, that much was obvious, with a sort of dirty and grimy feel to the entire expanse of the building's façade. Almost as if touching it would leave you wondering what alien life-form was clinging to your hand. Almost all the windows were boarded, which would have led most to believe it was abandoned. Some were free of such barring, letting light spout of the occupied rooms, revealing that this place was in fact habitable. All of the windows, none excluded, had an even darker shade of eye.

the filth or scorch marks around the edges, leading one to wonder if said building had endured a fire many years before. Jerry made a mental note, asked the landlady. All in all, it was an almost magnificent sight, in the sense of foreboding macabre that washes over us all from time to time. So, with one last sigh of defeat, the young man whisked up his bags and entered through the unlit entrance, letting the darkness envelop him fully. Once inside, he looked around grudgingly, trying to make out what dark shapes he saw in the grim hallway. And then, almost immediately, he decided he didn't want to know, as he passed why what he was sure was an unconscious homeless person.

He had informed that his room was on the fourth floor, very far end of the hallway. And so, as he was instructed, he trudged up the seemingly ancient and untrustworthy stairs to what he affectionately referred to as his doom. of course this may have been heard incorrectly as he was in fact heading to his room but one can never tell in these cases once he traversed the stairs navigated the dimly lit hallway and finally found his door he was ready to turn and run out of the front back to the safety of his parents and friends just as he began to seriously contemplate this he was ambushed by a woman who seemed to be as ancient as the building he was standing in

Well, hello, young man. You must be Jeremy, the one I spoke to on the phone. It's so nice to finally meet you. She greeted him in the most precious old woman voice Jeremy had ever heard. Oh, yes, hello, Miss Weeks. It's great to meet you, too. He said, with a little less sincerity than he didn't tend it. Even though she was a harmless old woman, he was still unsure about her.

But she was odd, as if, well, too happy. At least that's what she sounded like on the phone, and just now Jeremy mentally kicked himself for jumping to conclusions after only having conversed with her twice. It's great to finally get some people in here, apart from the usual tenants. We've had so little business the past few years. Not sure what's wrong.

She frowned at him as if expecting him to corroborate her statement. yet Jeremy was sure she had at least an inkling of what was wrong with her building. All Jeremy could do was smile and nod, hoping to get this awkward exchange of dialogue over with as quickly as possible. As Week's side, produced a ring of keys from somewhere on a small frame, and plucked one off. Now listen, Geoffrey, this key goes to your apartment, and it's very expensive to make extra, so don't lose it,

She said, her eyes boring into his, as if peeping into his very soul was the answer she was looking for. Yeah, of course, I'll definitely be keeping an eye on it. Jeremy assured her, trying to get away from the woman as soon as possible. She smiled at him sweetly and focused her attention on the door. Well, then, with that out of the way, let's get you into your new home. And with an expectant look on her face, I took the small silver key she gave me, and it slid into the lock. The key had caught my attention from the second she drew it from the keychain.

The length of it was a cylindrical shaft of metal, with a few smaller pieces branching off at the end at a 90-degree angle. It was an old-fashioned key, that much was for sure, which meant this building was indeed very old. After a few seconds of forcing the key in, it finally slid all the way in, And with a bit of force, I turned it in the lock with an audible click. I grasped the rusty iron doorknob and turned it,

letting the door open with a long, ominous creaking sound pervading the hallway. The room beyond was bathed in thick darkness, as if entering it would send me swirling into the unknown. Oddly enough, that's exactly what this entire endeavour was. The unknown. When I was a college kid, fresh out of school, barely past the age of 20, and not entirely sure I was ready to take on the world, as my parents put it. But I was here, so I decided to try and make the best of it.

Ms. Weeks hurried past me, disappearing into the dark voyage for a few seconds, her shoes clicking softly on the wood floor. I merely stayed at the doorway, wondering if I should follow her. After several seconds, the lights within the apartment blared to life, revealing a beaming misweeks by a light switch on the wall. I stepped into the threshold, taking in the surprisingly modern suite I was to be living in. Mind you, it wasn't a penthouse or anything, but much better than I'd expected. The walls were strong, yet not distasteful, light coffee brown, with red trim upon the bottom of the wall.

The floors, as I said, were hardwood, treated and shining as if new. By the looks of the place, though, it wouldn't surprise me. I walked cautiously down the entrance hall into the living room, taking in the pleasant sight. As weeks had informed me that furniture would be provided, and that was what I dreaded most. Someone else's used furniture left to collect dust and parasites. The furniture before me now was beautifully rendered in modern taste.

A large three-cushion couch lay in the centre of the living area, with a similar yet not exact light coffee colour to it. A recliner was in the corner, facing what was to be the entertainment centre. The only thing missing was a television, but I wasn't really into TV, so I didn't mind. I dropped my bags near the door and moved to the recliner. Just as its dark, clean, caramel colour suggested, it was extremely comfortable. I could definitely get used to this. I glanced to the other end of the living area, and noticed that the kitchen, while small, was in the same fashion as the rest

the apartment. Well, it all seemed too good to be true. Oh, Miss Weeks, I just have a slight little question, I said to the still beaming Miss Weeks, who had apparently noticed how impressed I was with the status of my new home. Yes, dear, there's something wrong, she replied, a smile slowly ebbing, worry that something wasn't to my liking. Um, what's with this place? Seriously, the outside looks like it can barely stand. There are vagabonds in the entrance way, and the lighting is reminiscent of a Dracula movie,

I proclaimed, not entirely thinking of how she might take that negatively. And, of course, I'm sure she did. To my immense surprise, she merely donned the smile once more and uttered a short little laugh. All that. I was afraid you were displeased with the residence.

Well, it's a bit of a long story, she conceded, as if I wasn't at all. all intrigued, and I was, of course. Look, Miss Weeks, I have the time as long as you do, I said, hoping that was enough. Ms. Weeks sighed and said, well, if you must not. She then walked over to the couch, diagonal from where I was sitting in the recliner, and settled in, as if the story was going to take a while. I started fearing that it would, remembering just minutes ago when I wanted to be out of her comfort.

and not too late now, I realized. It was weeks cleared her throat and began in a low, slightly melodramatic voice. Several years ago, and my husband was still with me, and we were running this building together. We were the talk of the town. Well, not really the talk of the town, but we were popular nonetheless. People who moved in stayed, and people who left usually didn't want to. business was at its best, and we had been partners in crime for the better half of 50 years.

As Weeks' eyes had drifted beyond me, to memories drifting past, and better times with a man she'd known most of her life. It really was sad to see the old, albeit lively woman, act in such a way. I almost missed her regular self. A more than twenty years we lived the good life. Plenty of friends, plenty of money. money, financially sound in every way, and we were happy with our business and each other. So naturally, because we had so much good in our life, we were destined to have something bad.

I sat up straight now. There's a warning from my brain telling me I might not want to hear the rest, sending an ominous chill up my spine. One day in the middle of winter, there was a fire, simple as that. Yeah, what wasn't so simple? that he took my husband from me. He didn't die a noble death, though, asphyxating on smoke, dying in his sleep, something like that. Now, he was burned alive right in front of me.

I was utterly shocked. This was not what I'd been expecting at all. Well, um, that explains the scorch marks around the windows. I said softly, hoping she wouldn't take offence at the fact that I'd noticed. that's right very observant of you she said quietly a bit of her old self returning to her now where was i she asked no one in particular ah yes husband burning a life right in front of me anyways that's what happened we were living here at the time and the best sweet that we had feeling we deserved some luxury still not sure what caused it A socket shot surging

Someone left the stove on No idea But we noticed the smoke And jumped out of bed Around to the door to get it open But it had problems sometimes Now George That was my husband's name

It said a hundred times He was gonna fix it So before I knew it The fire was all around us There was nothing we could do Then suddenly he grabs me And lifts me up towards the vent on the ceiling I hadn't even noticed it in the panes

I barely managed to open it and crawl into the ventilation before George fell. I also hadn't noticed that while he helped me up, the fire had tasted him, and it wanted more. I sat in the ventilation as my husband writhed on the ground, a flame, and there was nothing I could do. Well, after the fire, everyone moved out. They knew what had happened to George, and they were all close to him, as they were close to me. We tried to be as friendly as we could, but they knew what happened to George and none wished to remain. I knew this place would never be as popular as it once was, so I never bothered to fix the exterior. Yet, I fixed up some of the rooms inside, in the event anyone would want to live here, so they'd have at least a nice place to stay.

I sat in the chair, incomplete, an utter horror. The fact that such a gruesome event had happened To this sweet, creepy old woman Gave me cold chills I never taught with someone Who'd witnessed the death of their spouse Sure I knew people who'd lost a brother or dad But that was usually due to car accidents or disease

This woman had witnessed her own husband's demise Such a grisly death at that After a few moments of silence And of Ms. Weeks staring forlornly down the hall that led to the rest of the sweet. I finally broke the silence. I'm so sorry, Muzweeks. I had no idea.

Really, it was foolish of me to bring up such a topic. Mosewis finally snapped herself out of her melancholy trance and looked to me as if nothing had happened. Don't be silly. I'm just an old croon with no one to talk to. You'll forgive me if a few dusty memories come tumbling out from time to time. She then flashed, trademark smile, showing off all her teeth, all gleaming white, despite her age.

With that, she stood and stretched, stalling off towards the rest of the suite. Now, on with the tour, she proclaimed in an overly optimistic voice. I suspected there was more to the story, yet I didn't push it, not wanting to offend. I stood too, already missing the comfort of the recliner, and followed her back there. Once I reached the hallway, I stopped in my tracks. It was an ordinary hallway, as ordinary as they come, with a door leading to the left and a door leading to the right, presumably to a bedroom and bathroom, or perhaps a closet. Yet at the very end was a door unlike any I'd seen so far in the suite.

As I stepped towards it, I noted all the odd markings around the edge, the blackened appearance, and jagged cracks that ran throughout the frame. And then, the doorknob, blackened as well and just as rusty as the one outside, and on the other doors. I assumed the blackened appearance was from the fire. Yet I had no idea why, in such a pristine living space, where everything was as modern as possible,

this one door would resemble all the others. With Muzweak's chattering in one of the bedrooms about the history of the neighbourhood and all that. I extended my hand to the handle, feeling the suspense in the air. My heart was beating in my chest, for I knew something I most likely didn't want to see was behind this door.

I grasped the handle, which was oddly warm, and began to turn the knob. It was locked. I find myself reliving old patterns and having heavy thoughts. I feel stuck. I struggle to feel secure and authentic.

You don't have to stay stuck. Mental health professionals at the Center for Interpersonal Relationships are available to provide you with confidential, compassionate services customized to you to help you feel well, secure, and alive. Psychotherapy starts at $75 per session. Book an initial session online or in person in Toronto at 790 Bay Street. Visit cfir.c.c.a. Build a more secure, resilient self,

and strengthen your relationships? For 15 years, mental health professionals at the Center for Interpersonal Relationships have offered psychological treatment and assessment services to help you, your couple, your adolescent, and your family.

Psychotherapy starts at $75 per session. You don't have to live with depression, anxiety, or difficulties in your relationships. We'll offer you services in English and in French. Book an initial session online or in person in Toronto at 790 Bay Street. Visit cfir.c.a. I looked at it in confusion, rattling the doorknob in frustration.

All that build-up and nothing to show for it. I sighed, hoping Miss Weeks would tell me. As I turned to ask her, I found a very happy-looking Miss Weeks standing right behind me. I hadn't even noticed the chatter stop. Is there something you're looking for, dear? She said sweetly, yet at this point I was more than a little bit freaked out. um yeah actually the key to this door i said trying to look as innocent as possible she glanced past me at the door shrugged and said it doesn't have a key stared at her for a few seconds wondering if she was pulling my leg or not what i asked incredulously all doors have keys or at least i would imagine they do if they're locked that one doesn't she remarked, nodding to the door.

I didn't know what to say. She stood there, letting the awkwardness seep into my very clothes, hoping she would just leave. So then, what exactly happened to the door? I mean, look at it. Looks like it's been through a war, let alone fire, I said, motioning to the jagged cracks that ran throughout the door. I'm afraid the last tenant was living here went a little stir-crazy.

