Chapter 32: The Black Box and the First Night

Before the endless night swallowed my life whole, it was a sun-drenched photograph.

In that photograph was my fiancée, Emily. Her smile could melt any shadow in the world, and the muffins she baked carried a vanilla-and-milk fragrance that could save a soul. There was my best friend, Tom; we dissolved all the anxieties of adulthood in beer foam and endless talk of football. And there was my little dog, Biscuit, a lovably goofy stray I'd brought home from the shelter, his wagging tail the most honest welcome in the world.

We were so certain those days would stretch on forever, until time itself silvered my hair.

Until that damned black box arrived, a knock on the very gates of hell.

That evening, I dragged my leaden legs home after finishing a project from hell. There, under the dim, jaundiced glow of the porch light, a matte black box lay silently on the doormat. It was like a miniature black hole, absorbing all light and hope. No shipping label, no sender, not even a single fingerprint. The only thing on it was a crookedly taped note, typed on an old-fashioned typewriter:

[TO THE NEW "PROTECTOR"]

"Protector?" I laughed out loud. This had to be another one of that bastard Tom's elaborate pranks.

I carried the box inside. It was unnervingly light. Emily leaned in, curious. But Biscuit, breaking character completely, tucked his tail between his legs and let out a series of choked whimpers, scrambling to hide behind the sofa.

"Hey, you little coward," I soothed him distractedly, but a chill I couldn't ignore slithered down my spine. Biscuit wasn't afraid of anything, not even the neighbor's ferocious Rottweiler.

I tore off the note and opened the box.

Inside were only two things: a brass key etched with bizarre, almost living patterns, and a neatly folded sheet of paper.

I unfolded the paper. The words on it made the blood freeze in my veins.

[EMERGENCY SHELTER PROTOCOL V. 1.0]

Welcome, Jack. As of this moment, this house is your "Shelter." For the sake of your life and the lives of your loved ones, you must strictly, absolutely, and unconditionally obey the following rules. The consequences for violating them are more than you can possibly bear.

The "Shelter" is absolutely safe, provided you maintain its "integrity." After sunset and before sunrise, NEVER leave the Shelter for any reason. (Violate this, and you will lose your claim on what "The Outside" is.)

If you hear knocking at the door during the night, do not answer it. Never open the door. (What you let in will no longer be your friend.)

Keep "Biscuit" with you at all times. If he barks at an empty corner of the house, do not try to soothe him. Feed him immediately, and continue feeding him until he stops. (He isn't scared. He is just "hungry.")

Emily's muffins are safe and are a vital source of energy. Whenever she offers you one, you must eat it. (To refuse a "Gift" is an act of provocation.)

After twelve midnight, do not look in any mirrors. (What you see in the mirror may not be you. And it will see you.)

Do not attempt to discard or destroy this protocol. New rules will manifest on their own.

Good luck, Protector.

"This is Tom's doing, isn't it?" Emily frowned, trying to dispel the absurd atmosphere. "Some kind of immersive puzzle game?"

I immediately called Tom. His confusion sounded utterly genuine, not an act. My heart began its slow, heavy descent.

That night, I didn't sleep a wink. I threaded the strange brass key onto my keychain and placed the protocol on my nightstand as if it were a talisman. Biscuit spent the entire night curled at the foot of my bed, a low, anxious whimper vibrating in his throat.

The knock came at two in the morning.

Tap, tap-tap.

It was soft, rhythmic. My heart seized in my chest.

"Who is it?" Emily mumbled, stirring beside me. She looked exhausted, her face pale. "Honey, I had the strangest nightmare… I think I dreamt of someone knocking…"

Before she could finish, the knocking came again, more insistent this time. An elderly woman's voice drifted through the door, sounding exactly like Mrs. Green from next door.

"Jack? My cat ran into your yard. Could you please open the door so I can look for her?"

The voice was normal. The reason was plausible. Every ounce of common sense screamed at me to open the door.

But in that instant, Biscuit shot up from the bed and erupted in a frenzied, vicious roar aimed at the front door. It wasn't a warning; it was a sound of pure, primal hostility.

The rules flashed in my mind. In the end, it was the sheer, unadulterated terror in my dog that convinced me.

"Don't go," I said, my voice raspy as I pulled Emily back down. She was already starting to get up. "Let's just pretend we're asleep."

Emily stared at me, her confusion deepening into worry, but she nodded and lay back down.

The knocking at the door morphed from a request to a tearful plea, and then, without warning, to a furious, violent pounding.

BANG! BANG! BANG!

The force behind it was impossible, nothing an eighty-year-old woman could produce. The entire house shuddered, the windows rattling in their frames. Biscuit, terrified, scrambled into my arms, trembling like a leaf in a storm.

I don't know how long it lasted, but the pounding eventually stopped. The world returned to a silence more terrifying than the chaos that preceded it.

I didn't dare go downstairs until the first hint of dawn bled across the horizon. My hands trembling, I finally unlocked and opened the door.

On the doormat, arranged neatly, were three gnawed-clean cat leg bones, gleaming with a greasy white sheen in the morning light. The door itself was covered in deep gouges, scratches that had torn clean through the heavy wood.

I slammed the door shut, my back crashing against it as I gasped for air, cold sweat soaking through my pajamas.

Just then, Emily walked down the stairs. The fear and exhaustion seemed to have vanished from her face, replaced by her usual gentle smile, as if the horrors of the night had been nothing but my own delusion.

"You're awake, dear," she said, holding a plate. On it sat two golden, perfectly formed muffins. "I made you some."

I looked at her smile, far too perfect now, and then at the muffins. The fourth rule echoed in my mind. That familiar, sweet aroma, for the first time, sent a bone-deep chill through me.