Your mind feels unhinged, like it has become a blur of half-concocted thoughts. Even down to the smell of sodden earth, this is a replica of that red door from the woods.

Despite blinking several times, it remains there. The torch light flickers as your grip wanes, before you push it back in position to illuminate the impossibility in front of you. No longer seeping through the cracks of the garage, there is still a chill that radiates from this closed doorway. It pierces your thick clothing and you shiver involuntarily.

The storm raging outside doesn’t even make you flinch, as your wide eyes remain focused on the aged red door. Curiosity had gotten the best out of you the first time, but now you aren’t so sure. You lack the focus to rationalize this.

Another hallucination? It was lingering past the initial shock. You are in half a mind to just power through it, wind up in the garage and shatter whatever illusion your brain is forcing you to see. The other half was paralyzed, fearful of it being something more than just a trick.

“You’re just a door,” you tell it, although there’s only the slight hint of self-assurance in your words.

It doesn’t respond, which you are thankful for. Denial isn’t the same as acceptance, but you would take what small wins you can get while going insane. Perhaps painkillers and sleep will be a better future for the rest of the day. You are clearly suffering.

Before making any kind of decision, you realize that you are flexing your left hand, some brief ache in it where the splinter had gotten you. Almost the only part of you capable of movement, but by noticing, you managed to find some manner of grounding. It is just a figment of your imagination. What can a door do to you, anyway?

Instead of engaging with it, you can ignore it. A thought that grew in validity by the passing second. Maybe it will make more noises or stand there looking menacing, but it is a door. It could remain there and you can have that nap and break from the invisible fever currently ravaging your waking mind.

Content enough that you have talked the panic down to an acceptable level, you let out a shaky sigh and nod at the imagined doorway. Let’s see how it liked the silent treatment.

Gathering up your strength, you turn away from it and step slowly toward the kitchen again. Back to the original plan for now. You still find yourself tense, expecting another creak or bang, but other than a rolling blast of thunder making you jump, the house was quiet once more.

You walk into the kitchen and deflate, feeling exhausted. Briefly forgetting what you came into this room for, you wipe your head off on your sleeve, sweating despite the constant chills. It must be a fever. The box of candles and matches remain where you had left them on the island. You consider grabbing more cheese, before declining the notion. That may make your delusions even worse, unfortunately.

Box now in your hands, you turn back to the kitchen doorway. There is no actual door on this side of the kitchen, just the open space. It has been like that for years. Removed at some point when furniture was being moved around, and then never replaced. No doubt it lurked somewhere in the garage beneath some other junk. It is the only door in the house unable to be closed—although you wasn’t sure why you needed to think that.

A glance back behind the fridge, and the other door in the room that leads to the lounge was also closed. Lightning illuminated it, just to help you in confirming that fact. If anything, it just brought back some of the nausea again. This was way too stressful. It was a simple storm.

With a clenched jaw, you walk into the hallway and swung the flashlight back down to the stairs. After an inopportune flicker, your light illuminates the regular door to the garage down the end of this passage. Relief sinks through you. Thank fuck.

You wonder how people can deal with taking mushrooms or other hallucinogens when a bad trip can be worse than this. Not being sure of reality was frightening. Box tucked under your arm, you increased your pace to the stairs. Close to the finish line now, you just have to get back into your room and lock yourself away.

The torch washed over the steps as you looked down and was careful of your footing. Your sibling had cracked their leg open one time and still bore the scar. Given how much shit you gave them for it, repeating the same action would earn you more than the warranted injury.

But you make it to the top unharmed. Almost a smile on your face, before your torch swings back up to your door.

Only, it’s not your door any longer.

You stumble back in panic, hitting yourself against the opposite wall. Glancing between the mud and red, flaking paint, your mouth runs dry. It’s just a door, so why is it following you? A question with no real answer. You are imagining it, aren’t you?

As your hand tightens on the torch, you’re not as sure as you were before. The smell seems real, but you can probably make that up in your mind. If you touch it and it feels real, then what did that mean? Finding out felt as much an inevitability as it was unpalatable.

There was no way a real door can change places. You try to convince yourself of that fact. You needed to deal with the situation by ignoring it, like you had decided before. Just power through it, and step into your bedroom, then you can fix the torch and get some sleep.

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In all the furor you have forgotten to swing by the medicine cabinet on your way up. Going back down and up the stairs again would either get the red door to go away or do something even worse to your mind. You waver for a second before taking the risk.

If you are ill—and there can be no doubt that was true—then some meds will help you feel more normal sooner. Something that was becoming a greater desire as the day went on.

You step sidewards to the stairs, before turning away from the door at the last second. If only so that you don’t tumble down the steps. A broken leg will do your fragile brain no good. Perhaps you’d always imagine the door in some place in the house while you are still out of your mind. If you keep tabs on where it was, then you’d be in control.

Expect the door. Observe the door. Be better than the door.

You shake your head as you reach the hallway. Things really are dire. Can you hear yourself think? Trying to exact some superiority over an intangible illusion.

