Futile Trials

The Abandoned Warehouse

You haven't slept more than a handful of hours over the past couple of days, your head racked with the puzzles placed there by one event and one card. You can not believe yourself when you take the time to analyze just how mad you've gone in the time between then and now. You've never been the one to worry, stress, or become hyped over any sort of situation. So why now? Why this stupid card? This silly joke? It's uncharacteristic and... worrisome. You've become worrisome. To yourself.

As you slip outside, zipping up your jumper against the early morning chill, you beome conscious of your jittery legs and lethargic heart. When was the last time you ate? 

Nothing to worry about now, you have somewhere to be. The sun cresting the town gives you a nice pale light to run by.

A step, a skip, and you're off down the road; down for the long haul. 

Your route takes you on the splicing edge just between town and the industrial district: on one side, trees lining the streets and the early rising shops just opening their doors; on the other, billowing smoke stacks and the whir of machines as they hustle to and fro cataloging and building and deconstructing.

The only true dichotomy in this town.

As you glide down the arching sidewalk, slowly curving around the town, you find yourself abruptly crossing the old warehouse with letters overhead so worn you can only make out O T EPS.

You've only been past it once or twice in the past, and standing here beside one of the dusted, cracked windows, you can understand why many have come to call it haunted. It's rumored that if you look inside and don't get pulled in by a ghost, they'll grant you two wishes: one of destruction and one of welfare.

You've never been one to particularly believe in such stories, but you feel as if there is one particular ghost waiting inside for you. 

You step off of the well maintained sidewalk and onto the wide, cracked pavement that might pass as a worn path. There are chains through the handles, a padlock to hold it all together, but it has long since been severed and rendered useless against intruders. Why they are still hanging through the handles is a mystery. The whole set up is crusted in dirt from an extensive sentence to settling on the ground. 

So, what can you do but send it back to its dusty haven and gently swing the door open. Expecting a squeal from the rusty hinges, the only voice of your entrance is your own breathing and uncertain steps. 

A few paces into the musty warehouse, the door swings closed behind you with a jolting slam. Though the space is now significantly dimmer, there doesn't appear to be any person, or even a notable force, near the door. 

"Hello?"

"Hello."

Do you...

Run back out the door?
Skip to "A step, a skip"

Stay?
Skip to "The step of foot"