He ended up tearing the door down. she replied this was a very hot building indeed so what happened to him then i asked eager to find out as weeks just smiled and simply said he was evicted i looked at her for several moments wondering what to make of her strange ways of describing past events

after several more awkward moments she finally burst into a wide grin unable to control her laughter oh my you must lighten up jeremy really kids these days no sense of humor the door has a key just don't know where it is i'm afraid i breathed the sigh of relief for a moment i was worried that i'd be living in an apartment building with a surprisingly threatening old woman so um what's through the door then i asked anxious to hear she glanced at it once more taking in the question before finally answered ring. Memories, I suppose. I stood there, taking in her oddly philosophical answer and wondering exactly what it meant. She smiled again, as I thought, and patted me on the cheek, as all old people do. Well, that's the tour. Don't fret about this door. It's nothing. Like I said, only memories

in there. Belonged to a couple before the fire, she said to me, turning to walk back to the living area. I followed her, strangely comforted by those words. So, where do you live now? Still staying in one of the suites? I asked. Oh, no, I've long since moved out. Couldn't face this place every morning. But that was close to ten years ago. I don't know why I don't move back in. Good, do me some good facing my past. I smiled, secretly hoping she would. She was indeed. a very sweet old lady, even if our first encounter proved to be somewhat odd, or creepy,

either one. One more thing before you go, Miss Weeks, I said, just as she was about to get up and leave, off to do what never she needed to be doing. She looked at me expectantly, making it clear I could go on. Why, though, keep the place so modern, so nice-looking, I said, expecting an answer as odd as she was. and what I got surprised me a bit. She smiled as she stood and began walking to the door, stopping just in the hallway and turning to face me.

Because, my dear, I miss having this place so full of people. If someone moves in, I want to make sure they'll never leave. She flashed another brief smile, gave me a small wave, and continued down the hall, the door sliding shut behind her. I had to think about her last comment for a few moments. It was so odd, I mean, so out of place, but while I pushed the thought aside, writing it off as something odd old people say. With her arrival and departure being the height of my day, I settled into a general laziness that enveloped my life over the next week. I managed to get a job at a small-time newspaper, writing an article here and there, nothing too big.

The money was okay, too, paid the bills, and even left me with enough to get the occasional book I'd been yearling for. overall my life was finally starting out people at the newspaper were starting to notice my above average writing skill i was being offered more and more chances to write articles and the money was increasingly better yet as all this was going on something was still off with my new suite and when i say something i mean the door every day i'd approach it and inspect the intricate carvings along the edge i'm not even sure how to classify them besides odd. We'd try the handle every day to no avail. Then I'd turn away, defeated. Yet every time I did, just as I was to the living room, I swore I could hear something. Nothing specific, just something.

A change in atmosphere, a click or tap. Maybe quite scratching, but just barely enough to penetrate my ears with the strange sound. And it was growing to worry me. I kept my eye out for Ms. Weeks, yet she seldom appeared at the building. She obviously didn't need to be here often, as there were a few tenants to look after. But even that worried me, for I never saw them either. Sure, I heard them, or rather the sound of them living, a television as I walked past their door,

footsteps, a muffled voice, yet that was it. I wasn't too eager to try and meet them either, though. I just filed all this off as nerves. the pressure at work to complete increasingly more difficult jobs was mounting. I slept badly at night, with nightmares of people in the walls, and those weren't even the bad ones. Ah, the worst involved the door. I'd approach it in complete darkness.

The thing I dreaded most was the opening, the opening of the door because, well, it opened in my dreams. Suffice to say, I didn't enjoy what was beyond. The door would creak open, penetrating the silence of night. I'd step through to the pitch-black room. Once my eyes adjusted, all I could see would be a single figure crouched on the floor. He'd look up at me with glassy eyes and outstretched his burnt and blackened arm. He couldn't stand, for his legs were fused with the wood,

and his face was a twisted contortion of pain and delirium. In the dream I scream and back away, yet as I do, I bump into a wood. a side figure. I turned to see Ms. Weeks, standing, unmoving, and smiling broadly, a sickly pale looked to her, staring straight into my eyes. Problem, she would say, yet not in her own voice. It was deep and cracking and far too slow. Her rampassed her to the front door, and all the while her screaming is drowning out my thoughts. You open the door. You open the door. You know what this means, don't you? I turn to look at her, fearing the worst. Her face is shrouded in shadows, yet not for long.

She steps forward as she says the next words, revealing a face that can only be described as not hers. It means I get to feed you to George. and she cackled with glee, gripping her hands together in delight. I hear an equally maddening laugh from behind her. George. Before I know what's happening, she's in front of me with my arm in a death grip, and she's pulling me towards George. She's still cackling and yelling as she drags me to him.

He's laughing and cackling and gurgling, and then laughing some more. My vision blurs as Miss Weeks forces me to my knees in front of George. The last thing I'd see before waking is the mangled face of George, as he opens his mouth wide, revealing blackened teeth filed to points. And that's all I'd remember. Yet I didn't have this dream every night. Like I said, sometimes it was of the people in the walls, whispering to me as I tried to sleep, peering out at me from peep-holes. Sometimes I find Mizweak standing over me, staring at me, and I jolt out of bed, realizing that I was. just dreaming. It had always remember her face, just as it was in the dream. Her face would

be different, a very sick, clammy look, with her veins showing through, her lips never completely closed. She's always whispering. Behind her lips, her teeth are yellow, and like George's, filed to points. But it's the eyes that always get me, wide and angry, almost furious. The pupils resemble that of a dog's enlarged so there's very little white to show yet they aren't black like a dog's they're yellow and full of madness i was hoping that these nightmares would end after the first month or so but to no avail they kept haunting me at night and in the waking light of day work was the only place where i found solace didn't stay in that apartment for too long sure i'd seem as weeks occasionally but only ever long enough to say hello.

She always had to be somewhere. So one can imagine I was having misgivings about living here. At first, it was great, but after a while I feared that I was starting to lose my mind. So naturally I spent more time at work, much more, and because of that I was earning more and more money, and people were beginning to notice. Pretty soon a good portion of New York was reading my articles, and I was finally able to afford an apartment that wasn't possibly haunted.

of course to that moment I had no real reason to suspect it was haunted only that I was having nightmares and I shrug that off telling myself I was just being a baby day after day

I was racked with these nightmares and was ultimately relieved when I received word that I'd be getting a raise which meant a lot more money which meant I could now afford a different apartment and as much as I hated to have to break the news to lonely miss

weeks. I knew I had to. And just like her habit of not appearing for days to weeks on end, I had to stale until I finally managed to get a hold of her and bring the news to her. Gently, I might add, as I wasn't sure whether or not she was in fact some sort of demon, or if living in such a strange place with such a strange relic was finally getting to me. And, one day, I realized it was. after a long day of work I came home to find the usual furniture where it's supposed to be lights off

as per how I left them for work and the door securely locked and not budging I wasn't surprised as it had been like this for the past few months I approached it as I usually did round my fingers lightly over the markings around the edge put some weight on it to see if it would budge

and never did and finally tried the door-knot and just as every day it was locked I know that anyone hearing such a strange ritual that I honour every day couldn't help but wonder why for me it made perfect sense this door that stares at me unmoving every single day since I moved in it's mocking me

and does it every day because every day I try to open it to learn what memories or secrets are behind it and every day it denies my entry It jeers at me with his jagged scars, as cruel as smiles, its markings dancing around the edge with snickering laughter. I turned my back on it in defeat, and it has the gall to laugh at me. Me? What did I do to deserve this?

Nothing, and that's what I did. I did what I was supposed to do. I was born, I went to school, discovered my talent, I chased my dreams to the point in which I question my own actions. I did everything lie fast of me, and yet now all it does is repay me by throwing a door in my face, figuratively, as we all know it's not opening any time soon. This monstrosity, sitting in my home, taking up room and board here, where I live, owes me everything. I don't even ask for much. I ask that it opens up, that's all. Just a tiny crack so I may see what secrets are beyond it. I find myself standing in front of the door, eyes fixed on the dead centre of its frame.

I think upon all the disgust and disease it's brought to my mind. It's revolting this door, and there's nothing I can do about it. I want to tear it off its hinges, and yet I can't. All I can do is think about the door and how much I hate it, with every fibre of my being. I think back to the long hours I spent sitting in front of the door, staring. How many times I've yelled myself, horse trying to coerce it to appease me and then a thought altogether new hits me the other tenants all they've done is sit in their apartments and listen to my shouting and crying and begging and pleading and all the bassers

did was sit in their rooms and laugh laugh at young jeremy the kid who just wanted a quiet life to settle down and write not any more I find myself reliving old patterns and having heavy thoughts. I feel stuck. I struggle to feel secure and authentic. You don't have to stay stuck. Mental health professionals at the Center for Interpersonal Relationships are available to provide you with confidential, compassionate services customized to you to help you feel well, secure, and alive. Psychotherapy starts at $75 per session.

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I step into the grim hallway, walking towards the room just to my left, towards the stairs. I grab a fire-axe off the wall as I pass, where I was certain some negotiation was in order. What would I negotiate? I wasn't so sure, possibly nothing, possibly just some friendly chit-chat about sports, or the weather. First door breaks before me with the utmost ease. The axe slices through it as if it hungered to taste the pine for too long.

Don't worry, my friend. I whisper in its ear To comfort it You'll have a gracious meal Before you yet I knew that there were people in there For I always saw lights on And muffled talking

I kick through the splintered door And step into the suite It was the same design Yet not nearly as modern It looked exactly as a tenement sweet shoes Like a complete hole Yet none of that mattered I had to cleanse this place

it had to be done. Hello, anybody home, neighbor, I called out. No answer. Yet the muffled talking was clearer now. Just thought I bring over a little present, tuna fish casserole, made it myself. With that, I drove the axe deep into the wall, giving my friend a quick meal before the real work begins. I know you'll just love it. I passed through the living room,

spotting several signs of someone living here. Pizza on the coffee table, a television, drinks. Yet something wasn't right. At all. A pizza had deteriorated to a black sludge, as if no one had been around in years. The television had long since burnt out with a scorch mark along the wall behind it.

Yet due to the previous fire, there was little damage it could do. The kitchen was also a little damage. a very curious sight. The refrigerator had long since stopped working, and all the food inside resembled the pizza, and the sink only spat out brown liquid in spurs. Yet, most curious of all, was on the table. A tape recorder. And it was playing on a loop, with nothing but muffled voices blaring through. It was surprisingly new, as if it had only been here a short while, barely more than a few months.

And then it hit me like a ton of bricks. Frantically, I searched the entire place for life, and yet it was deserted. The first place I went was the door at the end of the hallway, as it was identical to my suite. As much as I wanted to tear the door to pieces, I simply opened it, relishing the feeling of having control over something again. my eyes swept over the room analysing all I could and realizing that this is what the room looks like

tears well up in my eyes at the intimacy of the moment yet it was short-lived for this was not the room merely a copy now only tears of rage greeted my eyes I left the room and this time my axe tasted the building's flesh the door lay in heaps of splintered wood

as did the last of my innocence destroyed the other two doors giving my friend of feast it would not soon forget then I moved on to the next suite I wasn't surprised to find that empty as well and the next one and the next one a few had tape recorders

playing the same recording yet at different speeds and tones after I was done with all the sweets I believed were inhabited all that was left was my own I walked slowly through the doorway And from the entrance I glared at the door at the end

As it was clearly visible from where I was standing I let the door see me And realize what I was about to do And then I started forward Slowly at first Simply walking towards it As I called out Don't try to apologize

It's useless at this point It would be a nice gesture My voice was rising to a yell As I went from a walk to a jog To a sprint at the door The last word emphasised As my axe bit into it With all the ferocity I could muster

Months of ineptitude Leading up to this My anger and hatred and fear And happiness All flowing from me Through my arm into the axe And finally through the door It was difficult at first

For the door Had been reinforced with a sheet of metal so that no one could get any ideas like the one I had now. It didn't matter. I was almost free, and such a feeling I'd never experienced before. Tears of joy flowed freely, as I felt the axe began to bite through the metal. We danced my dance of rage and emotion, the door and I, until I bathed in sweat and the axe tasted the blood of my hands.

