Dennis Shutter Universe

When that dog transforms into the Crooked Man, it’s not CGI. At least not the unfolding and standing up of the Crooked Man with his bizarre movements. Let's be honest:

I can't do it, you can't do it.

But there is someone who can. I've deeply looked into it. And also into why that movie is a genuine loss for us. Or is it just a loss for me?

The child went way too early. The wounds are still fresh. What is supposed to help now: a contact. A goodbye. A conversation that is supposed to bring peace to both sides.

"It's like a phone call. He will respond."

But what comes after has not much to do with peace...

What could be better than sitting in the cinema on a Saturday night, holding a bucket of popcorn, watching a nice horror shocker and, full of suspense, patting the head of your child—uh, wait, what?

Oh God yes, that is exactly how it goes nowadays. Instead of Blumhouse or A24, the Disney castle appears. You probably think we ended up in the wrong theater, but no:

We are watching profit-maximizing horror: family friendly, PG-13 style.

Meet Horror Barbie:

Originally, it was a deeply evil creature from the shadows, but with PG-13 in the makeup room, this is what came out.

I had to let off steam. And I did. Read my rant here, I have outdone myself:

Dinner. The Locklear family sat down at the table. The lively mood gave way to an increasingly subdued atmosphere. This was already the second time it had happened. Monica, the mother of the two daughters, Anne and Jacky, looked at them questioningly. “You never used to complain when it was bedtime. You practically always fell into bed. Now you’re acting like you’re grounded. What’s going on?”

The sisters exchanged furtive glances. “I… I don’t like this room.” Anne’s voice was very firm. “Me neither. It’s so dark!” Jacky interjected, adding meekly, “And spooky…” Monica sighed. “I never would have thought I’d have trouble with the dark because of you two… But I guess all parents have to go through this.” She took a bite of her bread and chewed thoughtfully.

Anne and Jacky were desperately hoping for a miracle solution. But they didn’t want to leave it up to chance. Jacky glanced at Anne and nodded discreetly at her, as if to say, “Go ahead.” Anne looked at her mother and cautiously began, “Can we sleep in your bed? We love you so much, Mommy.”

Monica couldn’t help but smile. How on earth could she say no now? Having her little angels there to cuddle with would do her some good, too—after all, time with kids this age flies by incredibly fast anyway. “All right, girls. Fine. Let’s have a cozy evening. We’ll watch some more TV, and I’ll rub your backs until you fall asleep.”

The children let out a cry of joy and seemed like completely different kids. “But tomorrow you’ll sleep in your own beds again, okay?” Monica added. Anne and Jacky nodded, looking worried.

Quiet breathing. A steady sound of peace in the dark embrace of the bedroom, which felt like a sense of security. Monica was asleep, Anne snuggled close to her mom. Jacky had her eyes closed. But she wasn’t asleep. She couldn’t be. There was no calm, no tiredness. She turned around, looking toward the door, and opened her eyes. She couldn’t make out anything—just the shadowy outlines of the door, a closet, and the nightstand. She took a deep breath. It was so quiet. She felt relieved to be lying there, safe in her parents’ bed, in a house she didn’t really know yet. And to be away from her own room, which seemed so threatening to her. But the thought of tomorrow night—yes, that wouldn’t let her go. In the darkness of the room, she saw the outlines of the shadows pulsing, almost as if they were moving slightly. But wasn’t something actually moving there? Something seemed to be moving back and forth distinctly. Down by the door, at the crack in the door. As if someone were standing there, pacing back and forth. “Anne!” Jacky gasped, shaking her sister. “Anne, wake up!” With a little snore, Anne woke up and asked, completely exhausted, what was going on. “I think there's someone there. Outside the door!” “Where?” Jacky stared at the door with a contorted expression, trying to focus her eyes. “Do you see that?” “I can't see anything yet, Jacky—I can barely keep my eyes open!” But she heard Jacky's breath catch; she rubbed her eyes and looked again, carefully. Anne froze. “Is it waiting for us?” Jacky replied in a trembling, frightened voice, “It’s looking for us.” “It mustn’t hear us—we have to be very quiet.” “Should we wake up Mom?” Anne asked, glancing over at her mother, who was fast asleep. “Please don't—she might get mad at us, and then we'll never be allowed to sleep in her bed again,” Jacky pleaded. Jacky pressed her hand to her stomach: “Anne… I can't take it anymore. I have to go to the bathroom. It's really urgent.” Anne stared in horror at the crack in the door, where a shadow was shifting restlessly: “No, Jacky, stay in bed! You can't go out now. ” Jacky cried silently: “It hurts so much, Anne. Otherwise I’ll wet the bed.”

