Chapter 2
Chapter 2: The Door Won't Budge
He slammed his shoulder into the door. Once. Twice.
The wood groaned.
“Ethan! No! Stop!”
Sarah’s voice was a high-pitched shriek now. He heard her frantic whispers into the phone.
“He’s trying to break the door. He’s violent. Please, send someone.”
His shoulder ached. The door remained steadfast. Impenetrable.
He backed up a step. Glared at the lacquered wood. It felt heavier now. Thicker. Like solid steel.
He remembered installing that door. A cheap hollow-core. A kick could splinter it.
He wound up. Kicked. His foot connected with a dull thud.
Pain shot up his leg. He cried out. Hopped on one foot.
Sarah was still on the phone. Her back to him. Her voice a blur of panicked pleas.
He glanced around the living room. The ZestWake ad still played on the silent TV. The gleaming stainless steel coffee maker mocked him.
His eyes landed on a small, decorative vase on the mantelpiece. Heavy. Ceramic. Sarah's mother had given it to them. He hated it.
He snatched it. The weight felt good in his hand. Solid. Real.
He turned back to the door. Raised the vase.
“Ethan! What are you doing?!”
He swung. The vase connected with the door. A loud CRACK echoed through the apartment.
A spiderweb of cracks spread across the wood paneling. A small, ragged hole appeared.
He swung again. And again. Fragments of ceramic flew. Wood splintered.
The hole grew. A jagged teeth-like opening.
Sarah dropped the phone. It clattered to the floor.
“My God, Ethan! You’re going to destroy everything!”
He ignored her. Focused on the door. On the escape. The hole wasn't big enough. Not yet.
He brought the vase down with all his remaining strength. The ceramic shattered. Pieces bounced off the door, off his arm.
He felt a sharp sting. Looked down. A thin cut bled on his forearm.
He didn’t care.
He threw the broken vase aside. His hands were empty. His breath ragged.
The door looked like a war zone. Splintered wood. Peeling paint. But still, it held.
He gritted his teeth. Pushed his face close to the jagged hole. Peered through.
Darkness. Not the bright hallway outside. Just blackness. Deep. Unyielding.
His heart hammered against his ribs. This was wrong. Even the outside was wrong.
He heard Sarah’s quick, urgent footsteps behind him.
He spun around. She was standing over the dropped phone. Reaching for it.
He lunged.
He tackled her. Not gently. Not like he would have touched Sarah.
They went down in a heap. The phone skittered away, sliding under the couch.
He scrambled on top of her. Pinning her. Her eyes were terrified. Wide.
“Ethan! Get off me!”
Her voice was raw with fear. Not the fear of a woman dealing with a sick partner. The fear of a woman facing a monster.
He stared down at her face. So familiar. So wrong.
“Tell me!” he hissed. His voice was guttural. “Tell me what’s happening!”
She struggled beneath him. Her hands pushed against his chest. Weakly.
“Nothing’s happening, Ethan! You’re sick! You’re hurting me!”
“No!” he roared. “You tell me! Why is everything different? Why can’t I remember? Why is the door locked?!”
Tears streamed down her face. Her chest heaved.
“It’s not locked! You just… you just broke it! You’re crazy, Ethan! You need help!”
He felt a cold, crushing despair. She didn’t see it. She *couldn’t* see it.
He released her. Rolled off. His muscles ached. His head throbbed.
He sat up. Looked at the wrecked door. The black hole.
Then he looked at Sarah. She was scrambling away from him. Crawling on her hands and knees towards the kitchen. Towards a drawer.
He knew that drawer. The knife drawer.
His blood ran cold.
He launched himself forward. A desperate, animalistic lunge.
He caught her ankle. Yanked.
She screamed. A sharp, piercing sound that grated on his ears.
She fell. Her head hit the floor with another sickening thud. The sound echoed in the silence.
She lay still. Too still.
His breath caught in his throat.
“Sarah?” he whispered.
He crawled towards her. His hand shaking.
He reached out. Touched her hair. Soft. Still brown.
He nudged her shoulder. Gently.
No response.
A wave of nausea washed over him. He killed her. He actually killed her.
His own distorted reality had driven him to this. To violence. To murder.
He felt the hot sting of tears in his own eyes. This wasn’t him. This wasn’t *his* life.
He leaned over her. Put his ear to her mouth.
No breath.
He pulled back. Stared at her face. Peaceful now. Unlined by fear.
He reached for her wrist. Felt for a pulse.
Nothing.