It had deserved something more substantial than mere wood, so I gave it blood and it feasted like a king we both did in that moment I never tired for a second and such a tiresome action would have worn most out but not me I needed to end this door's life

I needed to kill it to send it from this world but it represented what I a writer feared most it was a door that couldn't be opened at least not within the safe waters of sanity yet I knew what separated me from the rest of my kind I wasn't afraid to cast aside such restraining shackles and dove headfirst into enlightenment

finally the door gave way I sobbed a sob of relief of hope of happiness of freedom my vision blurred as I stepped through the door and breathed in the smell of musty old curtains mothballs and something else This room smelled different than what I'd imagined it would smell like Among all these things I caught the scent of death Not death as in a coffin that lingers for years

It was almost fresh My eyes adjusted to the darkness And I squinted through the heavy curtains of black Until finally I found what I was looking for And I felt my core physically shake for in the middle of the floor hunched on its knees was a single figure legs fused to the equally burnt hardwood floor arms curled inward with the flesh that still clung to the burnt bones

yearning for freedom against its bonds what clothes that were left were in tatters and were forever melded with the withered figure's pitiful scraps of flesh turned its head to look at me and I saw her in the glassy eyes my reflection and for some odd reason I wasn't afraid of this thing for I'd finally broken down the last barrier between me and it

and I felt we were connected I wasn't afraid of this being for I pitied it no longer could it enjoy the streaming light of day or the sweeping fields of green upon which to rest and watch the sun set the tears were back yet only in sadness I went silently for the creature vision blurring before me

I watched as my tears fell upon the floor glistening for a moment before fading away. It was then I noticed the peculiar shape, in chalk, upon the floor about the creature.

As I stepped back, I noticed the creature was directly in the centre with a criss-crossing pattern throughout. It took me a moment before I realised what it was. A pentagram. I looked around the room, noticing for the first time

the blackened shapes that used to be furniture sporting a large amount of candles or having been used before. It was then that I realized what or rather who this creature was and what I was looking at. And then the rest dawned on me. All I could think about was what Miss Weeks had said the day I moved in. We were living here at the time in the best suite that we had, feeling we deserved some luxury.

I realize now that she meant my heart. sweet. I thought back to the nightmares of the people in the walls. There weren't any people watching me. Just one person. There's weeks. I then noticed what else was horribly wrong with what I was looking at. All around the room were figures, each more or less along the line of decomposition. All were hung on the wall by hooks. That was a scent I'd first noticed. And so suddenly a light fell on both me and George. Problem, dearie, said the sweet voice of Miss Weeks. I felt my entire body grow cold.

I slowly turned to face the sweet old lady in the doorway. She wasn't like in my dreams, evil and demonic looking. She was the same old Miss Weeks that I'd grown to know. Yet her eyes were definitely different, not yellow or yellow. dilated, just cold, and angry, and more than slightly amused. Yet again I realized I was not afraid. No, I was angry. What have you done to him? I asked, the blood pounding in my ears. Whatever do you mean, dear? She asked, twirling with me.

You know damn well what I mean. What do you do to George? I said. motioning to the figure on the floor. Yet now, I noticed, he wasn't like in my dream. He wasn't the large, monstrous, cackling figure, as I'd imagined. He wasn't even trying to get to me or harm me. He just sat there, forlorn at his predicament. He was barely capable of moving.

All he could do was tap the floor with a long, blackened nail, or drag a withered hand across the floor. Oh, God, I whispered to myself, realizing now that every time I tried to open the door he was trying to signal me the look in his eyes told me everything I need to know he wasn't some malicious creature out of a young man's nightmare he was in pain that was all

as weeks noticed that my attention had been drawn from her and quickly amended that all I've done here it was none of your business to help my poor husband through his struggles I stared at her blankly, not fully understanding. She sighed, frustrated. All sweetness was out of her voice now.

I was so distraught with losing my husband and my business. I decided to get them back. Though getting my husband back was ultimately the easier of the two. Go figure. So I simply turned to some necromancy. a bit of devil worship, a few sacrifices, and voila. The voice rose an extra octave and lathered on the sweetness with that last word. Unfortunately, the sacrifices, former tenants, were only good enough to keep him, well, sort of alive.

I haven't been able to find a pure enough soul to fully pull him out of his dilapidated state. I narrowed my eyes at her with every other word. After all, even though I'd momentarily lapsed into insanity, I still found even this hard to believe. Before I could voice my incredulity, she continued. Luckily, though, I found a good enough sacrifice. You! Her last word sent me staggering. What? I blurted out, unable to believe.

Yes, you. You're young, handsome, and you have a very pure grasp. on both life and emotion, simply perfect. Do excuse me if I gush somewhere, I'm just so excited. She was grinning again, all happiness having returned. Yet it was such happiness that left me uneasy. It was this frail old woman, barely five, six, yet she was so confident about sacrificing me. I was easily six-three and a better half of 170 pounds, and a good portion was muscle.

I mean, what makes you so sure of yourself? After all, look at the two of us. Also, I have an axe, I said, holding up the axe, as if that would be sufficient proof that whatever she was planning was folly. Well, whatever wasn't enough my husband to regenerate, because I sort of well absorbed myself. As she said this, she stepped forward, grasped the hand that held the axe,

and with strength that should not be, belonged to a woman of her age, ripped it from my hand and sent it into the wall. I staggered backwards, hands in front of me, trying desperately to find an escape as she continued advancing. She was surprisingly quick as well. Before I knew what was happening, I was on the floor next to George with a knife at my throat. I looked frantically into Ms. Week's eyes, hoping to find some sort of resolve there that maybe she could change her mind.

I realized she wasn't going to the second. I felt the steel of the knife entering my neck. My eyes began bulging and the pain seared through my entire body and blood flowed freely from the wound, both onto the knife and into my throat. I began choking almost immediately. After a few moments of struggling against her iron grip, I felt my body start to go limp.

My head lulled to one side and the last thing I saw was George, a look of utter defeat in his blackened, burned face. and just before I slept I swore I could see his face growing less blackened his eyes returning to normal but maybe that was just the blood loss I was happy though with what I got to spend my dreams with

he had green eyes and they were pleasant Samantha Kirk stepped out of the taxi and eyed the building before with a mix of curiosity and comfort fusion. It was an old building, how much was for sure, yet all along the front were workers, slowly eradicating the grime that dominated the building's face. She was a writer, and young for one to be on her own. She'd moved here from her hometown, a few hours away, hoping to find

work at a newspaper, or perhaps a magazine. Just as she'd arrived in town, she was delighted to find an opening at a local newspaper. Apparently one of the younger writers had never returned for work, so the job went to her. Most believed it was a stress that had gotten to him from so much work. After all, work as much as someone like him did, they're running from something crazy. Or both. Samantha stepped towards the entrance, bags in hand, and was ambushed by a very sweet, elderly-looking couple. Well, hello, dear, you must be Samantha, said the old woman sweetly, a broad smile on her face. Samantha studied her for a moment, and decided that she liked this woman.

Yes, I am. Very pleased to meet you, replied the young woman, holding out her hand. The landlady, whose name she revealed to be Ms. Weeks, had a surprisingly firm grip for one so old. Her husband, George, however, seemed as if a gust of wind would blow him away. Oh, I'm so worried for my dear George. He's just gotten over being ill for some time. I'm so glad he's gotten better, proclaimed Ms. Weeks, motioning to her.

husband who was startlingly pale and not partaking in his wife's happy demeanour. Samantha just smiled and followed them to her room inside. What's this? asked the young woman as she inspected the large and foreboding door in her hallway. She had been given a most surprising suite, despite the building undergoing severe cosmetic reconstruction. It was very modern. The walls are strong yet like coffee brown colour with red trim along the bottom, along with a furniture set resembling the wallpaper. Ms. Weeks approached her, studying the door herself. Well, my dear, that is a door, she answered.

No, I mean, why is it so old? And in my apartment? replied Samantha, frustrated. It's just an old relic we kept around from the previous building. Lots of memories. It won't open, Samantha said, try and. the doorknop. Yes, unfortunately, it doesn't open at all, the landlady said solemnly.

It's with all these cracks and scratches, the young woman asked as she inspected the markings along the edges and the scars upon the hinges. Oh, also unfortunate. You see, the previous tenant, well, he went a bit crazy and broke the door down, Ms. Week said, never letting up on her smile. Hmm, quite unnerving. Oh, my. Well, what happened to him then? asked the young woman, very curious to hear the story.

Oh, he was evicted, replied Ms. Weeks. I find myself reliving old patterns and having heavy thoughts. I feel stuck. I struggle to feel secure and authentic. You don't have to stay stuck. Mental health professionals at the Center for Interpersonal Relationships are available to provide you with confidential, compassionate services, customized to you to help you feel well, secure, and alive. Psychotherapy starts at $75 per session. Book an initial session online or in person in Toronto at 790 Bay Street.

Visit cfir.ca. Okay, question. What if the door in your home didn't lead to another room, but to another world entirely? In tonight's story, a couple's dream of a fresh start turns into a waking nightmare when they discover a pale green door hidden inside their farmhouse, a door that opens into something else. Now, this isn't just a place. It feels like it's alive.

And this door doesn't stay put. So, what would you do in this situation? Keep listening to find out what happens in another fantastic story from Chilling Tales for Dark Nights. Now, this one is a humdinger, so I hope you're ready for an hour of absolutely awesome. storytelling. Without further do, here we go with

The Pale Green Door by Owen Porter. Courtesy of chilling tales for dark nights. Part 1 Elliot Carter leaned against the wall of the attic, brushing a layer of dust from his jeans. Looks like whoever lived here,

before left in a hurry, he muttered, surveying the piles of forgotten belongings. A cracked mirror leaned against the far wall, surrounded by boxes that seemed to slump under the weight of decades. Oh, they were heavy hoarders, Lydia replied from across the room. Her voice strained as she dragged a heavy box closer to the dim light from the attic window. Her dark curls were pulled into a messy bun, and her face was flushed with exertion. Their new home, a century-old farmhouse tucked into the wooded outskirts of town, was supposed to be their fresh start.

after a year of financial setbacks dashed hopes and fraying tempers the low price and secluded location had seemed like a miracle but less than a week after moving in the miracle was beginning to feel like a burden this box is just full of magazines lydia said prying open the lid and coughing as a puff of dust escaped what is it about old houses and ancient garbage maybe they thought the ads would be worth something someday elliott joseph examining a stack of yellowed newspapers. Lydia didn't laugh. She stood abruptly, brushing off her hands and gazing around the attic as if noticing something for the first time. Doesn't it feel cramped up here? Like the walls are leaning in.

It's just the low ceiling, Elliot said, waving off her concern. Alex is supposed to feel like this. Come on, let's just get this stuff sorted so we can go figure out what to keep and what to toss. Medea hesitated, her gaze lingering on a patch of floorboards near the center of the room. That part of the floor, she said slowly, it looks different. Elliot followed her gaze. She was right. The boards there were a lighter shade as if they'd been replaced more recently than the rest. He crossed the room, crouching down to run his fingers over the uneven surface.

It's a patch job, he said. Maybe they had water damage. or something. He tapped the boars lightly. The sound was hollow. Lydia stepped closer, folding her arms tightly. That's not normal. Why were they replaced just this one part? It could be storage, Elliot said. You know, like one of those hidden compartments for valuables. Or skeletons, Lydia muttered. Elliot gave her a look. Do you want me to check it out or not? She didn't answer, but the furrow in her brow deepened. Taking her silence as permission, Elliot grabbed a crowbar from the pile of tools they'd left at the attic entrance, and began prying at the edges of the lighter boards.

The first piece came loose with surprising ease, revealing a recessed square frame. Beneath it was a small green door, its paint chipped and faded. It was no more than three feet tall, its brass handle turned. tarnished and rusted. What the hell is that? Lydia whispered, taking an involuntary step back. Elliot stared at the door. His curiosity outweighing his unease.

