Creeeak!
Roberto snaps his head back to the closet. Closed, as it should be. But for the second time, he's sure he heard something beneath the voice of the Sportscenter announcer and cheering crowd. But the folding closet door is untouched, perfectly flat.
He hesitantly turns his head back to the luminous tv screen, flooding the small apartment bedroom in a dim glow, then to the alarm clock on his bedside table. 2:48am. Late for most, but a usual hour for Roberto to be up. Working the late 6pm-1am shift, combined with a stubborn indomnia, often kept him from even attempting sleep until four or five in the morning, the earliest hours of activity in Roswell, NM.
Reaching for the remote, he presses the mute button and waits a moment.
No cars..., he thinks to himself. Again, not too unusual given the time. Though he often hears people coming and going from the flat across the street at odd hours. A den of partiers and little-known drug dealers, Baltic Street was used to random traffic in these wee hours. He figures this is why the rent was so cheap.
But it isn't just the absence of engine roars and car doors that causes him to feel uneasy. Waiting a few more seconds, focusing on the lack of noise, he realizes that he hears nothing. Nothing at all; no birds, dogs, no distant vehicles, not even the dull whoosh of the wind across various city surfaces. With the tv muted, his room seems...soundproof.
Dead silence. Roberto is about to get up and peek out into the night when the sudden fear-inducing creak of old wood catches him off guard.
He jumps and has to choke back a startled cry. His head spins toward the closet the moment he hears it.
Closed. The folding door is flat as paper, again perfectly parallel to the wa-
Except it isn't. The television screen changes, the light shifts, and he can now see the doors form the slightest hump, protruding maybe two inches.
Roberto leans to the side and opens the drawer on the table below his clock. Rummaging for a short time, he feels his fingers close around the cold plastic he seeks. He retrieves his flashlight and flips the switch, shining it towards the door. The light flickers a bit, butbafter a few taps comes back on with force. When the bright light hits the door, it flattens itself, some unseen force pulling it back. He even hears the tiny click of the doors reuniting at the center.
Roberto notices his breathing has become heavier, quicker, and the smallest trace of sweat is beginning to form on his forehead. He can feel his eyes have grown wide in anxiety.
Two sides of his mind are now debating. One half wants to open his closet, confront whatever is freaking him out and do away with it. The other side just wishes he would crawl beneath his comforter and drift away. Bring on the sun and the sounds of the city. His mounting fear makes the second option look much more attractive.
Roberto crawls up to the head of his mattress, wraps the covers around his body, and reaches for the remote. The flashlight is switched off and placed on the bedside table. After a moments debate, however, he grabs it and keeps it close. His thumb travels slowly up the black remote and presses the power button.
Without the television screen, the room is engulfed in darkness. Eerie, unseeable impenetrable darkness. His eyes will take time to adjust, but for now he is blinded. He lays his head against the soft fabric of the pillow and closes his eyes, knowing already that sleep will be an elusive mistress.
Five minutes pass. Five minutes of nothingness. Complete silence, broken only by his breathing. His eyes are shut and he tries to relax, to slow his breath to the mellow rhythm of sleep. But his insomnia will not back down. He turns onto his left side, towards the tv and the only doorway out of here. His eyelids meet again, and he tries to concentrate on a feature for tonights dream theater.
Crrreeeaaaak! That dreaded sound sends an icicle down his spine as his eyes blow open. His vision has improved, and he can see the shapes of the tv atop a small wooden table, his dresser, and the bedroom door. After a second, he slowly closes his eyes again. Just go to sleep, he thinks to himself. He thinks this once more before the damned wooden creak sounds itself again. Go to sleep, just go to sleep. He repeats this mantra, over and over, as if it will actually come true.
Crrrrreeeeeeeeeeeaaak! Again he hears the closet, this time much more drawn out, extended, as if the door (or whatever is behind it) is getting more brave. By now, Roberto cannot deny his fear as he shivers in the bed. Just let me sleep, please just let me sleep!, he whimpers inside his mind. His hands close firmly around the flashlight in front of him. His eyelids are pressed tightly, and he can feel tears beginning to form between them.
The next sound he hears, about five seconds later, causes his lids to fly open like a curtain. It's notba wooden creak, or any sound a door can make. What he hears is the soft tap of a shoe meeting the ground.
Roberto springs up into a sitting position and snaps on the flashlight, aiming it towards the closet.
The doors are open, the wood pushed two feet apart. He sees the white wall inside, slightly yellowed from the dim light he holds. But that's all he sees. He swears he heard a single footstep, and the open closet strongly supports this theory, but he doesn't see anything.
There's no way in hell he's staying here any longer. Roberto turns to his left, light following his view, and prepares to sprint to safety.
He stops cold; his heart drops into his gut.
Illuminated by the weak glow, he sees a tall hooded figure a mere yard in front of him. The hoodie this figure wears is a dark grey, and facial features are concealed by a white mask. A mask that chills him even more than the presence of the person. The mask has no mouth, no nose, amd gaping empty holes for eyes. The eyeholes are as wide as coasters, much wider than Roberto's ever could have gotten. The finishing touches are splotches of dark red in random areas of the plastic surface.
Paralyzed, all he can do is sit like a statue as the figure watches him. It doesn't speak, doesn't move. Roberto blinks, and the figure is closer, now barely two feet away from him. He is afraid to blink again.
His lips quiver uncontrollably as he tries to speak. His voice seems to have left, gone far away, but he manages to speak.
"Wh...what do you w-want?" he asks. The tall figure does not respond, only stares at the cowering man. The flashlight flickers out for just a second, until he tapsnit again to restore the glow.
The mysterious figure is now right in front of him. Close enough to where Roberto could reach his arm out and touch it. Not that he'd dare. Again the light fails, and he beats his back to life, frantically this time.
The restored light bounces a glint of silver back at him; in its hand the hooded figure now holds a long serrated chef's knife. Roberto nearly drops the flashlight, which is seemingly his only chance of holding off certain death.
"Pl-please..." Roberto tries to beg weakly, looking his intruder in the eyes. Or at least, where eyes should be.
The flashlight dies for the final time.
