Conway didn't wake up in his bed, which was odd because he was pretty sure he'd fallen asleep in it. (He hadn't been that drunk.) Instead, he was lying on cold, dirty cement, in a pool of light coming from a single bulb hanging from the ceiling. Beyond that, nothing. Complete darkness, complete silence.

Huh.

He stood up and stretched. His clothes were still on and he didn't feel funny anywhere private, so he figured he was okay. He was probably in someone's basement; it was dark, dank, and damp, all good d-words for unfurnished basements. It was, well, it had to be a big basement, but even big basements had doors. All he had to do was find one.

He reached out for a wall. And reached. And reached. He was on the faint edges of the lightbulb's reach before he found something solid. It was rough, more cement. The light didn't seem to reach it, although he had no problem seeing his hands.

He felt along the wall for a staircase for a light switch or a door, but found neither. He rolled his eyes and walked along the wall, keeping a hand on it. He went as far as he could and still see his hand when he waved it in front of his face. He still hadn't found a way out.

"What the hell," he muttered.

And then the light went out.

Conway whirled around, his too long hair falling into his face. He shoved it out of his eyes and took a breath. It was too early for this shit.

"All right, whoever, cut it out. Where's the fucking door?"

No answer.

"I'll find it eventually, asshole. And then I'll kick your ass!"

No answer.

Conway sighed and started walking again. After about thirty seconds he called out, "I seriously fucking mean it, I am going to kill your ass!"

He started counting his footsteps. After twenty paces he was convinced that he was in the biggest damn basement that had ever basemented. At thirty paces he convinced himself that he was getting worried over nothing. At forty he started to get nervous.

At sixty he remembered that when he was a kid, he's been terrified of the dark. He'd been convinced that the boogeyman was in his closet, scratching at the door, waiting for him to get close enough so it could rip his flesh and gnaw on his bones. One winter it turned out that a family of squirrels has been living in the walls, and they had been scratching at his door, not the bogeyman.

At eighty paces, he started to hear noises. It sounded like wind, maybe, passing through the hallway, but he couldn't hear anything. He heard water dripping all around him. He thought he heard shuffled footsteps, murmurs, and

scratch scratch scratch

Conway closed his eyes and took a deep breath. "Stop being retarded," he whispered. He said, "Is anyone there?" and meant to say it real loud, but it came out in the same whisper. He took another breath. "H-Hello?"

He felt along the wall again, barely walking now, more like creeping. There had to be someone else in here, noises didn't just up and make themselves. Someone was playing a joke on him, had to be. A really creepy joke, but just a joke.

He touched something, and then a hand grabbed his wrist and another hand clamped over his mouth before he could scream and he was shoved against the wall.

Lips pressed against his ear. A male voice said, "Don't make a sound," so quietly that Conway wasn't even sure he'd heard anything. "I am not going to hurt you," the voice said, "but it will."

And then Conway heard footsteps.

The hand on his wrist moved to his shoulder and pulled him down until he was sitting against the wall. The hand left his mouth, and the footsteps came closer.

Conway swallowed. Just a big, stupid joke. The hand on his shoulder was shaking. A big, fat, hairy, gayass, stupid, stupid joke. The footsteps came closer and closer, and the hand on his shoulder tightened until it hurt, and Conway was about to stand up and scream and tell them to just knock it the fuck off, and then

the footsteps stopped right in front of them.

He could hear heavy, wet breathing, like the person had water in their lungs. Conway stared up, and even though he couldn't see anything he could feel it, and it was, it...

Something heavy and sharp slammed into the wall above them and Conway screamed and the hand was tugging on his wrist and someone was screaming "Run, run run run!" and he did, he was following some guy and all of a sudden a flashlight and the slow steady footsteps were fast steady footsteps and it was right the fuck behind him oh god oh shit it was going to and then there was a door and they were inside

The other guy slammed the door shut and dropped, sitting against it and pushing against the floor to keep the door shut. Something slammed into the door and some sharp metal poked through. Conway dropped to his knees and pushed his shoulder against the door. The thing slammed into the door again, and again, and then again and the metal pierced the door right between them.

And then it stopped.