Must have been some kind of access point. Maybe it's wiring or plumbing. Why is it painted like that? Why is it locked? Lydia pointed to the small brass keyhole just below the handle. Melliot shrugged. "'Ah, could be decorative. Old houses have weird stuff like this all the time. "'Probably leads to a cross-space or something.

"'Before Lydia could stop him, he grabbed the handle and turned it. "'The door opened smoothly, its hinges emitting only the faintest creek. "'Beyon the door was nothing. "'The yawning black void stretched downward, utterly silent and lightless. "'The sight made Lydia's stomach lurched. That's not a crawl-space, she said, her voice tight. Elliot leaned closer, squinting into the darkness. Looks like a hole, pretty deep, too.

He dropped a loose nail into the void and waited. No sound came back. Close it, Lydia said abruptly. What? Close it, Elliot. I don't like it. Elliot hesitated but nodded, shutting the door with a soft click. That's weird, he admitted.

It's not dangerous. I'll seal it up later if it makes you feel better. Lydia didn't respond. She watched as Elliot replaced the floorboards. Her arms still folded tightly. Her unease didn't fade, even after the boards were nailed back into place and the green door was hidden once again. That night, the door found them again. Elliot woke to the sound of creaking wood, the noise sharp in the stillness of the house.

He rolled over, expecting to find Lydia tossing and turning beside him, but her side of the bed was empty. Lydia, he called out softly, sitting up. A faint green glow filtered through the crack beneath their bedroom closet door. Elliot frowned, his pulse quickening as he slid out of bed and padded across the room. He opened the closet door and froze. The green door was there, nestled between the hanging clothes and shoe racks. He looked exactly as it had in the attic, except now it seems slightly larger.

What the hell? Elliot! Lydia's voice stouted him, and he turned to see her standing in the bed. bedroom doorway, her expression pale and wide-eyed. Why are you up? He gestured toward the closet. It's back. Lydia's gaze followed his hand.

When she saw the door, she gasped. That's impossible. Clearly not, Elliot said, stepping back from the closet. The same door, I swear. Lydia approached slowly. as if the door might spring to life and lunge at her. She reached out a trembling hand, but Elliot grabbed her wrist before she could touch it.

Don't, he said. We don't know what's behind it. What do you mean? Lydia whispered. I mean, we don't know what it is, Elliot said. It wasn't there before. Shouldn't even fit in this space. Lydia shivered, wrapping her up.

arms around herself. We need to call someone, a contractor, an inspector, or... Say what? Elliot interrupted, that a magic door is following us around our house. Do you know how insane that sounds? Lydia glared at him. I don't care how it sounds, Elliot. Something's wrong with this place, and I'm not just going to ignore it.

Elliot sighed, running a hand through his hair. Yeah, fine. We'll figure something out in the morning. Just, let's get some sleep, okay. Media hesitated, but eventually nodded. They shut the closet door and climbed back into bed, though neither of them slept much that night. For the next afternoon, the door was gone.

Elliot opened the closet cautiously, half expecting to see the green paint staring back at him, but the space was empty. He called Lydia to show her, hoping it might ease her mind. It's gone. See? Probably some, just trick of a light or something. Lydia didn't look convinced.

Tricks don't leave hinges behind. She pointed to the faint impressions in the wood where the door had been. Elliot opened his mouth to argue, but stopped himself. He knew Lydia was right. No matter how much he tried to rationalize the door's appearance, he couldn't explain the marks it left behind, or the void that seemed to stretch endlessly on the other side. As he stood in the closet, an unspoken agreement passed between them. This wasn't over. Not yet. Part 2

The Green Door returned three days later, but this time it wasn't. wasn't content to hide in a closet or attic. Elliot first noticed it while fixing a dripping faucet in the bathroom. He glanced out from his work, and there it was, its faded paint almost glowing in the dim light, embedded in the wall just above the bathtub. The sight made him drop his wrench, which clattered loudly against the porcelain. Lydia, he shouted, his voice echoing in the tarred room.

Her footsteps pounded down the hall before she appeared in the doorway. what what is it he pointed to the wall um it's back her eyes followed his gesture and her face paled the door looked even larger than before its frame warped as though it was struggling to contain something inside this isn't normal she said her voice shaking think i don't know that elliot stint, the strain of the last few days, making his tone harsher than he intended. Lydia flinched and Elliot softened. I'm sorry, he said quickly. I didn't mean to.

Forget it, she interrupted. What do we do now? He didn't have an answer. At night, the whispers began. Elliot woke in the early hours to the sound of faint. Mirmers drifting through the house. They were low and unintelligible, like the voice of someone speaking underwater. He sat up in bed, straining to hear, but the sound vanished as soon as he focused on it.

Beside him, Lydia stirred. What's wrong? she mumbled, her voice thick with sleep. Do you hear that? he asked. She blinked at him confused. Hear what? the um voices elliot said feeling ridiculous even as the words left his mouth lydia stared at him for a moment before shaking her head you're just tired come back to bed he wanted to believe her but the unease in his chest lingered long after she'd fallen back asleep by the next morning the green door had moved again this time it appeared in the dining-room wall replacing a section of faded wallpaper "'What do you want from us?' Lydia muttered as she stared at it. Her hands clenched into fists at her sides.

Elliot watched her from the kitchen, his unease growing. Lydia had always been calm and rational, but in the past few days she'd become restless and short-tempered, her patience fraying with each new appearance of the door. "'You're acting like it's alive,' he said, trying to keep his tone light. Maybe it is, she shot back, her voice sharp. Can you honestly tell me you don't think it's aware of us?

Elliot didn't reply. He couldn't. That evening, Lydia broke her own rule. Elliot was in the garage, tinkering with the lawnmower, when he heard her scream. He dropped the wrench and ran inside. Lydia, he called, skidding to a stop in the living room. She was kneeling in front of the green door, her face pale in her hands trembling.

The door was open, revealing a narrow corridor lined with walls that pulsed faintly, as though they were alive. Green veins criss-crossed the surface, glowing softly in the dim light. I didn't mean to, she whispered, tears streaming down her face. It just opened. Elliot crouched beside her, his eyes fixed on the face. the corridor. A faint breeze wafted through the opening, carrying with it the scent of wet earth and decay. Did you go inside? he asked, his voice tight. She shook her head. No, but something touched me. He grabbed her hands, examining them for any signs of injury. What do you mean

touched you. I don't know, Lydia said, her voice rising. It was like, like fingers, they weren't solid. They felt cold, and now, now... She held up her wrist,

and Elliot's stomach dropped. A faint green vein snaked its way beneath her skin, blowing softly in the dim light. The following days were a blur of tension and fear. Elliot avoided the green door as much as possible, but Lydia couldn't seem to stay away from it. She spent hours standing in front of it, her gaze fixed on the faintly glowing surface.

It's calling to me, she said one night, her voice distant. Elliot stared at her, his chest tightening. Lydia, you need to stop. Whatever this thing is, it's not safe. She turned to him, her eyes wide and glassed. see? What if it's trying to tell us something? What if it's not dangerous at all? He grabbed her shoulders, forcing her to look at him. You don't know that. For all we know, it could be, I don't know, feeding on us or something.

Feeding on us, she repeated, laughing humorlessly. You've been watching too many horror movies. Lydia, I'm serious, Elliot said, his voice firm. You need to stay away from that door. She didn't respond. Desperate for answers, Elliot turned to the town's library. The librarian and older woman named Margaret raised an eyebrow when he described the strange occurrences in the house. Sounds like you got yourself a piece of local history, she said, pulling a dusty volume from the shell.

The book detailed the town's founding families, including the Braddock's, the original owners of Elliot and Lydia's farmhouse. Now, according to the text, the Braddock's have been notorious for their eccentric behaviour and rumoured involvement in the occult. Margaret leaned closer, lowering her voice. They say that old man Braddock built that house

is a sanctuary, a place where he could communicate with the beyond. What does that mean? Elliot asked, frowning. Margaret just shrugged. That could mean anything. But if I were you, I'd start looking for a new place to live.

When Elliot returned home, he found Lydia sitting cross-legged in the living room. Her gaze fixed on the green door. What are you doing? he asked, setting his bag down. She didn't look at him. I, uh, I think I understand now. Understand what? "'The door,' Lydia said. "'It's not random. It's guiding us.'

Elliot crouched beside her, his heart sinking. "'Lydia, listen to me. This isn't normal. Whatever's happening, we need to get out of here. We need to leave.' She finally turned to him. Her expression unreadable. "'Go where? You really think it'll let us leave?' Oh, a word sent a chill down his spine. That night, Elliot woke to the sound of the door creaking open.

He bolted upright, his eyes darting around the roof. The green glow was brighter than ever, spilling into the bedroom like liquid light. Lydia, he whispered, shaking her shoulder. She didn't stir. Elliot stood out of bed, his movement slow. and deliberate. He approached the door, his breath hitching as he peered inside. The corridor was no longer empty. A low hum vibrated through the air, setting his teeth on edge. Nearby, amorphous shadows moved along the walls. As he stepped closer, one of the figures turned

toward him. For a brief moment it had a face. A face he, Recognized. It was his own. Elliot stumbled back, slamming the door shut. The whispers ceased instantly, leaving the house in heavy silence. Part 3. When the green door appeared again, it was no longer just a haunting presence. It was a prison.

Elliot awoke to find that every exit in the house had vanished, replaced by copies of the same pale green door. The front door, the windows, even the sliding door to the back porch. All gone. The wars were lined with the warped, cracking wood of the green doors. Each one identical, their brass knobs tarnished and faintly glowing. Lydia, he shouted, his voice cracking with panic. She rushed into the living room, her face pale and drawn. Elliot, what's happening? I can't get out of the bedroom.

The windows are gone. Everything's... She stopped when she saw the room. Dozens of green doors stretched across the walls, stacked in unnatural rows that defied the house's geometry. We're trapped, Elliot said grimly. Lydia's hands trembled as she approached one of the doors. "'This isn't real,' she whispered. "'This can be real.'

"'Don't touch it,' Elliot warned, grabbing her wrist. "'What choice do we have?' she snapped, pulling away. "'We can't just sit her and wait for whatever this is to get worse.' The words echoed in the silent room, as if the house were mocking them. The couple tried every door, but no matter which one they opened, they all led back to the living room. Some revealed identical copies of the room, while others opened onto a dark, featureless void.

By mid-afternoon, they were exhausted. Lydia sat cross-legged on the floor, her head resting in her hands. Elliot paced the room, his jaw clenched as he studied the doors. There has to be a way out, he muttered. What if there isn't? Lydia said softly.

He froze, turning to her. Don't say that. He lifted her head, her eyes glassy. What if this is it, Elliot? What if the house, the door, it's never going to let us leave? We'll figure it out, he insisted, though his voice wavered. We just need to think. He glanced at the largest door, which had appeared in the centre of the far wall.

It was taller than the others. its paint darker, its frames seemed to shimmer faintly, as though it were vibrating. Yeah, that one, he said, pointing, that's the one we haven't tried. Lydia hesitated. What if it's worse than the others? Or, what if it's the way out? Elliot countered. They stared at the door in silence, the air between them heavy with unspoken fear. Finally, Lydia stood. okay she said but we go together the door swung open smoothly revealing a forest bathed in a sickly green light

the trees were impossibly tall their twisted branches forming a canopy that blocked out the sky the ground was soft and uneven covered in a thick layer of moss that squelched underfoot elliott and lydia stepped through cautiously the air around them thick and humid. The forest hummed faintly, as if alive, and the green light seemed to emanate from the trees themselves. This place is wrong, Lydia said, and Elliot nodded, his eyes scanning their surroundings. The forest stretched endlessly in every direction, the twisted trunks of the trees disappearing into the distance.

Right, we need to keep moving, he said. maybe there's a path or something that can lead us out. They walked in silence, the only sounds the crunch of moss beneath their shoes and the faint hum of the forest. After what felt like hours, they stumbled upon a group of unusual figures standing in a small clearing.