He slumped back. His mind a blank. Just a ringing in his ears.
He killed Sarah. His Sarah. The real Sarah. The one who wore red swimsuits and hated stainless steel.
No. He hadn't. This wasn't his Sarah. This was *something else*. This was the stranger.
He stared at the mangled door. At the blackness beyond the splinters.
He had to get out. He had to escape this nightmare.
He pushed himself up. His body felt heavy. Numb.
He walked back to the door. Ignored the pain in his shoulder, his foot, his arm.
He grabbed a larger shard of splintered wood. Sharp. Jagged.
He jammed it into the hole. Levered it. Tried to pry the door open.
The wood groaned. Screamed. But didn't give.
He heard a faint siren in the distance. Getting closer.
Sarah’s phone. Lying under the couch. Her call for help.
They were coming for him.
They would see the broken door. They would see Sarah.
They would see a madman.
He was a madman. A violent madman. That’s what they would say.
He dropped the wood shard. It clattered to the floor.
He looked around the apartment. His prison.
His eyes fell on the kitchen window. Ground floor. A fire escape.
He ran. Legs pumping. Adrenaline surging.
He fumbled with the latch. Stiff. Unwilling.
He pulled. Twisted. It wouldn’t budge.
The window was sealed shut. Painted over.
He slammed his hand against the glass. It rattled. Unbreakable.
He heard the sirens closer now. Just outside the building.
Red and blue lights flickered through the window. Painting the room in pulsing colors.
He was trapped.
He turned from the window. Looked at Sarah’s still form on the floor.
Looked at the mangled door.
Looked at the silent, smiling woman on the ZestWake commercial.
He backed away from the window. Away from the lights.
He needed somewhere to hide. Somewhere to think.
The closet. The bedroom closet.
He stumbled into the bedroom. Flipped open the closet doors.
His clothes hung neatly. Too neatly. Not his clothes.
He pushed them aside. Stepped inside. Pulled the doors shut.
Darkness enveloped him. The smell of cedar and unfamiliar fabric.
He huddled there. Knees to chest. Listening.
The sirens stopped. Right outside.
He heard muffled voices. Distant shouts.
Then, a loud, insistent banging on the apartment door.
Not the mangled living room door. The front door. The one he’d tried to kick down.
He heard the heavy thud of a battering ram.
Once.
Twice.
The wood shrieked. Splintered.
The door burst inward with a sickening crack.
Heavy footsteps. Boots on the wood floor.
Men’s voices. Urgent. Demanding.
“Police! Anyone in here?!”
He held his breath. Tried to make himself smaller. Invisible.
“Clear!” one voice shouted.
Then, another. Closer.
“Over here! We’ve got a body!”
A gasp. A shocked exclamation.
“Female. Looks like blunt force trauma to the head.”
He squeezed his eyes shut. His stomach lurched.
“Perp is gone. Look at this door. He tried to get out this way.”
He heard them moving through the apartment. Closer to the bedroom.
He could hear his own heartbeat. A frantic drum against his ribs.
Footsteps. Heavy. Approaching the closet.
He pressed himself against the back wall. Prayed. Begged.
The closet doors burst open. Not flung. Gently pulled.
A figure stood there. Silhouetted against the light from the bedroom.
Tall. Broad-shouldered.
Uniformed.
He stared up at the figure. His eyes wide. Unblinking.
The figure reached out a hand. Not to grab him. To offer.
A dark, gloved hand.
“Ethan Cole?” the voice said. Calm. Deep.
He couldn’t speak. Couldn’t move.
“We’ve been expecting you.”
The hand didn't move. Just waited. Patient.
He looked at the hand. Then at the face above it. Obscured by shadow.
He felt a cold dread seep into his bones. This wasn't the police. Not the normal police.
He didn’t know how he knew. He just *knew*.
This was something else. Something far, far worse.
He looked past the figure. Into the bedroom.
No sign of Sarah. No body.
His gaze snapped back to the figure.
The figure took a step into the closet. Into the dark.
“Come on, Ethan. It’s time to go.”
He recoiled. Tried to push himself further back. Into the wall.
“Go where?” he managed. A choked whisper.
The figure chuckled. A low, dry sound.
“Somewhere you’ll be safe. Somewhere you can understand.”
Understand what? Understand this madness?
He shook his head. Desperate.
“I didn’t kill her,” he said. The words tumbled out. A last, desperate plea for sanity.
The figure tilted its head.
“Oh, we know.”