Anne looked around the dark room in a panic, trying to help Jacky. Her gaze fell on the nightstand. An empty plastic bottle stood out as a faint outline in the darkness. Anne crawled over her mother and reached for the bottle. “Here, pee in this, but hurry!” She glanced again at the crack in the door and kept her eyes on the shadow. Jacky climbed out of bed and knelt down. When Jacky let loose and the stream hit the bottle, Anne’s voice could be heard hissing anxiously across the room. “Damn it, it's not moving anymore. Jacky, please keep it quiet—I think it can hear you.” “I can't!” Jacky whimpered in fear. “I just can't!” A tear rolled down her cheek. “I'm sorry, Anne. Please don't hate me.” “I don’t hate you, Jacky, never!” Anne whispered desperately, reaching out a hand to feel for her sister’s arm. “But you have to finish this. Right now!”

With one last, trembling sob, Jacky closed the bottle. The plastic cracked softly in the silence—a sound that echoed in her ears as loud as a gunshot. In sheer panic, she pushed herself off the floor, crawled blindly over the edge of the bed, and threw herself under the protective blanket.

She clung to Anne as if her older sister were the last lifeline in a drowning world. Their bodies trembled in unison, their faces pressed tightly together, while their tears mingled on the sheet. Their wide eyes stared fixedly at the crack in the door. Every fiber of their being was focused on that single, dark line. They waited. They held their breath until their lungs burned, listening for the inevitable. Any moment now, in the next second, they thought, the dull metal of the doorknob had to give way and slide silently downward. But the doorknob didn’t budge. The shadow simply listened back.

A sharp cut shattered the darkness. Suddenly, there was light. Warm, golden rays of sunlight streamed through the slats of the blinds, painting bright stripes on the bedsheet. From the kitchen came the familiar, soothing clatter of dishes, accompanied by the sizzling sound of scrambled eggs and the sweet smell of freshly toasted bread. Anne opened her eyes and squinted into the brightness. At that moment, the horror of the night felt like a distant, almost silly nightmare that simply evaporated in the light of the new day. She looked over at Jacky, who was still fast asleep, the blanket pulled peacefully up to her nose. They’d made it. The night was over. But when Anne’s gaze involuntarily drifted to the floor and lingered on the plastic bottle, her relief froze instantly. The ugly, unpleasant reality brought her back to earth in an instant. It hadn’t been a dream. It was real. And with every centimeter the sun rose in the sky, she was moving inexorably toward the next darkness. And the worst part of that relentless ticking of the clock was the knowledge that this time, her mother would leave them alone in the kids' room.

Nightfall - Before Dawn Pt 2

The man slept. It was, after all, the middle of the night.

The clock ticked peacefully and quietly. But then—what was that? A faint, rhythmic beeping approached. It sounded like an alarm clock, but strangely distorted, warped by the dark.

The man was ripped from his sleep. Sleep-drunk, he thudded his hand around the nightstand, fumbling for the clock. He smacked it. It kept beeping. He smacked it again. It beeped louder.

Opening his eyes, he stared into the pitch-black room, waiting for his pupils to adjust. The sound felt almost mocking. It came from the front. Not from the right where his nightstand was.

He pushed the blanket aside and swung one foot out of bed. He paused. The floor felt wrong. Strangely, freezing cold. He briefly considered the merits of underfloor heating just as the beeping abruptly fell silent.

He looked through the room. Though he could see nothing but faint silhouettes, he felt it. The darkness wasn't normal. His eyes weren't adapting to it. Not the way they should. He fumbled his way forward, his eyes still too tired to brave the harsh light of the bedside lamp.

Step by step, he worked his way through the void. His hands searched for familiar objects to orient himself. Nothing. His wardrobe should have been right here to his right. He had seen its silhouette just moments ago. He stood still, looking around once more. Just darkness.

Just as he began to wonder what was happening, the piercing beeping ripped the silence open again. It was faster now, racing at nearly 200 bpm.

Lightning-fast, he spun around. The sound was coming from his bed now. "What…?" he thought.

As he took a step back toward the bed, the beeping cut out instantly. Was that a footstep? He listened deeply into the dark. A quiet, shifting sound, as if someone—or something—was transferring its weight.

"Who's there?" he asked. His voice was thick with sleep, powerless.

The silence that followed was deafening. His ears throbbed, strained to maximum attention. He took another step back, toward where his wardrobe should be.

A faint breathing brushed the air. Or was it a whisper?

“You won’t find the door… Never.”

The man snapped his head toward the voice. His eyes narrowed. His heart quickened, muscles tensing.

"What? Why won't I find it?" he demanded. "Is this a dream?"

A faint, dry rattling echoed back. A quiet, incomprehensible hiss. The man stood his ground, staring into the corner, waiting for the next movement. "What… What is going on here?"

Just when the anticipation threatened to become unbearable, a sound echoed from far away. Again, his head snapped toward it. A tiny speck of light pierced the distance. The accompanying sound seemed strangely familiar, yet sawed through the silence like an echo on a vast horizon.