At first, Elliot thought they were statues. They were motionless, their translucent skin glowing faintly in the green light. Their faces were gaunt, their eyes hollow and their clothes hung in tattoos. Um, hello, Lydia called hesitantly. The nearest figure turned its head slowly, its movements jerky and unnatural. His mouth opened, but the voice that came out was soft and echoing,

as though it was speaking from a great distance. You shouldn't be here, it said. Elliot stepped in front of Lydia, his hands clenched into fist, But we didn't mean to come here. We're just trying to get back home. The figure tilted its head, its hollow eyes fixed on them. The door only opens for those who are willing to give.

You have already given, whether you're meant to or not. What does that mean? Lydia asked, her voice trembling. Another figure stepped forward, its movements as jerky as the first. It means you cannot leave. without paying the price. Elliot's chest tightened. What price?

The figures didn't answer. Instead they turned and began to walk away, their glowing forms disappearing into the shadows. The couple continued deeper into the forest, their unease growing with each step. The green lights seemed to grow brighter, and the hum of the forest grew louder, vibrating through their bones.

Eventually they came to another clearing. In the centre stood a tree unlike any they'd seen before. His trunk was smooth and glowing, his branches reaching upward like skeletal fingers. The light it emitted was brighter than the rest of the forest, almost blinding. Lydia took a step toward it, her breath hitching. It's beautiful, she said.

And Elliot grabbed her arm. Lydia, no, we don't know what it is. It's the way out, she said. Her voice distant now. I can feel it. Feel what? He demanded. She turned to him, her eyes wide and glassy.

Speaking to me, Elliot, is telling me we can go home. We just have to accept its offer. Elliot's stomach churned. What offer? Lydia, listen to me. This thing isn't trying. to help us. It's trying to trap us. She shook her head, pulling away from him. You don't understand. It's showing me the way. We can be free, Elliot. We just have to let it take us.

Before he could stop her, she stepped forward and placed her hand onto the tree. The moment Lydia touched the tree, the light intensified, and the forest erupted in a deafening hum. Green veins spread from the tree's trunk, crawling up Lydia's arm and sinking into her skin. Lydia! Elliot shouted, rushing to pull her away. She turned to him, her face twisted in a mixture of pain and ecstasy. It's okay, she said, her voice barely audible. I can see it now.

The door, at the other side, it's so close. Elliot grabbed her shoulders, shaking her. No, you don't know what you're saying. This thing is killing you. It's not killing me, she whispered. It's freeing me. The veins continued to spread, creeping up her neck and down her torso. Elliot let out a cry of desperation, his mind racing.

He needed to act fast, or he would lose her forever. He looked around frantically and sped. spotted a jagged rock on the ground. Without thinking, he grabbed it and began hacking at the veins binding Lydia to the tree. The tree led out a sound that could only be described as a scream, his branches writhing as though in agony. The veins recoiled, retreating back into the trunk. Lydia collapsed into Elliot's arms, her body trembling.

The green veins on her skin faded, leaving faint scars behind. We need to go, Elliot said, his voice shaking. Lydia nodded weakly, leaning on him as they stumbled away from the tree. As they fled the clearing, the forest began to collapse. The trees writhed and twisted, their branches snapping like bones. The green light dimmed, and the harm grew louder, vibrating throughout their bodies. Elliot glanced back and saw indistinct figures emerging from the collapsing trees, moving with unnatural speed. Don't look back, he shouted, tightening his grip on Lydia's arm.

The green door appeared ahead of them, flickering like a mirage. They sprinted toward it, their lungs burning and their legs trembling. Just as the wraith-like figures closed in, they dove through the door, slamming it shut behind them. They clasped onto the floor of their living room, gasping for air. The house was silent, the green door gone. For a long moment, neither of them spoke. Is it over? Lydia whispered. Elliot just stared at the spot where the door had been, his chest heaving.

I don't know, he said. Art 4 The world outside the door was dim and unfamiliar. Elliot and Lydia had escaped the forest, but the house they stood in now was not the same one they'd entered. The walls were warped and covered in patches of moss. The air felt damp and heavy, carrying a faint scent of decay. Elliot helped Lydia to a chair in the living room.

The skin was pale and the faint green scars etched up her arm. arms like veins of marble. She stared at the floor, her expression distant. Are you okay? Elliot asked, crouching beside her. She didn't answer immediately. Her fingers traced the faint scars on her arms, her lips trembling. I can still feel it, she whispered.

You're what? The tree, she said, her voice hollow. It's inside me. It's not gone. Elliot gripped her hands tightly. Hey, you're out now. Whatever that thing is, it can't reach you anymore. We're safe.

She shook her head slowly. You don't understand. It's still connected to me. It's waiting. Lydia, he said firmly. We're going to get through this. We just need to figure out what's happening. But you have to fight it.

Her eyes met his, and for a moment, moment he thought he saw something flicker in them, something green and alien. Then she blinked, and it was gone. Over the next few days, the tension between them grew. The house seemed to resist their attempts to clean it. No matter how much Elliot scrubbed, the moss returned, creeping up the walls like ivy. The windows fogged over with moisture, and the floors felt soft underfoot. Lydia spent most of her time in the living room, staring at the spot where the largest green door had been.

She barely ate or slept, her energy consumed by something invisible, like an invisible weight. Elliot desperate for answers returned to the library. Margaret, the librarian, raised an eyebrow when he walked in, his dishevelled appearance betraying his fraying nerves. If you look like you've seen a ghost, she said, a tone half to. joking. Elliot forced a weak smile. Something like that. He spent hours pouring over books on local legends, occult practices and supernatural phenomena. One passage in an old text caught his eye. The green gate, a portal set to connect the mortal world to the beyond. Those who open the gate must sacrifice something precious to pass through, but the gate always demands more than one

expect. Beware it's lure, for the beyond never let's go. Elliot slammed the book shut, his chest tightening. When he returned home, he found Lydia in the kitchen, her back to him. She was humming softly, a melody he didn't recognize. Lydia, he said cautiously. She turned slowly, and his stomach sank. Her eyes were brighter than before, a faint green glow now unmistakable. Oh, you're back, she said. Her voice light and almost cheerful. I was starting to think you'd left me. What's going on? he asked. His voice shaking. What's happening to you? She smiled, but it didn't reach her eyes.

Nothing you need to worry about. I'm fine, Elliot. Really. "'You're not fine,' he said, stepping closer. "'Look at yourself. "'Look at what is doing to you.' "'She tilted her head, her smile fading. "'It's not doing anything to me. "'It's helping me.' "'Helping you,' he repeated, incredulous.

"'Lydia, it's taking over. "'You're not yourself anymore.' "'Her expression darkened. "'Maybe I'm finally becoming who I was meant to be. That night, Elliot woke to find Lydia gone. The bed beside him was cold, and the faint hum of the green door echoed through the house. Lydia, he called, his voice breaking the silence. There was no response.

He got out of bed, anxiety welling up inside him, and followed the hum to the living room. She was standing in the centre of the room, a hand outstretched toward an invisible point in the air. The scars on her arms glowed faintly, pulsing in time with the hum. Lydia, he shouted, running to her. She didn't turn. Her eyes were fixed on the empty space in front of her, her lips moving silently as her reciting a prayer. Lydia, stop.

Elliot grabbed her shoulders and shook her. Her head snapped toward him, her eyes wide and glowing. don't touch me she said the voice layered with an otherworldly resonant Elliot stumbled back his blood running cold what what's happening to you it's almost time she said ignoring his question I have to go back it's calling me no said firmly you're staying here with me her expression softened and for a moment she looked like herself again elliot she whispered tears filling her eyes i don't have a choice yes you do he insisted grabbing our hands we'll fight this together she pulled away her tears spilling over you don't understand if i don't go it'll take you instead The next day Elliot found her in the yard, standing beneath a twisted oak tree.

She was barefoot, her hair tangled, and her arms raised toward the sky. Lydia, please, he said, his voice roar. She turned to him, her face serene. It's not what you think, she said. It's not evil, Elliot. It's just different. It wants to share its world. with us? He shook his head, tears streaming down his face now. That's not sharing. It's taking,

it's taking you away from me. She stepped closer, her glowing eyes locking onto his. You could come with me, she said softly. We could be together, forever. What are you talking about? Elliot asked. It's opening the door for us, she said. "'We just have to step through.' Her hand reached her his, but he pulled away. "'No,' he said firmly. "'I'm not going to let it have you.' "'You don't have a choice,' she said.

"'A voice tinned with sadness. "'Neither of us does.' That night the green door returned. It was larger than ever, its frame pulsating with the light. The hum was deafening. vibrating through the walls and floor. Elliot knew what he had to do. He found Lydia standing in front of the door, her hand resting on the handle.

The green scars on her arms glowed brighter, spreading up her neck and across her chest. Oh, don't do this, he pleaded. She turned to him, her face expressionless. It's too late. No, no, it's not, he said. to step in closer. You can fight this. You don't have to let it win. She hesitated, her hand trembling on the handle. It's stronger than me, Elliot. I can't stop it. Yes, you can, he said, grabbing her shoulders. You're stronger than this. I know you are. Her eyes filled with tears,

and for a moment the green glow dimmed. Elliot. Before she could finish, the door burst open. A surge of green light flooded the room. Elliot acted on instinct. He grabbed a jagged piece of wood from the broken doorframe and slashed at the veins binding Lydia to the door. She screamed, her body convulsing as the veins recoiled. The door let out a deafening wail,

its light flickering like a dying flame. Hold on, Elliot shouted, pulling her away. The veins snapped and withered, retreating back into the door. Lydia collapsed into his arms, her body trembling violently. The door began to shrink, its light fading until it was no more than a faint outline on the wall. Elliot held Lydia tightly as the last remnants of the door disappeared. It's over, he whispered. You're safe now.

eyes fluttered open and she smiled weakly thank you she said a voice barely audible part five the house had quieted after the door disappeared but the silence was anything but comforting Elliot paced the living room, his eyes darting to the walls and corners, waiting for the faint green glow to return. Lydia sat on the couch, her hands folded in her lap, staring blankly ahead. It's not over, Elliot said, breaking the silence. Lydia didn't respond. She looked like a ghost of herself, her pale skin and her green scars faint but still visible. Lydia, Elliot said, crouching in front of her. I need you to tell me everything.

What did it say to you? What did it show you? She blinked slowly, her gaze drifting to his. It said we were chosen, she whispered, that the door wasn't an accident. It was looking for us. For us, Elliot asked, his stomach twisting, but why us?

She shook her head. I don't know. It just knew. Knew everything about me, about us. It showed me, things, Elliot, things that felt real. What things? He pressed. She hesitated, her voice trembling.

It showed me a life where we were happy, when nothing ever went wrong. Said it could give it to us. Give us that, that all I had to do was accept. Elliot clenched his jaw, anger and fear, bubbling inside of him. Look, it lied to you, Lydia. That wasn't real. It's manipulating you.

I know, she said softly, tears spilling down her cheeks. But for a moment, I wanted it to be real. That night, the house began to change again. Elliot woke to the sound of creaking wood and a faint, rhythmic thrum. He sat up and saw the wall shifting, the plaster cracking as green veins spread like ivy. Lydia! he shouted, leaping out of the bed. She was already standing in the doorway, her face illuminated by the faint green glow. It's coming back, she said, her voice hollow.

The veins pulsed and the harm grew loud. her, vibrating through the floor. Elliot grabbed Lydia's hand, pulling her into the living room. We have to get out of here, he said. Where are we supposed to go? she asked. Her tone almost resigned. Elliot opened his mouth to respond, but a deafening crack interrupted him. The largest green door yet appeared on the far wall, its frame pulsating violently.

No, Elliot muttered, his grip on Lydia tightening. I'm not letting it take you. It's not going to take me, Lydia said. A voice strange. It's going to take us both. And the door swung open, and the forest on the other side was dark of them before. The twisted trees loomed impossibly high, their branches writhing like serpents. The air was heavy with the smell of decay, and figures shrouded.

it in darkness, moved in the distance. Elliot stepped in front of Lydia, shielding her. We are not going back in there, he said. The harm grew louder, and the figures began to move closer. They won't stop until we step through, Lydia said. Elliot turned to her, his face pale. We'll find another way. It isn't another way, she said.

her voice filled with despair. The wrath were almost upon them when Elliot made his decision. Grabbing Lydia's hand, he pulled her through the door, the forest swallowing them whole. Inside the forest, time lost meaning. The green glow was dimmer than before, but the hum persisted, vibrating through the trees. Elliot and Lydia moved quickly, their footsteps muffled by the thick moss, hovering the ground. We need to find the tree, Lydia said suddenly.