Then, the gloved hand moved. Not to touch him. To block the light.
The world went black.
The wood groaned.
“Ethan! No! Stop!”
Sarah’s voice was a high-pitched shriek now. He heard her frantic whispers into the phone.
“He’s trying to break the door. He’s violent. Please, send someone.”
His shoulder ached. The door remained steadfast. Impenetrable.
He backed up a step. Glared at the lacquered wood. It felt heavier now. Thicker. Like solid steel.
He remembered installing that door. A cheap hollow-core. A kick could splinter it.
He wound up. Kicked. His foot connected with a dull thud.
Pain shot up his leg. He cried out. Hopped on one foot.
Sarah was still on the phone. Her back to him. Her voice a blur of panicked pleas.
He glanced around the living room. The ZestWake ad still played on the silent TV. The gleaming stainless steel coffee maker mocked him.
His eyes landed on a small, decorative vase on the mantelpiece. Heavy. Ceramic. Sarah's mother had given it to them. He hated it.
He snatched it. The weight felt good in his hand. Solid. Real.
He turned back to the door. Raised the vase.
“Ethan! What are you doing?!”
He swung. The vase connected with the door. A loud CRACK echoed through the apartment.
A spiderweb of cracks spread across the wood paneling. A small, ragged hole appeared.
He swung again. And again. Fragments of ceramic flew. Wood splintered.
The hole grew. A jagged teeth-like opening.
Sarah dropped the phone. It clattered to the floor.
“My God, Ethan! You’re going to destroy everything!”
He ignored her. Focused on the door. On the escape. The hole wasn't big enough. Not yet.
He brought the vase down with all his remaining strength. The ceramic shattered. Pieces bounced off the door, off his arm.
He felt a sharp sting. Looked down. A thin cut bled on his forearm.
He didn’t care.
He threw the broken vase aside. His hands were empty. His breath ragged.
The door looked like a war zone. Splintered wood. Peeling paint. But still, it held.
He gritted his teeth. Pushed his face close to the jagged hole. Peered through.
Darkness. Not the bright hallway outside. Just blackness. Deep. Unyielding.
His heart hammered against his ribs. This was wrong. Even the outside was wrong.
He heard Sarah’s quick, urgent footsteps behind him.
He spun around. She was standing over the dropped phone. Reaching for it.
He lunged.
He tackled her. Not gently. Not like he would have touched Sarah.
They went down in a heap. The phone skittered away, sliding under the couch.
He scrambled on top of her. Pinning her. Her eyes were terrified. Wide.
“Ethan! Get off me!”
Her voice was raw with fear. Not the fear of a woman dealing with a sick partner. The fear of a woman facing a monster.
He stared down at her face. So familiar. So wrong.
“Tell me!” he hissed. His voice was guttural. “Tell me what’s happening!”
She struggled beneath him. Her hands pushed against his chest. Weakly.
“Nothing’s happening, Ethan! You’re sick! You’re hurting me!”
“No!” he roared. “You tell me! Why is everything different? Why can’t I remember? Why is the door locked?!”
Tears streamed down her face. Her chest heaved.
“It’s not locked! You just… you just broke it! You’re crazy, Ethan! You need help!”
He felt a cold, crushing despair. She didn’t see it. She *couldn’t* see it.
He released her. Rolled off. His muscles ached. His head throbbed.
He sat up. Looked at the wrecked door. The black hole.
Then he looked at Sarah. She was scrambling away from him. Crawling on her hands and knees towards the kitchen. Towards a drawer.
He knew that drawer. The knife drawer.
His blood ran cold.
He launched himself forward. A desperate, animalistic lunge.
He caught her ankle. Yanked.
She screamed. A sharp, piercing sound that grated on his ears.
She fell. Her head hit the floor with another sickening thud. The sound echoed in the silence.
She lay still. Too still.
His breath caught in his throat.
“Sarah?” he whispered.
He crawled towards her. His hand shaking.
He reached out. Touched her hair. Soft. Still brown.
He nudged her shoulder. Gently.
No response.
A wave of nausea washed over him. He killed her. He actually killed her.
His own distorted reality had driven him to this. To violence. To murder.
He felt the hot sting of tears in his own eyes. This wasn’t him. This wasn’t *his* life.
He leaned over her. Put his ear to her mouth.
No breath.
He pulled back. Stared at her face. Peaceful now. Unlined by fear.
He reached for her wrist. Felt for a pulse.
Nothing.
He slumped back. His mind a blank. Just a ringing in his ears.
