Stephen rummaged through the backpack, laid out all of his weapons, his tools, his talismans. A chill wind blew through the closet door, freezing his breath mid-air.
There was a thing in the dark of the closet door, and the thing was the door, its mouth a jagged, broken glass gateway into labyrinthine viscera. He’d been there before, and would go, one last time, for Josh’s sake.
He made careful inventory, and brought out his nightmare slicing Swiss army knife, a Christmas gift from his Uncle Edwin.
“I’m coming for you, you bastard,” he said, and walked into the dark.