Hi, so I decided to continue this because writing horror is actually quite fun. Also, I've decided that this is gonna be a Kurtbastian horror fic so Mr Smythe will be introduced a little later on (but not too much later). I hope you don't get too annoyed about how short the chapters are ( I tend to waffle on for ages then realise how little I've actually written). So, yeah, enjoy :) (Also: Please rate and review!)

His eyes flew open and he gasped loudly, sitting up in his bed. The sweat-drenched sheets were tangled around his legs, his shirt clinging to his body. Kurt panted harshly and he looked around the room, realising that he was alone. I'm okay, he thought to himself, relieved, I'm okay, I'm okay, I'm okay. It was just a bad dream.

He lowered himself back down, catching his breath and swallowing the wave of nausea that had hit him; placing his right hand over his heart, he felt it flutter under his palm like a trapped bird, so fragile, just like he had been in his dream. He shuddered. It was only when he realised that he was wearing his clothes that the previous night's events then seemed to hit him and he scrambled back against the headboard, eyes darting wildly around the room. The knock at the door, the fear, he could still taste it, the eyes. Oh the eyes. Dull, black empty pits, void of emotion. His head swung towards the covered window, where the tap tap tap of the children's fingers had echoed less than a day earlier. There didn't seem to be any shadows on the blinds of the window, and the bedroom door was still closed firmly shut. Had he just imagined it? Was it just one of his vivid nightmares haunting him?
Swallowing around the sudden dryness that had taken over his throat, he carefully placed his feet on the floor, one at a time, and held his breath. Silence. When he decided that he was momentarily safe and that there wasn't a monster under the bed that was going to reach out and grab his legs, he stood and made his way towards the window.

The cord of the blind slipped in his sweaty hand; he took a deep breath and pulled. Daylight shone in through the window, casting warm rays onto the wooden floor of his bedroom. He looked out onto the car park, where one of the residents in the apartment below, Francine, was climbing out of her car, purse in hand, and allowed himself a moment's relief. Now for the door.

He turned to face the room and eyed the bedroom door warily. There was nothing physically different about it, its was still the same, plain brown door that it had been for the past two years, only now it seemed like a gateway to Kurt, from the safety and comfort of his bedroom to the uncertainty of the apartment that lay beyond. This door wasn't the one he really had to worry about, however, he knew that.
The daylight seemed to give Kurt a small boost of confidence to step towards the door, the floorboards creaking slightly under his feet; he grasped the handle. Slowly and shakily, he turned the knob to the left, his ears catching the soft click as it opened. It's okay. He could do this, he told himself, all he had to do was peek his head round the door, check that the coast was clear and that he was alone, and he'd be fine. He pulled.
The door creaked on its hinges, a low whine escaping from the joints, revealing the rest of his apartment. Everything was still in its place, untouched, the way that Kurt had left it the previous night. The blanket that had fell off of Kurt as he had stood up to answer the door was still in a pile on the floor next to the couch, the television remote left on the arm. His eyes darted toward the door to the apartment and a shudder ran through his body at the sight of white, peeling wood with the dingy chain of the lock above the handle. That had been his only protection last night, that slab of wood and rusty chain. Thinking about it now, Kurt realised how ridiculous the idea of it seemed, but nevertheless it had prevented the two from clawing their way after him.

He glanced towards the phone on the coffee table. He could phone someone, anyone, to come over and tell him that there's no one there. That he'd imagined everything. He could tell Rachel that he wasn't feeling well and that she should come over and they could cuddle up with ice-cream and watch Moulin Rouge for the hundredth time. The idea was so tempting… But what if they were outside the door, he thought. Still there, waiting for him. What if Rachel did come over and they were the when she arrived at the door? Would he really want to risk the life of his best friend because he was too scared to open his front door? No, he could do this. He would do this.

It was time for him to face the inevitable, he decided. He couldn't stay in his apartment for the rest of his life; he would have to leave at some point. The rest of the apartment blurred around him as his eyes focused slowly on the door. On its handle.
Pinpricks of fear littered his back as he stepped; the ticking of the clock on the wall banging in his head.

Tick.
Step.
Tock.
Step.
You can do this.
Tick.
Step.
Run.
Tock.
Step.
They won't even be there.
Tick.

He came to a halt, about a metre away from the door, heart fluttering rapidly in his throat, hands trembling. The ticking of the clock now ran through his body. He could feel every thud, every beat, pulse through him from his feet to his head, to his hand stretching toward the door. His fingers twitched as they stroked the smooth, cold handle. I can do this, he told himself. It's just a door.
Kurt's right hand reached up and carefully slid the lock of the chain across, before it fell, dangling off the wall. He took a deep breath and nodded slowly to himself; he could do this.

Kurt braced himself, feet firmly on the ground as his fist tightened over the handle, his right hand placed on the wall, ready to provide force if he needed to slam the door shut again. If they were there. Waiting. The pounding in his head was thickening, the white noise in the silence making it throb along to the ticking of the clock. All of the pressure inside of him, the slight shaking of his knees, the sweatiness of his palm on the wall, the low swooping of his stomach, the stuttering of his breath as it left his chapped lips in short bursts, intensified. He pulled the handle down, his body screaming at him to run. He felt sick, so sick.

The door swung back violently on its hinges, pulled open with a greater force than necessary, the slam of it hitting the wall knocking a high shriek out of Kurt as he dodged back. Air heaved in through his nose and his eyes frantically darted around the opening, his heart pumping thickly. The doorway was empty.

Kurt swallowed and edged forward, his hand tightly gripping the door frame as he ever so slowly leaned his head out and scanned the hallway. No one there.

Oh.

He let out a sound; half surprised, half relieved, and closed his eyes, a small smile coming on his face. Thank fuck. He laughed again at himself, I'm such an idiot, shaking his head at how Rachel would laugh and tease him when he told her about his embarrassing reaction to his vivid dream. Because that's what it had been, a dream. A small part of him protested, small enough to be ignored, as he grabbed the door to close it. If he'd had turned his head away, back towards the inside of the apartment, a second earlier he would have missed it. But, he didn't. So he saw the flash of red in his peripheral vision. He saw and he turned towards it. He read the red letters that had been scratched onto the door and his stomach dropped, cold, liquidy fear creeping into his blood. Not a dream. Real.

You can't hide forever, Kurt Hummel.