What? Elliot stopped, staring at her. The tree, she repeated. It's the only way. We destroy it. The door won't have power anymore. Elliot frowned. How do you know that?

It told me, she said. Her voice trembling. I didn't mean to, but... I saw it in my mind. The tree is the source. He hesitated, but the determination in her eyes convinced him. Oh, we find the tree, he said. The tree was in the clearing, just as before.

His glowing trunk pulsating with a sickly green light. Elliot and Lydia approached cautiously. What now? Elliot asked. Lydia reached into her pocket and poured out the jagged piece of wood he'd used to sever the veins before. We destroy it, she said simply. Elliot nodded, gripping the wood tightly. As he stepped toward the tree, the ground beneath him trembled,

and a deafening roar echoed through the forest. The figures emerged from the trees, surrounding the clearing. Their forms were barely human, their limbs elongated and distorted. "'Hurry!' Lydia shouted, but Elliot did not hesitate. He drove the jagged wood into the tree's trunk with all his strength. The tree let out a piercing scream and the veins on its surface writhed violently. The green light intensified, blinding them. "'Keep going!' Lydia yelled, grabbing a large branch and striking the tree alongside him.

While the wraths closed in, their shapes twisting. and melting into one another. Elliot ignored them, focusing all his energy on the tree. Finally, with a final strike, the tree cracked. It's glowing light flickered and the hum stopped abruptly.

The shadowy figures froze, their forms dissolving into green mist. The forest began to collapse. The trees twisted and fell, their branches disintegrating into ash. The ground beneath them cracked and shifted, threatening to swallow them home. The door, Lydia shouted, pointing to a faint green glow in the distance.

Elliot grabbed her hand, pulling her toward the light. They ran as the forest fell apart around them, the air filled with the sound of cracking wood and rushing wind. The door loomed ahead, flickering like a mirage. They dove through it just as the forest disappeared, slamming it shut behind them. The house was silent when they returned. The green door was gone, and the walls were bare. Elliot clasped onto the floor, struggling to catch his breath.

Lydia sat beside him, her head resting on his shoulder. Is it over now? she asked softly. He didn't answer. His gaze was fixed on the spot where the door had been. For now the house was quiet, But deep down, Elliot wondered if it would stay that way. Part 6 The new apartment was unremarkable in every way.

A drab boxy building in the middle of the city, with thin walls, perpetually buzzing fluorescent lights. It wasn't the type of place Elliot had imagined for them, but after the farmhouse, unremarkable was exactly what they needed. Lydia sat by the window, staring out at the busy street below. She'd been doing that a lot lately, watching the world, but never engaging with it.

The pale skin had regained some colour, but the scars on her arms remained, faint green lines etched into her flesh like a reminder of what they'd escaped. Elliot placed a steaming cup of tea on the table beside her. Here, he said gently. She glanced at him, managing a small smile. Thanks. He said across from her, nursing his own cup.

For a while they sat in silence, a faint hum of the city filling the empty space between them. Do you think it's really over? Lydia asked suddenly. Elliot hesitated, staring down at his cup. I want to believe it is. He said. But you don't, she said, her tone flat.

He looked up at her, his jaw tightening. I don't know, Lydia. How can I know, with her, after everything we've been through? She nodded, a gaze returning to the window. I can still feel it sometimes, she admitted. Like it's watching me. Elliot didn't respond. He'd felt it too.

A faintest sensation, like a pair of eyes on the back of his neck, or a shadow in the corner of his vision that disappeared when he turned to look. The days blurred together as they tried to rebuild their lives. Elliot threw himself into work, taking on long hours to distract himself from the memories that refused to fade. Lydia stayed home, spending her days cleaning their already spotless apartment or sitting by the window. One evening, Elliot came home to find her sitting on the floor,

in the bedroom, surrounded by sheets of paper. Each one was covered in intricate sketches of doors, green doors, all slightly different but unmistakably the same. Lydia, he said, his voice cautious, what are you doing? She didn't look up. I kept dreaming about them, she said. Every night, they're always there just out of reach. He crouched beside her, gently placing a hand on her shoulder.

They're just dreams, he said. They don't mean anything. She finally looked at him, her eyes filled with tears. What if they do? Elliot started locking the bedroom closet at night. He told himself it was for Lydia's sake, but deep down, he knew it was for his own peace of mind. Despite his effort,

the unease lingered. The faint harm he thought he'd left behind seemed to follow him, vibrating at the edge of his senses. He told himself it was just his imagination, a remnant of the trauma that they'd endured. But then came the night, he woke to find Lydia standing by the closet. Lydia, he whispered, his voice thick with sleep. She didn't respond. Her hand was on the closet door. her fingers tracing the wood as if searching for something. He got out of bed, crossing the room cautiously. Lydia, what are you doing?

She turned to him slowly, her expression blank. It's here, she said. What's here? he asked, his stomach twisting. She pointed to the closet. The door. "'No, it's not,' Elliot said firmly. "'The door is gone, Lydia. It's over.' But even as he said the words, he felt the hum in the air, growing louder with each passing second.

The next morning Lydia didn't mention the incident, and Elliot didn't press her. He wanted to believe it had been a dream, a trick of his exhausted mind. But over the following days the feeling of being watched grew strong. He started noticing small things, a faint green glow under the bedroom door at night, the sound of creaking wood when the apartment was still. One evening, as he sat in the living room reviewing paperwork, the lamp beside him flickered. He looked up and froze. A faint outline of a door shimmered on the far wall, just for a moment before disappearing.

Lydia, he called, his voice trembling. She appeared in the doorway, her face pale. What is it? Elliot gestured to the wall. Did you see that? She frowned, stepping closer. See what? He stared at the wall, his pulse racing.

The door was gone, but the memory of it lingered. nothing he said finally it's nothing but he knew it wasn't a week later elliott woke in the middle of the night to find the bedroom bathed in a faint green light he sat up and there it was again the door was back it was smaller than before his paint chipped and faded but there was no mistaking it He stood at the foot of their bed, his brass handle gleaming faintly. Elliot stared at it frozen. Beside him, Lydia stirred, her eyes fluttering open. Elliot? She murmured sleepily. Don't look, he said quickly.

But it was too late. Her eyes widened as she saw the door, and a faint smile spread across her lips. It came back, she whispered. Elliot grabbed her hand, his grip tight. We are not going through it, he said firmly. Do you hear me? We're not going back.

She didn't respond. Her gaze was fixed on the door, her expression unreadable. The hum grew louder, vibrating throughout the room. The door's frame pulsed faintly. His green light spilling onto the floor light liquid. Elliot tightened his grip on Lydia's hand, his own voice shaking. We're not going back, he repeated.

But deep down, he wasn't sure if they had a choice. We opened a doorway to hell. 10.48 p.m. Yeah, you ready? Jeffrey Morgan read the text several times before starting to type his response and stopping. No, he wasn't ready. He wouldn't be ready even if he lived to be a thousand. But he couldn't jicking out.

Yeah, he typed and hit sent. Sighing, Jeff got up and grabbed his shoes from the spot by the closet door. He was already dressed in a pair of black sweatpants in a white t-shirt. navigating by moonlight he grabbed his black hoodie from the desk under the window and slipped it on he checked his phone so it was ten fifty-five and briefly considered texting andrew back and telling him he couldn't make it something told him though that they would see through his excuse this is your damn chance morgan jeff thought outside the old oak tree dominating the backyard swayed in the cold autumn wind don't blow it the thought of losing the only chance he'd had to make friends since coming to Western Port scared him shitless he thought back to all the times he'd eaten lunch by himself that fall and shuddered when he and his family moved from Hagerstown in June his father told him I all make friends well Jeff never made friends easily to begin with

on top of that he was walking into a school where everyone knew everyone and had since elementary school he was an outsider in Hagerstown but that was okay they were right others. Here, he didn't have Johnny or Tim. Didn't have the magic. The gathering gang. Well, he didn't have anyone. It was totally and utterly alone. He was shocked, then, when Andrew Cooper sat with him at lunch last Monday. Tall and thin with glasses, Andrew wasn't popular by jock or cheerleader standards, but he had a lot of friends and everyone seemed to like him. Hey, I saw your deck, Andrew said, nodding to the deck of magic card. sitting by Jeff's tray.

During lunch he took them out and played against himself. Some of the other kids snickered as they passed by, and though he didn't have proof, he thought they were laughing at him. Yeah, Jeff had replied. He used to play a lot. I used to be big into magic, Andrew said, opening up his milk cart and taking a swig.

But that's, well, sixth grade stuff. Jeff felt a flush of humiliation. sensing his faux power Andrew hastened to add I mean compared to what I play now What's that? Jeff asked Devil Sporn Before the bell

Andrew managed to explain the basics of Devil Sporn Each player Typically between 3 and 13 played as either a demon or a lightbringer Lightbringer were enemies of the demons Sort of like Van Helsing to Dracula The board was painted to resemble a fantasy world with rivers, oceans, dense forests and deserts.

The goal, for the demons, was to bring hell on earth. For the light-bringers, it was to prevent hell on earth. Simple, Jeff thought, but Andrew and his coven opened the ante by playing a live-action role-play version in the woods north of town. It would meet in Andrew's basement on Monday evening, or 13 of them, excluding Andrew, and make plans for that week's game. On Friday they would steal out of their houses close to midnight and play the game,

sometimes staying out until sunrise. Andrew told him later, as he walked home from school, and he was planning a special game. I've been reading a lot about Satanism, he said. I found this book in the library that says you can summon him and use his power. I don't know if it's true or not, but I'm going to try. Why? Jeff asked. They're on his street now, a narrow, tranquil lane flanked by big houses and shady trees.

A few other kids walked along the sidewalk. on the other side of the road, lost in their cell phones. Well, because I'm sick of being a no-one. That's why. Jeff opened his mouth, but closed it again. He was afraid he'd say the wrong thing and offend Andrew. I want to be powerful. The older boy went on.

I want people to listen to what I say. Well, Jeff didn't know how to respond, so he said nothing. I can't do it without 13 apostles, though. Jeff looked at him. Robbie Hornam moved away two weeks ago I need someone else and you seem pretty cool Later in his room the lights off and his hands laced behind his head Jeff pondered Andrew's invitation

He was elated to be part of something But he had the nagging feeling that Andrew was just using him Regardless by the time midnight rolled around His mind was made up He would join the Coven They met that Wednesday night to Andrews Andrew introduced himself around But even now Jeff couldn't remember all the names

There was Stephen Hunter Simon Jameson, Sean Johnson and Kayla Winston Well, he remembered her A tall girl with shoulder-length black hair and hazel eyes Kayla Winston lived in McCool The town next over She was 15 a year older than Jeff And wore black eye shadow and bright blared lipstick

Sitting around the table with the others that night Jeff found himself repeatedly stealing glances at her, his eyes lingering on her smooth, graceful throat and the soft curve of her face. She caught him several times and smiled. Next Friday, Andrew said. We'll do it next Friday. To Jeff surprise, the others were as enthusiastic

about raising the devil as Andrew. They taught her revenge and domination the way other kids taught about football or video games. Did they really think Andrew could summon the devil? Did they really think they could bring forth the Prince of Darkness and use his powers? That was crazy. Still, Jeff found himself wondering. Here, alone, the idea was madness.

But in Andrew's awesome presence, it seemed true. He could call on Satan. He could use his power. Oh, he's really smart, Caleb said. If anyone can do it, it's him. It was Saturday afternoon. Jeff was reading a Terry Pratchett novel. in his room when his mother poked her head in.

There's a girl at the door looking for you. And she winked, and Jeff's cheeks blushed. When he found Kayla Winston standing on the doorstep, dressed in jeans and a black t-shirt, he was shocked but also pleased. Hi, she chirped. Oh, hi, Jeff responded, hating the stupid sound of his voice. Want to hang out?

