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"The Hero"

They say it starts with a door.

It starts when you try to open one, at least. You reach out for the door to the wood shop, only to find the handle impossibly stuck. You twist harder, harder, and yet nothing works to open it. It's like something--someone--doesn't want you to open it. It's strange, unbelievably so. All the other doors open just fine, if slow or creaky. But this one won't even move, as if locked by some invisible force.

You leave for a moment, maybe to test some other doors, but they all work. When you return, the door is no longer in the same way it was left.

Namely, it is now guarded.

There's a girl sitting there, back to the door. You think you're hallucinating her at first, mind addled from a lack of sleep and the scares you've experienced over the past few hours. Why else would she be wearing a hero's suit, even complete with a cape? It's as if she stepped directly off a silver screen.

The moment she hears your footsteps, she stands, alert and ready, and you realize exactly why she does not want you to enter this room.

There's blood everywhere, and it really is everywhere. You don't know how you didn't see it at first. Dripping down from the holes in her exposed stomach. Staining her once white pants. Spilling from her lips, pooling on the floor around her. There's more blood than you thought could come from someone, from little wounds like the ones on her stomach. Her eyes are vacant, lifeless, but they're not angry. They're scared. Sad.

You take a step forward. She shakes her head. Briefly, you think you've imagined it. You take another step, and it's definite this time. A clearer shake of her head, an arm outstretched in front of the door. Her message is clear. She is not trying to hurt you. She is warning you, protecting you. Whether or not you heed her warning is another matter.

Her image fades from view. You may open the door now, if you wish. You may leave. You may continue on.

"The Slaughtered"

They say it starts with a scream.

A scream that rings out for a moment, then is gone. No echo. No ringing. Just a scream, then nothing. You chalk it up to hearing things that aren't there, a frazzled mind unable to discern real from fake.

But it doesn't leave you.

You hear another, this time able to discern a word. Help. And yet, it disappears too. No echo. No sound. Just gone. You know you're not hearing things now, because he was speaking to you. You know there's something. Someone who needs you. Someone who was never saved, and maybe doesn't even know it.

You trace the sound back to the art room. The door's not locked. But, once you see what's inside, you'll wish it was.

It's a bloodbath. The entire room is washed red as if recently painted. The room's small, but in the centre of it sits a chair. On that chair slumps the body of a young man. His four limbs hang lifelessly off his blood-covered torso, skinny legs dangling off the seat and skinnier arms strapped behind him. At first, you think he's fallen backwards, head hanging off the back of the chair. But, quickly, you realize that's not the case. The body lurches forward, chair shifting beneath him.

You can't see his head because he doesn't have one. Not anymore, at least.

You catch a glimpse of something wrapped in tinfoil under the table. You don't want to stick around to find out what it is. So, instead, you just close the door and leave.

He follows. He thumps at the door, scratching for you to open it back up again, to let him out. He does that until you give up.

"The Hunter"

They say it starts with a growl.

He's not angry, not yet. At least, he doesn't seem to be. Just curious. His footsteps are unsteady. Shaky. Heavier on one side, but they're not lurching. They're just unsure, accompanied by the sound of something scraping against the tile.

Another growl, this one accompanied by a shadow on the wall. Teeth. Claws. But the room's not big, and you can't see anyone in there with you. Perhaps you're imagining it. Perhaps it's the groaning of the incinerator, your terror-addled mind making things up out of the shadows.

It's not until the incinerator turns on with no input that you're sure there's someone here with you.

A rush of heat hits you. The smell of burning garbage. The crackle of something going up in flames--but you were sure that nothing was in there before. If you're lucky--and smart--you leave then. You open the door and get out.

They say the rest is only seen by the guilty.

They say he only appears to those who are haunted already. They say you can only see him if you have hurt--a person, or, god forbid, an animal. Some reach out for the door and have it slam shut, doorknob impossibly stuck. Struggling to open it only makes the heat worse. Your skin blisters and splits. The stench and the smoke burns in your lungs. Blood starts to soak the floor.

And then, you see it. You see him. No, you see them.

Not animal and not human. Not the blindfolded boy with the dark hair and the rabbit snare wrapped around his neck. Not the tiger cub with the burned-off fur and the gunshot in her chest. Both and neither at the same time.

Not one creature, but two. Two beings trapped in the same skin, the image shifting and warping from one creature to another. In the wake of a premature death, you see what happens when one person is considered an extension of another.

Make the choice you should've years ago. Talk. Tell him what you did. Tell him you're sorry. Promise to set things right, like he never could. He will smile, kindly, genuinely, but with too-sharp teeth. The flames will die and the door will open. You may leave now. Not unscathed, but you may leave.

No matter what you do, don't let anger take hold. Don't let the adrenaline pumping through your veins get the best of you. Not like he did. Don't make the same mistake. He is kind, usually--but he is no pushover. He is a hunter. He sees through her eyes, he tears with her claws.