I woke up numb and discarded, my head pounding too inexorably for my eyes to even make an attempt at finding focus.

What the hell happened? I thought to myself, trying with what felt like the last remaining bit of energy to pull my body up from its damp impression in the dirt.

I couldn’t see shit.

I waved my hands slowly through the air in front of me, hoping that the next thing I’d touch would be something familiar. Something safe. But somehow, it already felt too late for that.

The air here was heavy and steeped in sickness. Every breath felt borrowed. Each step, a trap.

I inched forward, unable to keep myself from the distractions of unanswerable questions that no amount of walking would resolve.

How did I get here?
Wasn’t I home?
At home in bed?
How long have I been gone?
Why does everything feel so wrong?

My right hand still outstretched, found itself grazing the splintered surface of a picket fence. As I ran my fingers across the wood, letters–upraised from one too many coats of paint—spelled out the words:

DAN6ER
66

“It can’t be,” I gasped, more terrified than I had ever been in my entire life.

This isn’t even possible. This wasn’t supposed to happen–Not to me. Not to anyone.
It wasn’t even supposed to be real. Well, not really anyway.

I backed up slowly, hoping not to draw attention to the panic coursing wildly through my bones and inevitably emitting through my pores. And then, I stalled.

I just need to know, I told myself, fighting every urge to just get the fuck out.
If it’s closed, I still have some time– Time to warn the others and time to save myself. If it’s not… it’s already far too late.

One more step and I’ll know, I whispered, squinting through the blood clouding my eyes. My fingers fumbled through the dark hoping to feel the thick metal binding that had held this void together for so many years giving us our safety. It should be right there…Right here, I repeated under my breath as my hand plunged into nothingness.

My God, no.

I ran as fast as the pounding in my head would allow, in the only direction I was sure was opposite from the fence. My eyes, now adjusted to the dark, could see the clearing past the tree line where we used to play as kids—the same place we’d nonchalantly peek at ever so often to make sure the door in the fence was always closed.

If that door is ever open, my dad would tell us, you run. You run hard and you don’t look back. Most importantly he’d say, “don’t fall”.

I approached the tree line, dizzy and disoriented, unable to catch my breath. My chest was heavy with fear, legs buckling with strain.

Only a few more feet, I thought and I’ll be ok. Only a few more feet. But as I felt my body hit the ground, unable to keep up the pace, I could no longer pinpoint the direction I needed to go. Get up, I urged myself, feet scrambling underneath me. You have to move. Now.

Through the swollen slit in my right eye, I could see the now open door getting closer as I passed in and out of consciousness. The stars had gone out, and the moon had dimmed. The sky was empty.

Every few seconds, I’d catch a glimpse of a porch light on the homes outside the lot—glimpses of the families inside who still believed they were safe.

“The door is open,” I gurgled, unable to throw my voice loud enough for anyone to hear.

It’s open.

You all have to get out, I tried to scream.

“They can’t hear you,” it growled, tightening its grip on my ankles and pulling me deeper through the void.

The door is open. It’s already begun.