The bathroom door opened up. Had you closed it before? It had been open at some point, but now you can’t remember exactly. With a grimace on your face, you avoid looking at the mirror as you step over to the cabinet. A glance down into the sink and it is as you left it. Splinter, tweezers, and kit still waiting there.

You pop the cabinet open and look around for what you have in stock for pain relief. Some basic pills that should lower any fever and erase the light headache you have grinding away at the edges of your mind. That will have to do.

Placing the packet on the edge of the sink, you pick up the tweezer and kit out of the way. A bit of water to wash the pills down will be great. You twist the cold tap on and reach for the pill packet.

No water.

Your brow furrows as you twist it back off and then on again. Trouble with the plumbing as well? The storm shouldn’t cause issues there. From beneath the house, and slowly rising up toward you, comes a hollow rattling sound.

Before you have the chance to react, the tap shudders and groans. The metal spout expels something thick and dark, whatever is produced instead of water just splattering down into the sink. You cover your mouth; the torchlight flickering as you can’t tear your eyes away.

The white of the basin is now pepped with globs of brown sludge mixed with dirtied and shredded leaves. Mud.

You control your breathing again and twist the tap back off. One of the pipes in town must have been damaged. Good thing you hadn't tried to take a shower. While dirty moisture runs off the blobs of mud and down the plughole, you shake your head. Fucking town and its old-fashioned bullshit.

What you wouldn’t give to be in the city with the normal amenities. Now without water, electricity, and—even worse—internet, it was a miracle that the town has survived this long. You shake your head once more; the annoyance erasing some of the panic still beating away at your heart.

There should be something in the fridge you can drink.

You close the cabinet door, a flash of red in the reflection causing you to spin around. Shaky torchlight illuminates nothing out of the ordinary. Just the hallway wall.

“Fuck’s sake,” you hiss to yourself. Now you are jumping at imagined primary colors.

You sweep the hallway as you step out into it. No woodland door here. Behind you, you shut the bathroom door again. They all needed to stay closed. Pills in your pocket, you go back to the kitchen, well aware that you have never gone on such a marathon around the house before. Your route wasn’t as well planned as you first thought.

After turning into the kitchen, you frown and twisted back around. Seven pictures on the wall. The circular beam of torchlight ran down the wall to see if it has fallen on the floor. But there is nothing there. As your light went back up, there are eight pictures, as there should be. You stared at them for a second, running your tongue across your teeth.

No. You will ignore that.

Keep control of your mind, it is just playing tricks.

Back around to the fridge, you open it up to see what options you have. Your eyes skirt past the milk and pop, and waver on the cans of your father’s beer. Normally you can consider it an option, but given your mental state and potential illness, it wouldn’t be a good idea. You settle for a bottle of water hiding way in the back. Still reasonably chilled, which is nice.

With your eyes lingering on the pictures just outside the kitchen, you bring the pills into your mouth and wash them down with the water. The storm had something to say about it, but you have started to tune it out. You have bigger problems than the occasional flash of light and shaking crack of thunder right overhead. The only attention you were paying was enough to know that it hasn’t started to pass. The noise came almost immediately after the light still.

Once it moves away, you could breathe a little easier.

You step into the hallway and glance at your wet clothing and backpack in the little lobby. The towel beside the door has all but saturated with water, but is doing a good enough job of keeping more rain from getting in. You give a shrug of apology to your backpack. It will have to accept its fate for now.

The torch illuminates the hallway as you turn and glare at each doorway in turn. All normal, as far as you can tell. Perhaps your brain has settled a little, and you will not have to worry about that door again.

A thought that sours about halfway up the stairs, as your light picks up the mud and vines again. The red door is still there.

“No, thank you,” you tell it, muscles tensing up again. It should have gone by now. It doesn’t seem to agree.

You take several deep breaths. It’s not real. Just go into your room and ignore it.

With a flex of your left hand, you commit to the plan. Full of wavering confidence, you step toward it, grab the cold handle and twist.

It feels real. The very aura of the fraying edges and decaying paint job has a more tangible air to it than you hoped.

There is some resistance to the door opening, but you have already made your intent so clear that you lean into it. Your body presses against the cracking shards of paint, the smell of aged wood and dampness fills your nose, panic rising at the fact that you might not be able to open this very real door up.

And then with a pop, it opens unexpectantly.

You stumble forward, feet catching on something wet that immediately soaks through your socks as you drop to the floor. With a groan, you reach out for the dropped torch, eager to bring light back to your room.

It didn’t fall far from you, and your hand reaches for it, the black plastic picking up some of the dim ambient light to guide your hand. Back in your grasp, you hold down the switch as you push yourself up from aching knees. The light flickers on, illuminating hardwood floor.

You frown and bring it up, revealing the downstairs hallway in front of you. Turning slowly, you look back to see your closed front door. Thunder rocks through the house as you step away from the soaking towel by your feet. Moved out of place from where you had pushed it away and tripped over it.

Thunder rolls through the sky as you stare blankly at what is hopefully still your house.