He killed Sarah. His Sarah. The real Sarah. The one who wore red swimsuits and hated stainless steel.
No. He hadn't. This wasn't his Sarah. This was *something else*. This was the stranger.
He stared at the mangled door. At the blackness beyond the splinters.
He had to get out. He had to escape this nightmare.
He pushed himself up. His body felt heavy. Numb.
He walked back to the door. Ignored the pain in his shoulder, his foot, his arm.
He grabbed a larger shard of splintered wood. Sharp. Jagged.
He jammed it into the hole. Levered it. Tried to pry the door open.
The wood groaned. Screamed. But didn't give.
He heard a faint siren in the distance. Getting closer.
Sarah’s phone. Lying under the couch. Her call for help.
They were coming for him.
They would see the broken door. They would see Sarah.
They would see a madman.
He was a madman. A violent madman. That’s what they would say.
He dropped the wood shard. It clattered to the floor.
He looked around the apartment. His prison.
His eyes fell on the kitchen window. Ground floor. A fire escape.
He ran. Legs pumping. Adrenaline surging.
He fumbled with the latch. Stiff. Unwilling.
He pulled. Twisted. It wouldn’t budge.
The window was sealed shut. Painted over.
He slammed his hand against the glass. It rattled. Unbreakable.
He heard the sirens closer now. Just outside the building.
Red and blue lights flickered through the window. Painting the room in pulsing colors.
He was trapped.
He turned from the window. Looked at Sarah’s still form on the floor.
Looked at the mangled door.
Looked at the silent, smiling woman on the ZestWake commercial.
He backed away from the window. Away from the lights.
He needed somewhere to hide. Somewhere to think.
The closet. The bedroom closet.
He stumbled into the bedroom. Flipped open the closet doors.
His clothes hung neatly. Too neatly. Not his clothes.
He pushed them aside. Stepped inside. Pulled the doors shut.
Darkness enveloped him. The smell of cedar and unfamiliar fabric.
He huddled there. Knees to chest. Listening.
The sirens stopped. Right outside.
He heard muffled voices. Distant shouts.
Then, a loud, insistent banging on the apartment door.
Not the mangled living room door. The front door. The one he’d tried to kick down.
He heard the heavy thud of a battering ram.
Once.
Twice.
The wood shrieked. Splintered.
The door burst inward with a sickening crack.
Heavy footsteps. Boots on the wood floor.
Men’s voices. Urgent. Demanding.
“Police! Anyone in here?!”
He held his breath. Tried to make himself smaller. Invisible.
“Clear!” one voice shouted.
Then, another. Closer.
“Over here! We’ve got a body!”
A gasp. A shocked exclamation.
“Female. Looks like blunt force trauma to the head.”
He squeezed his eyes shut. His stomach lurched.
“Perp is gone. Look at this door. He tried to get out this way.”
He heard them moving through the apartment. Closer to the bedroom.
He could hear his own heartbeat. A frantic drum against his ribs.
Footsteps. Heavy. Approaching the closet.
He pressed himself against the back wall. Prayed. Begged.
The closet doors burst open. Not flung. Gently pulled.
A figure stood there. Silhouetted against the light from the bedroom.
Tall. Broad-shouldered.
Uniformed.
He stared up at the figure. His eyes wide. Unblinking.
The figure reached out a hand. Not to grab him. To offer.
A dark, gloved hand.
“Ethan Cole?” the voice said. Calm. Deep.
He couldn’t speak. Couldn’t move.
“We’ve been expecting you.”
The hand didn't move. Just waited. Patient.
He looked at the hand. Then at the face above it. Obscured by shadow.
He felt a cold dread seep into his bones. This wasn't the police. Not the normal police.
He didn’t know how he knew. He just *knew*.
This was something else. Something far, far worse.
He looked past the figure. Into the bedroom.
No sign of Sarah. No body.
His gaze snapped back to the figure.
The figure took a step into the closet. Into the dark.
“Come on, Ethan. It’s time to go.”
He recoiled. Tried to push himself further back. Into the wall.
“Go where?” he managed. A choked whisper.
The figure chuckled. A low, dry sound.
“Somewhere you’ll be safe. Somewhere you can understand.”
Understand what? Understand this madness?
He shook his head. Desperate.
“I didn’t kill her,” he said. The words tumbled out. A last, desperate plea for sanity.
The figure tilted its head.
“Oh, we know.”
Then, the gloved hand moved. Not to touch him. To block the light.
The world went black.