Sure. Fifteen minutes later, they were walking south, along the street. It was a mild day, and sunshine filtered through the tree-tops. Well, I figured if you're going to be in our coven, I should get to know you better. After all, we're like brother and sister now. Yeah? Yeah, she said. Andrew says we're a family.

That's against the world, you know. Well, I guess. South of town, Kayla led him onto a path disappearing into the woods. So, um, what are your parents like? she asked the trail ran straight and true for several yards before bending through the trees ahead all yellow and red he could see the pottermac don't know he shrugged cool i guess they don't hit you no she loaded him genuinely surprised must be nice do your parents hit you sometimes eventually the path led to a tall Barron Hill. Standing on it, Jeff had a sweeping view of the fiery autumn treetops, stretching toward town. The only size of mankind were a church steeple, a blue water tower, and the sewage treatment plant, the latter a big, boxy brown building. Oh, it's beautiful, she said. Jeff

swallowed. He wanted to tell her that she was beautiful, wanted to kiss her, but he was afraid, afraid that he would creep her out, and they couldn't be friends anymore. instead he muttered yeah presently he shook his head and turned from the window the old cemetery andrew had said on monday there are a cafeteria occupying most of a large table we can do it there jeff felt strange being with such a large group he was used to being by himself it's out of the way stephen hunter said how many people go there do simon jameson pointed out there's a caretaker right andrew flapped one hand he only goes out there to cut the grass we'll be fine right jeff jeff hearing his name looked left and right they were all watching him their eyes boring into him his face flushed and he licked his lips sure he said it was settled they'd meet in the old cemetery off ridge road overlooking the pottermac. Now, at his bedroom door, Jeff listened, and when he didn't hear anything, he slipped out into the hall and pulled it softly shut behind him. The hall was pitch black,

and he had to wait a moment for his eyes to adjust. When they did, he crept to the top of the stairs and stopped to listen again. His parents' door was closed, but even so he could hear his father's snoring. The snoring would hide any sounds he made, or so he hoped. His father could sleep through Judgment Day, but his mother would wake at the drop of a hat, if she heard anything out of the ordinary. Swallowing, his heart racing, Jeff started down the stairs, being careful to avoid the third one down, since it creed. Halfway, he paused and listened. Nothing. At the bottom, he went to the front door and unlocked it. The sound of the tumblers was deafening in the silence, and he winced, certain that his parents would wake. For

several stomach-churning minutes he listened, and when he heard nothing, he slipped out, shut the door behind him, and locked it. The night was clear and cold, a biting wind swept up the street, stirring the trees and pushing dead leaves along the pavement. Taking a deep breath, he tumbled down the stairs and followed the flagstone path to the sidewalk. He glanced left and right, saw no one and crossed the street. From his house, Jeff followed Pinesh. Street north through a neighbourhood crammed with houses smaller and grimyer than those on his street. At the intersection of Pine and Hill Avenue, he turned left and passed the elementary school. Home with the Bobcats! Hill Ave meets Main Street just south of the Union Inn. Shuddered

storefronts glinted in the light of the moon. To the south the car turned onto Driscoll Street, its taillights glowing red, and for a second Jeff had a bone-chilling thought. What if it was his father out looking for him. He checked his phone. Eleven, fourteen. He'd been gone almost fifteen minutes. Plenty of time for his parents to wake up, discover his bed empty, and come looking for him. Flashing to the dreadful right ahead, he thought that maybe being dragged home by his ear wasn't such a bad thing. Shaking his head, he started north. A half mile from the town limits, the buildings lining the street fell away and were replaced by forest.

At the clapboard sign reading, welcome to Westernport. M.D.'s nicest town. Maine turns into Route 228, which winds 20 miles through the forest before reaching Kitsmiller. For the first ten miles, it matches the Potomac Bend for Bend. Jeff walked along the gravel shoulder overlooking the river below, its Inky surface dappled lunar white. The wind blew harder outside town, and Jeff shivered despite his hoodie. Two miles past the edge of town, Jeff left the main highway in favor of a dirt road, nearly hidden by foliage. Andrew had pointed it out on a topography map on Thursday night.

It's called Fried Meat Ridge Road. The cemetery is in a clearing at the very end of it. Jeff couldn't remember if it was one mile or two. The road ran fairly straight at first, before bending to the right and then beginning to climb into the hills. Moonlight filtered through the trembling tree-tops, and the only sound he could hear was the forlorn hooting of an owl somewhere in the distance. Shivering, he licked his lips and walked as quickly as he could without breaking into a run. He tried not to imagine what might be hiding in the forest, watching, waiting to stumble out with his arms raised in its mouth open.

He remembered a movie he saw once as a kid where a woman opened a door and this thing was lying on a bed, its skin sallow and its hair red. It giggled and said something about, coming back, presumably from the dead. Oh, stop it. Please stop it.

After what seemed like an eternity, he came to the end of the forest. The road wound left and passed clear of the cemetery. From here it looks sinister, its iron gate and slanted stones reminding him of something from a lovecraft story. He could imagine some great entities

living beneath the soil, waiting to strike. Shut up! Shaking his head, Jeff started across the lumpy field, skirting the graveyard. At the gate he paused and swept the graveyard with his gaze, hoping to see Andrew and the others. He didn't. What if it was a prank?

What if they'd lured him out here just to laugh at him? Pushing these thoughts aside, Jeff went into the cemetery. "'Hello?' he called, his voice refusing to echo. "'Over here.' Jeff looked to his left. Someone was sitting on a tomb five feet high. As he drew closer, he saw it was Andrew. "'Ah, great, now we can start,' Andrew said, shoving off the tomb.

The others were arranged in a rough circle beyond the slab. They looked up and muttered their greetings. "'Hey, glad you made it, Preppy,' Kayla Winston said with a wink. "'Preppy? Did she think he was a PrEP?' While the others got to their feet, Andrew sparked a lighter and touched it to a pile of wood in the center of the circle. Jeff hadn't noticed it when he'd walked up. "'Tonight we call forth the powers of Satan,' Andrew said and backed away from the rising flames. feeble orange light flickered across the night.

Jeff, stand next to Kayla. Steve, stand next to Mike and hold hands. Feeling slightly stupid and very nervous, Jeff walked over to Kayla and stood next to her. Her hand crept into his, and he felt a rush of warmth. Well, that warmth dimmed when Luke Johnson took his other hand. I wonder if you can actually do it, she whispered. Jeff looked at her.

You, um, think maybe he can't? She shrugs. I've never seen him do it, so I don't know. Yeah. Andrew was standing apart from the group now, leaving through a large book. When he spoke, his voice rolled across the burial ground. This is the forbidden book. It's written by Lee Yukang in 1905 and contains secret prayers to summon Lucifer.

I'll read from it, and he will come. Never break the circle. If you break the circle, he will be drawn back to hell. Do you understand? Everyone nodded or muttered that they did. Good. Looking at the book, Andrew opened it and flipped through it. Jeff was surprised to find his chest tightening with anticipation.

He stole a side-long glance at Kayla, saw that her face was serene, and fought to push down his anxiety. society. All right. Silence. After a silent second, Andrew began to read. Schiff didn't recognize the language at first, sounded like gibberish, and then he realized it was Latin. Die Serea, diess ill, sovete Seiclium, infavila, testesetan with Sibylla, Teste Satan, with Sibylla, Quantos tremor,

es futurus, when Vindex, is venturus. Cuncta strict, discussurus, dies Ii, diis illa. Satanus,

venere, everyone replied in unison, except Jeff. Hey, um, what's he saying? He asked Kayla. Sh, Luke admonished. Andrew continued.

Orion's splendor loses a eternity. At Lucifer justi, veni. Veni. At illumine sedentes in tenebris. Et umra mortis. Satanus, venire. Something began to happen. Chef wasn't aware of it at first,

suddenly all at once he was a strange chief chattering vibration the fire burning slowly flared up now seemed to turn blue jiff felt his hand going slack but kaila held tight satanas venere satanas veni a roar filled the night looking up jiff saw dark clouds clouds rolling across the stars and lightning crackled within. Dumb wonder filled him. It was happening. Andrew was actually doing it. Satanus Vinire.

The storm opened with a crash. Lightning flashed down, and someone screamed. The world went white, and Jeff felt himself falling, his hand slipping away from both Kayla and Luke. "'Lord, Satan!' Andrew yelled. When Jeff opened his eyes, he saw Andrew on his knees. A bolt of lightning seemed to pour into him.

The others also had lightning drilling their chests. They shook and jerked like men in the electric chair. "'Jesus!' Kayla was on the ground next to him, supported on outstretched arms. She wore an expression of horror. Another crash came, and the world shook. Jeff realized that the ground was parting, panicking he jumped to his feet. The lightning winked out, and the others collapsed.

Oh, my God, Kayla started, but stopped. Hands were beginning to come out of the ground, clawing through the grass and dirt. A fissure had appeared lengthwise before them, and from it poured sulfur smoke. Jeff! Jeff was so scared he couldn't move. things were beginning to climb out of the fisher the orange glow coming from the hole itself jeff could see that they weren't human jeff kayla was tugging on his arm the hands coming through the ground become arms now in a few places rotten dead faces show through the dirt eye sockets squirming with maggots jeff's paralysis broke he turned from the horror and began to run Part 2

Donald Graves, an accountant from Pittsburgh, on his way to a convention in Charleston, tapped the steering wheel and sang along to Billy Joel's, the River of Dreams. He knew most of the words, and compensated for what he didn't by humming. It was 12.28 a.m. by the green dash clock, and Donald was starting to think about finding a motel. He told his wife, Jean, that he was just going to drive through the night, something he'd done many times before, but now with the lines blurring on the road before him, he had to admit it wasn't a young man anymore. He turned 50 in January, and he felt it. Donald had been following Route 2-2-8 since crossing into Maryland at 10.30. Back there, it was wide and well-lit,

lined with restaurants, gas stations, and shopping malls. But here, just north of Westonport, it was narrow and dark, writhing through the woods like a snake in the throats of death. If remembered correctly, there was a motel in Kayser. Maybe he... So quickly that Donald could barely register, something jumped out into the road and slammed into the windshield, cracking it. Screaming, he instinctively jerked the wheel to the left and slammed into the ditch, his head bouncing off the wheel.

When he came to, white smoke curled from the crumpled front end of the Nissan, he moaned as a wave of agony crashed over him. "'Gene's going to kill me,' he thought grogily. He touched his fingers to his scalp, and they came away bloody. Oh, shit. For a moment he sat where he was, holding his mind clear. When he was sure he was steady, he pulled his cell off from his pocket. Suddenly the driver door jerked open, startling him.

When he saw the thing grinning at him, his blood ran cold and the phone dropped from his hand. The thing, its white face partially obscured by mass. black hair, reached for him with hooked fingers, the devilish red glow of his eyes shining hypnotically. Before it caught hold of his shirt and dragged him out, he saw others behind it. A snarling, dog-faced horror with ram's horns, a decomposing woman whose skull shone eerily in the moonlight, a midget with blue skin and jagged yellow teeth. On the radio, Billy Joel search for the desert of truth. In real life, Donald Graves had found it, and it was hell.

Jeff stumbled, went to his knees. His side burned, and each breath was fire in his lungs. Beside him, Kayla stopped. Come on! Jeff tossed a glance over his shoulder. The woods were dark and empty. Here, far from the cemetery, the only sound was the wind in the trees. Jeff

We're okay Jeff panted They aren't following us Something moaned nearby contradicting him It sounded like it was off to the left Jeff Come on

Kayla pled Jeff got to his feet Something moved between the trees And a flash of moonlight It looked dead Let's go They walk quickly through the leaves Kayla in front and Jeff behind.

He occasionally looked behind to make sure they weren't being followed. Hey, where are we going? Jeff asked at one point. The trees pressed close against them and the underbrush was starting to get impassably thick. I don't know, she breathed. The land rose up, forming a hill,

and at the summit Jeff could see the lights of town over the tops of the trees. At the bottom on the other side of a narrow stream, a dirt road ran east to west. Jeff looked back, faintly over the treetops he could see the blue light. Come on, Kayla said, already starting down. Sighing, Jeff followed.