Neither of them moved for maybe hours or possibly moments, and then Conway stumbled away and threw up in the corner. He lost his beer and his supper and his lunch and his breakfast, and tomorrow's breakfast and lunch and dinner and beer while he was at it. Then he was kind of just throwing up air and it took a hard conscious effort to get himself to stop.

He fell back on his ass and wiped his mouth. His back was to the other guy. "Oh my god. What. Who. What. Where. The fuck. Oh my god." He stared at the floor and started to cry.

He clenched his hands in his hair and sobbed into his arms. He couldn't make himself stop, he didn't even know how.

A hand touched his shoulder and he flung his arm back, shoving the hand away. He stumbled to his feet and into the wall and just stared at the other guy. He opened his mouth a couple of times before he settled on the simplest question.

"Who are you?"

The guy shrugged. "It doesn't matter."

"For fuck's sake." Conway's breath hitched. He rubbed his hand over his face. "You have a name, or does that not fucking matter either?"

"Not really." Silence. "Kennedy."

Conway wiped at his eyes. "Like the president?"

"My parents are very patriotic," Kennedy said with the sigh of a person who's heard it a hundred times before.

He sounded tired.

"Okay. Kennedy. Do you think maybe you can tell me what the fuck is going on?"

Kennedy sighed. "No."

"What?"

Kennedy sat on a crate. There were a bunch of crates in the room, brown and battered with age. Empty metal shelves haphazardly lined the walls, as if someone had started to rip them off and been interrupted. Kennedy's flashlight, dropped on the ground, was the only light in the room.

"No, because I don't know." Kennedy leaned forward, his elbows on his knees and his chin resting on his clasped hands. "I woke up, and I was here. There were others, but..." Kennedy looked away.

"Did that thing--"

Kennedy nodded.

"What is that thing?"

Kennedy shook his head.

"...how... long, how long have you been here?"

Kennedy shook his head again. "I don't know. Minutes. Years. My watch is broken, was when I woke up. There's no way to measure the passing of time. No windows. No sun. Just a bunch of empty rooms and a hallway that never ends. And that monster."

Conway took a deep breath. Kennedy didn't look like he was going to talk much, so Conway took stock of his situation. He had no idea where he was, or how he'd gotten there. There was some sort of crazy person or something running around with a giant knife, and there was some sort of crazy person sitting in the room with him. He'd puked, and he'd cried, but Kennedy didn't seem to care and anyway, the guy was batshit.

Conway crossed the room and picked up the flashlight. It was small, but it was really bright, one of those LED things. "This yours?"

"No."

"...theeeen whose is it?"

Kennedy sighed. "It belonged to one of the others. A girl. That thing caught up to us... I got away--"

"And you just left her there?!" Conway yelled. "You left some girl alone with that--"

Kennedy jumped up faster than Conway could follow and clamped his hand over Conway's mouth, again, his other hand behind Conway's head so Conway couldn't get away.

"Shut up you idiot it's going to hear you!" Kennedy hissed. "Don't judge me you sonofabitch you don't even know what fear is until you can't see three inches in front of you and that goddamn thing is breathing down your neck!" Kennedy breathed hard, maybe in demonstration. Conway shuddered.

Kennedy let go and backed away. They glared at each other until Conway looked down at the flashlight in his hand. "Sorry." When Kennedy didn't reply he said, "so it was hers?"

"Yeah." Kennedy walked back to the crate, but he didn't sit. "I went back. I thought. I'd hoped that. All I found was her flashlight, and, and blood. A lot. It was like all of her blood was there, all over everything. The walls, the floors, the ceilings..." Kennedy looked like he was hugging himself. "Nothing else. Just..."

Conway leaned against the door. He swung the light around, shining it anywhere but at Kennedy. He waited awhile after the crying stopped before he said anything.

"What is this place?"

"I don't know," Kennedy said. His voice was very quiet. "I don't even know if I'm alive."

"You're standing right in front of me, you must be."

Kennedy looked over his shoulder. "You can't believe your eyes, not here." He shrugged. "I keep hoping that I'm dreaming. Or that I'm crazy. But this is way too real. You know how, a dream, it feels like a dream? This doesn't. It feels real, as real as your apartment and your car and the street you walk on and your food and the bottles of soda piled up on the table and everything else."

