(Err… I guess you could just say I'm bored… Just read it and give your opinions, thank you very much.)
Don't Go Out
Henry Townshend awoke. His eyes, wide open, watched the ceiling fan spin in its constant, quick, circular motion. It was the same.
He sat up slowly, surveying his bedroom carefully. Everything was the same as the night before; nothing covered in blood, nothing covered in rust.
Henry took a moment to slow down his frantic breathing before pushing the covers of his bed aside and standing; with one last glance around the room, he departed into the hallway.
Before he knew what he was doing, his head spun around to stare at the spot on the wall a little ways to the right of the lamp. He continued staring at that same spot, expecting something to happen. Black pores would form throughout the wall, and a ghostly, decaying corpse would crawl out and fall to the floor with a thud.
'No… It was just a damn dream, nothing else…'
Henry shook it off and proceeded into the bathroom, quickly reaching out and turning the faucet handle… yet no water flowed out. He attempted to turn it again, and again… each try, futile in making water spout.
Henry backed away slightly, his eyes gradually lifting up to make contact with those of his reflection. Only they were not his own. The person he stared back at did not seem to have any eyes at all, only two dark, bloody openings. The gray shirt he was currently wearing held numerous stains of crimson in the reflection.
His hand rose to his face, and Henry slowly began to feel his around his eyes. The reflection, however, did nothing at all. It only let out a distorted chuckle, and it kept on chuckling, soon beginning to laugh, revealing its blood soaked mouth.
That sound made it seem as the reflection was taunting him, and with each cackle more of that deeply red substance ran out of the mouth, going down the throat, but, strangely, the lines began to form into something across the reflection's collarbone area… numbers…
'21121…?'
But then Henry blinked, and the alternate version of himself was gone. However, he stayed exactly still for a moment, making absolute sure the refection had been dismissed…
Henry made way into the main area of his apartment, scanning the living room. It was exactly as he had left it the day before; not like that horrible dream…
He sighed and began to turn towards the kitchen, but just as he started, he stopped. Just a foot or two ahead of him stood the door to Room 302, his apartment. It was this door that served as the entryway and exit of his small home, but today, this specific morning, something was wrong.
Multiple chains, attached to the walls to the left and right of the door, looped around each other, completely blocking access to the door. A large, golden padlock hung onto a part of a chain just slightly beneath the center of the door, and it was at this spot that words suddenly appeared.
The words, if they had been written previously, seemed to have been hastily scribbled, as if the person was in quite a hurry. They were in red ink, and Henry approached the door, studying the letters, attempting to read the small sentence.
'Don't go out!' was what the sentence read, but just below it, was a name: 'Walter'.
"What the hell…?" Henry mumbled to himself. "Who's Walter?"
His gaze left the writing for a moment and traveled around the chains. 'What is this? How did this…?'
He backed away ever so slightly, his attention never leaving the door. 'It was chained from the inside… Is… Is someone in the apartment!'
But what bothered Henry was the fact that whatever did this did it in one night, without waking him.
"This… has to be a dream… Is has to be…" he thought aloud.
Perhaps it was a dream… A dream where the television did not turn on, even though the electricity worked; a dream where the only thing the radio emitted was static; a dream where the windows were completely sealed shut; a dream in which no one at all can hear you scream…
Henry collapsed onto the couch in the living room area, feeling strangely exhausted. He suddenly felt unfamiliar towards the room in which he sat. He was truly alone now, locked in his own, personal prison…