At the water's edge, Kayla paused. How deep is it? Jeff asked. In the distance, a scream split the night, high and unearthly. Not deep enough, she said, and bounded across. Jeff stayed close behind, wincing as the icy water engulfed his feet. On the far bank, he looked back. He thought he saw something in the trees.

Quick, he said, pushing Kayla forward. The road bordered the forest for several hundred yards before turning away from the stream. Trees loomed over them. At the end of the road, the trees fell away. A building with a pitched roof sat in the middle of a clearing, a gravel parking lot to one side cast in the harsh yellow glow of an arched sodium light. A church. Jeff's heart leapt.

It's a church, he said. We'll be safe in there. Okay, Kayla replied. They started toward the building. Halfway there, Jeff looked back and saw with a start that over a dozen things were coming from the woods now, moving at odd angles, their heads flopping bonelessly back and forth. As he watched, something appeared on the road. Jeff couldn't tell what it was, but it loped on all fours.

Oh, shit, he said, and Kayla screamed. Hurry. They ran. Kayla falling behind. Fifteen feet from the front door, Jeff stopped, grabbed her, and started dragging her. The things were closing in, twenty, twenty-five feet behind. At the door, Jeff tried the handle, but it was. locked. Jeff, Jeff looked back. Three gores were so close he could see the emptiness of their

eye sockets. Panicking, Jeff pulled back and kicked the door as hard as he could. It flew open with a crack and slammed against the wall. Inside, just as the first zombie reached them, Jeff threw the door shut. There was a bolt that hadn't been engaged. Jeff slammed it home and backed up a step. Kayla unthinkingly grabbed him. The door shook as the things pounded against it. They couldn't come in, though, right?

God, they shouldn't be able to. They were demons. But what if they did? Here, Jeff said, going into the knave, help me with one of these pews. Catching his drift, Kayla helped him drag one of the short black pews to the door. It was too long to fit lengthwise,

so they pushed one end up against the door. It wasn't perfect, but it would hold. What do we do? she asked. Jeff thought, his mind whirring. He didn't know. He was just as scared as she was. A phone, she said suddenly. There has to be an office somewhere, and offices have phones.

Yeah, a phone. That made sense. And they went off in search of a phone. Ray Tomlinson, Western Port's resident drunk, staggered off Maple Street and on to Maine, his head throbbing and his stomach rolling. Grabbing an iron lamp post, he held on for dear life and fought back a wave of vomit. When it passed, he chuckled to himself. Ray had been drinking since he was 13, when he and a couple of his friends raided his old man's liquor cabinet. Thirty years.

In that time, he'd only puke three times, alas being in 1991. "'Ah, vomit-free,' he thought, and smiled. "'He pushed himself away from the lamp-post and started across the streets. "'It was almost to the other side, when he heard something. "'Turning woosily, he saw a group of people walking up the middle of the street. "'They passed under an arch of light falling from a lamp, "'and even in his present state, "'I knew something wasn't right with them.

"'They moved jerkily, some of them dragging their feet along the pavement. "'They didn't speak, or not. or sing or shout like a team of drunks coming home from a bar. They hissed, moaned, and screamed. As they drew closer, Ray's heart began to pound. But he couldn't say why. He knew he was in danger. There's one, one of them called out, pointing.

In the light, Ray could just make out its face. Drawn, blue. A noise went through the crowd, and they started coming faster. Ray turned to run, but something hid him like a freight train, slamming him to the pavement. Just before the thing ripped out his throat, Ray saw its face, wolf-like, elongated, his teeth crooked and yellow, and when he screamed, it came out a bloody gurgle. From Main Street they spread out into Western Palt. At the corner of maple and oak, they pulled a man from his car and ate his skin.

his screams rose into the night, reaching a fever pitch before dying down as his vocal cords slipped from his gaping neck. Lights along the street flipped on, curtains drew back from upstairs windows. They started towards the houses then, pounding on front doors and smashing through windows. In one house a man appeared at the top of the stairs

with a pistol and fired. Only then did he realise what he was facing. The bullets had no effect. on staples drive they dragged a screaming infant from its crib and feasting on it as its shrieking mother watched in horror when a mine snapped and she sank into catatonia one of them a rapist in life ripped her pink bathrobe off of her and took her On Bower Road, Sheriff Bill Wyatt jerked the wheel of his squad car and skidded across the pavement, the car doing a half-circle before stopping. Next to him, his deputy, Roger Yancey, or an expression of horror. The street was filled with them, some wandering aimlessly, others bending over fallen bodies.

Jesus, fuck, Wyatt said, unclasping his safety belt and grabbing the shotgun from its place between the seats. he flung the door open and got out into the bitter night several of them saw him and started coming forward their hands outstretched skin Wyatt pumped the shotgun and raised it to his shoulder hey freeze yancey was crouching behind his door his pistol in his hands and the things continued advancing when the first cause came through why didn't know what to think. People running a mock in Westonport. Why? This wasn't Ferguson. Then when more calls came in from hysterical people reporting monsters, he knew something was seriously wrong. Monsters. Mass hysteria. Crooks dressed as monsters? Who knew? Now watching the creatures shambling down the street, Wyatt saw that they

were monsters. Men with the heads of dogs, crawling horrors with upside-down skulls, fangs, horns, More skulls all bathed in throbbing red and blue lights from the cruiser's roof rack. Shivering, saying a silent prayer to a god he hadn't spoken to in 20 years. Wyatt aimed at the closest master, a rotting corpse in a tattered burial gown, and fired, the recoil of the shotgun nearly knocking him down, and he wasn't steady. The thing turned and fell. Wyatt pumped the shotgun again and swung it around, taking aim at a seven-foot-tall giant with red skin and horn.

said Satan himself. Yancey was firing now, too, his gun going pop, pop, pop, like small-scale fireworks. Wyatt fired, but the monster took the buckshot like it was a warm summer wind. Oh, shit.

He pumped the shotgun again, sending the empty shell to the pavement, and aimed higher, hitting it in the head. Nothing. Bill, Yancey said, his voice full of fear. Hold steady.

Giving up on. On the devil, Wyatt fired at another corpse. This one went down, but got right back up. They were so close he could smell them. Sulfur, rotten eggs. Wyatt caught the gun again, but it was empty. They'd be on him before he could load it again. Run!

He turned, but a black shape with large, ragged eyes rushed him. For a moment he felt cold. Then he felt himself changing. The world went grey. then black the sound of roger yancey screams as the things took him was muffled distant his mind tingled god i'm being possessed well that's the last bill wyatt knew his body now cold at the touch join the creatures feasting on roger yancey's insides at two 30 m nearly two dozen creatures attacked the western port sewage treatment facility killing a night watchman and several third shift technicians

one of the things a hulking bat-like horror laughingly pulled levers and pushed buttons sending a tidal wave of waste spilling into the potomac up and down main street they convorted with satanic glee smashing windows starting fires and killing anyone they could find by three a m western port was silent fires raging unchecked in search of blood many started to crawl toward mccool Some crossed the Potomac into West Virginia. At 325 they attacked a homeless camp by the railroad tracks. At 3.48, a dozen including many former Western Port residents, reached McCool, a collection of buildings around the foot of a bridge rather than an actual town.

They raided houses, stopped cars, and marched into Kesa. Their first victim was a Poldemak State College student on a late-night walk. following front street through the downtown business section he had a strange laugh at several times before something swooped him and grabbed him from the air talons dug into his flesh he screamed and the thing coring like the world's largest crow lifted him higher and higher before dropping him

the last thing that went through his mind other than the pavement was fuck four o one brian scott night watchman at potomac valley hospital looked up from his magazine, a strange feeling suddenly coming over him. The emergency room was empty and tranquil at that hour, the fluorescent lighting harsh and cold. Shaking his head, Brian went back to his magazine, an interview with Hillary Clinton. That fucking crook. The automatic doors washed open then, and Brian looked up. Five things stood before them.

Their faces, Brian saw with a jerk, were varying, shades of blue and gray, and their clothing hung from their emaciated bodies in tatters. Food! One of them screamed, and they came toward him. Heart knocking against his ribcage, Brian moved to stand up, but another unseen creature grabbed him from behind, wrestling him to the ground. When Brian Scott was dead, the ghoul split up, two going down separate corridors, and one descending a flight of stairs to the morgue, where it found a static.

of cold bodies and began to feast. In Room 2A, Alvira Johnson, an elderly widow lost in the grip of dementia, watched with dumb blankness as one of the monsters shuffled to her bedside. She was far too gone to know what was happening, but not too far gone to scream. Two miles away, Josh Simmons, 15, woke to the sound of something tapping at his window. The sound was frightening in the dark. What made it even more frightening was that Josh's room was on the second floor. flaw. Hey, he whispered to his roommate Matt. Matt snorted. Josh tried to ignore the constant

tap, tap, tap, tap, but he couldn't. Finally, he got up, went to the window and opened the curtain. Nothing. Opening the window, Josh stuck his head out into the night and looked around. I was windy, so maybe. Then a cloud of acrid smoke washed over him, and suddenly he was cold. Possessed, he smiled. First he beat Matt to death with his fists, then he went out into the hall and listened. Group home, the boy's mind said, two boys in each room, two staff members downstairs.

Creeping as silently as he could, he went down the back stairs into the darkened kitchen. A light glowed in the living room. On the TV, sirens wailed. From a drawer, the boy selected a boy. butcher knife and went back upstairs. He stabbed each of the remaining four residents, panting with a pleasure.

When he was done, he went downstairs and found a black man lounging on the couch. What's you doing? The black man asked. Killing people. The man tried to fight, but he wound up just like all the others.

At 5 a.m., one of the creatures stumbled into the path of a semi screaming down US50 north of Burlington but south of Kayser. Hanging on for dear life, it made it all the way to Romney before letting go. There it caught a stray cat and ate it. Back in Kesa, things ran rampant through the streets, much as they'd done in Westernport. Within half an hour, they'd reached New Creek in West Virginia, and Barton, Dawson and Moscow in Maryland.

The night was theirs. Jeff Morgan jerked awake just to the first line. light of dawn fell through the window. Kayla was next to him, her head lolling on his shoulder. She was asleep. For a moment, Jeff listened to the silence of the morning. God, was it really dawn? The night had seemed to stretch forever.

The things pounded on the door and appeared at the windows, including Andrew and the others, their faces pale and their eyes black. Come on, Andrew said at one point, smiling. The power of Satan. They never came through the doors or windows, even though they could have easily done. Jeff suspected they were afraid of the church, or the spirit of God. Wake up, he said, shaking Kayla. Are they here?

They found a phone in the back office and called the police. They never showed, though. No, he said, but I think it's over. Listen. Kayla cocked her head and did. Hey, come on. They moved the pew and open the door. The morning was cold and orange and fresh.

The field fronting the church was empty. The woods beyond, still cast in shadows, could have hidden demons, but he doubted they did. Probably couldn't come out in the daylight. An hour later, when the sun was fully risen, they left, Jeff in the lead. Where are we going? Kayla asked. Jeff didn't reply, but he had an idea. Back at the cemetery, the ground was still wide open, but no bodies were visible. No signs, nothing.

The only thing they found was the book Andrew had read from, cracked brown leather. Jeff picked it up. Hey, what are you doing? Kela asked. You'll see. We walked back to the church. Birds chirped happily from tree tops. At the church, Jeff opened the door and threw the book inside. It burst into flames.

Well, I think it was a doorway, he said to her then, and that's how they came out. Kayla didn't reply. They simply watched the book burning on the floor of the church. Let's go, she said finally. So hand in hand, they walked back into Western Port. and so once again we reach the end of tonight's podcast my thanks as always to the authors of those wonderful stories and to you for taking the time to listen now i'd ask one small favor of you wherever you get your podcast from please write a few nice words and leave a five-star review as it really helps the podcast. That's it for this week, but I'll be back again same time, same place, and I do so hope you'll join me once more. Until next time, sweet dreams and bye-bye.

Thank you.