"Maybe it's a joke," Conway said.

"Maybe it's Hell," Kennedy said back. Conway swallowed. Kennedy said, "This place shouldn't exist. Places like this don't exist."

"Maybe it's a secret government experiment." Conway grinned at himself. "Maybe it's aliens."

"This isn't funny! I've seen three people die and I couldn't do a damn thing about it!" Kennedy closed his eyes. "I couldn't help them. I." He sat on the crate.

Conway fiddled with the bottom-most button on his shirt. "So what do we do?"

"Survive," Kennedy said. "Try to find a way out."

"What if there isn't a way out?"

"There has to be. We got in here somehow."

Conway shrugged. "We got into a place that doesn't exist."

Kennedy sighed. "Shouldn't exist. Obviously it does exist. We're here, aren't we?"

"Yeah, in your delusion," Conway muttered.

"Or yours," Kennedy countered.

Conway grinned. "Ha."

There was that weird awkward silence you get when you're trying to be funny and it doesn't work, and then Kennedy said, "Either way, we're not going to get out of here by sitting in a room."

Conway stared. "We're not going back out there."

"Yes. We are."

Conway punched the air. "No we fucking are not. At least, I'm not! What if it's waiting right outside the door?!"

"It's not."

"How the FUCK do you know?"

"Because if it was, it would be trying to come in."

Conway shook his head. "No way, man. No fucking way. I'm not going anywhere."

"If you just sit here you'll die eventually anyway. You need to eat. You need to drink."

"So? Someone will come find me. My mom calls me like every damn day, she'll freak out if I don't call her back and she'll bring in the National Guard or something."

"Yeah? And how are they going to find you in a place that doesn't exist?" Kennedy walked over to him. "Look. We have to find a way out. There has to be a way out. We'll find it. But we have to look for it, okay?" He put his hand on Conway's shoulder. "I'm not going to let anyone else die."

Conway shook his head. "This is crazy. This is fucking crazy."

"I know." Kennedy went to the door. "C'mon."

"Fucking, fucking crazy," Conway said.

He followed Kennedy into the hallway.
"So," Conway said. Kennedy turned and put a finger to his lips.

"It could be anywhere," he whispered. "Don't talk unless you have to."

"Sorry," Conway whispered back. Kennedy nodded and walked on.

The walls and floor and ceiling were all smooth and blank and black. That in and of itself was weird, but there was something else, something Conway knew was wrong but couldn't quite figure out. All he could smell was the cheap cologne he had borrowed from his brother and beer that had spilled on his shirt. He reached out to touch the walls. They were smooth like... not quite like glass, but close enough to count. Cold to the touch. Weird, but nothing major.

Pretty much the only thing he could see was the flashlight and Kennedy's outline, so it wasn't that. He could hear his own breathing, and if he listened for it, Kennedy's breathing, and their footsteps...

Their...

Conway stopped walking and stared at the ground. "What the hell..."

Kennedy turned around. "What is it?" They were both talking in whispers.

"We're not. Our footsteps. We're not making any sound." He looked up at Kennedy. "I can't hear our footsteps."

"That's because we're not walking." Kennedy smiled.

"I can't hear them when we are walking!" Conway shouted. He immediately clamped his hand over his mouth. Kennedy shut off his flashlight and grabbed onto Conway's arm. They stood there, inches away but unable to see each other, trying to quiet their breathing and listen.

Nothing.

Conway wanted to punch himself. "I'm sorry," he whispered, so quiet he could barely hear himself. "I'm sorry, fuck, I just--"

Kennedy shook his shoulder a little. "Calm down."

They were silent for longer than Conway could count, and then Kennedy turned the flashlight back on. It shone in Conway's face for a split second before he moved it. Conway rubbed his eyes until he could see again.

"Let's keep going," Kennedy said.

"Yeah, yeah, okay."

Conway followed behind Kennedy for he didn't know how long, silent except for his own breathing. Literally. He couldn't hear anything else. It was like they were walking on nothing. They were nowhere.

It was forever before they found another door. Kennedy opened it, shined the flashlight in, looked around, entered. Conway followed him in and shut the door behind them.

Conway fell back against the door and slid to the ground, his legs giving out. "Fuck," he breathed.

There were shelves on the walls in here, too, all of them old and decrepit and rusting. Kennedy searched the shelves for anything useful or edible, but he came up empty handed.

"I'm sorry," Conway said again. Kennedy shook his head.

"You didn't mean it." He looked around quick before sitting on the floor in front of Conway. "There are a lot of things about this place that are weird. Like the no footsteps thing. Carolyn..." Kennedy took a deep breath. "She, um, she dropped the flashlight, and it didn't make a sound. It just landed and rolled away."

Conway fiddled with the end of his shirt. "Did you know her? I mean, before?"

Kennedy shook his head. "Not Vivian, either. It was the three of us, for a little while. It got Viv first, then Carolyn." Kennedy hugged himself. "Now it's after me."

Conway shifted forward. "Yeah, well, it's not gonna get you, okay? Or me. We're gonna get the hell out of here."

Kennedy shook his head. "I've been looking for days. Longer. I don't even know. There isn't a way out."

"Bull. Just 'cause you haven't found it doesn't mean it's not there. C'mon, haven't you ever lost anything and looked for it, like, everywhere, and then found it like a week later when you weren't even looking for it? This is like that. We just gotta keep looking."

Kennedy gazed at the floor. "Heh. I used to say that to Carolyn. She didn't believe me. Now I know how she felt." Kennedy shuddered. "We're going to die here."

Conway moved forward and took Kennedy by the shoulders. "No we're not!" His face was almost touching Kennedy's. "We are going to find a way out!"

Kennedy laughed. His breath washed hot over Conway's face. He searched Conway's eyes for something. "Hell," he said, "now I really know how Carolyn felt."

Conway let go and backed off, swallowed. "I'm not going to just give up. We got here, we can leave here. Just gotta find the way out. That's all there is to it." He stood up, took Kennedy's flashlight and searched the room. There were two doors; the one they'd entered, and one on the opposite wall. "Let's try this door."

Kennedy stood up. "What door?"

"The one right here, duh. What's the point in going back in that long hallway? Unless you really like walls."

Kennedy shook his head slowly. "That door wasn't there before."

"You probably just didn't see it." Conway reached for the knob.

"Wait!" Kennedy ran forward and grabbed his arm. "Just... wait. I looked. I didn't see the door before. This isn't right."

"Dude, it's just a door."

"Dude," Kennedy said; the word sounded really weird coming from him, "we don't have footsteps, remember? Something is wrong with this place. I... I don't think we should go through this door."

Conway stared at Kennedy. "The hell, man, it's a door. It's not going to come alive and eat us."

Kennedy glared at the door. "You wouldn't think so." He closed his eyes, then opened them again. "Fine." He turned the knob, then hesitated. "I... I'm not sure we..." He opened the door.

Kennedy walked through the open doorway. Conway was right behind him shining the flashlight over his shoulder. "See? I told you it was--"

The flashlight shone on... something. It was a black mass of god knew what, vaguely shaped like a

scratch scratch scratch

person oh fuck it was that thing Kennedy shoved Conway back and he fell on his ass; the door slammed shut.

Conway scrambled to his feet and tried to open the door, but it wouldn't work anymore. The doorknob turned but it didn't unlock; the door wouldn't budge. Conway pushed it and kicked it and slammed into it, again and again, until his shoulder hurt.

He heard screams.

"Kennedy! KENNEDY!"

Conway banged on the door with his fist and kicked it some more, until he was out of breath and couldn't keep it up.

He didn't hear anything but his own labored, shaky breathing. Something knotted in his chest, some hurt gathered there and made it hard to breath.

He'd dropped the flashlight at some point. He picked it a up, and tried the door again.

This time, it opened. Conway peered into the new hallway.

"Kennedy?"

He shined the flashlight around the area. That... thing... whatever it was, wasn't there, but neither was Kennedy. Not even a body. But on the walls, and the floors, and the ceiling--

blood.



This work by Gabrielle Kinsman is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.