A distant light source. A distorted, slowed-down melody.

Then it clicked. It was his ringtone. Heavily slowed down. His phone was receiving a call, but it felt miles away.

He walked toward the light, wondering who could possibly be calling him at this hour. His new acquaintance? He imagined how absurd that conversation would be right now: "Hey, something crazy is happening. My bedroom is suddenly miles wide and I can't find the exit. Can you come over?"

The thought made him smile slightly.

Suddenly, he froze. Behind him, something shifted. A sudden movement. He spun around, but before he could catch it, the display died. The ringtone fell silent. Total darkness. He saw absolutely nothing, front or back.

He took a step backward. CRACK.

Surprised, he looked down. Kneeling, his fingers fumbled across the floor. Rectangular. Familiar. It was his phone.

It buzzed loudly, vibrating against the floorboards. The man hesitated, staring at the device in the dark. The display flickered, struggling with a faint, pulsating will to survive.

"Come on," the man whispered, conjuring the last spirits of life from the battery. "Come on, hold on…"

The flickering stabilized. "Ah, wonderful," he sighed. "It works after all."

He glanced at the screen. A missed call blared on the display. But instead of numbers or a name, there were only letters:

"You just crushed your only exit."

The man let the phone drop. It crashed with a heavy thud onto the floor.

He turned around. Remarkably, his expression grew calm. Clear. He fixated on the darkest corner of the room. With a powerful, commanding voice, he said: "I am going to leave now. And when I come back, you better be gone."

A threatening, furious rattling hissed from the dark.

The man looked entirely unimpressed. He smiled. Then, he moved purposefully toward where the bedroom door usually was. What had just seemed miles away was suddenly closer than ever. The rattling grew louder, closing in. And right before he could reach it—the door vanished.

"You won't find the door. Never."

Undeterred, the man stepped directly up to the bare wall. His smile never faded. Without blinking, he stretched out his hand, his fingers wrapping around an invisible handle.

Click.

The door materialized instantly under his touch. It swung open, and the man calmly stepped outside. The door clicked shut behind him. The room shook slightly—a tremor of confusion and anger, as if the space itself had been caught utterly off guard.

Then, the door opened again.

The man stepped back inside, completely serene, holding a fresh cup of coffee in one hand and a wooden chair in the other. He placed the chair directly in front of the darkest corner and sat down. Crossing his legs, he took a slow sip of his coffee, his eyes locked on the void.

The chair vanished beneath him. But the man didn't fall. He remained suspended in mid-air, swallowing his coffee. A second later, the chair reappeared exactly underneath him, as if it had never left.

The man let out a soft, satisfied "Ahhh," thoroughly enjoying his brew as if he were relaxing on a sunny beach. He looked into the trembling corner.

"You lost," he said softly. "You're not getting away from here anymore."

Silence. No shaking. No rattling. Only the smile of a man that shouted much louder than any soul-shattering scream.

The distorted beeping echoed one last time—the same sound that had woken him. But it trailed off, stretching out into a dying static until it fell completely silent.

The man stood up, set his coffee on the floor, and looked at the fading darkness. "Your powers are not enough. Not for me. And in the future, they won't be enough for anyone else either."

The man erupted into a gleaming, blinding light. The darkness was violently ripped open. And then, it came—a horrific, desperate shriek. The scream of an entity being utterly blasted out of existence.

Instantly, the darkness vanished. The room returned to normal. Morning sunlight flooded the space, and the peaceful chirping of birds filled the air. The man turned, walked through his door, and moved through the house.

In the hallway, he paused. His gaze glid across the floorboards to where the darkness had left its most brutal, oily traces. With a single, casual wave of his hand, he stroked the air.

The stains on the wood faded into nothing. The foul stench of fear and death gave way to the crisp scent of a fresh summer wind. The house was clean. Safe. As if nothing had ever happened.

The man looked down at his palm, then back toward the window where the sun broke through. A tiny, heavy shadow of regret crossed his face—the silent, fleeting thought of a family, that would have been saved, if only the call for him had occurred just a few hours earlier.

He turned away and walked out the front door.

The image after which humans were shaped is, after all, a very clever disguise…

Read more on DennisShutterUniverse

Part 1: The Three Friends

Three to-go coffee cups stood on the folding table. The diner inside New York City’s transit mall was nearly deserted. Kane, Shane, and Stefan sat in silence. 1:45 a.m.

Out of the far distance, a dull sound suddenly echoed. Muffled screaming. Hollow applause. The three of them froze, exchanging questioning glances. But then, the sound vanished.

They looked at each other in brief bewilderment, listening intently into the mall's silence. "You guys heard that too, right?" Kane asked the group. "Yeah, but what was it?" Shane shot back, as if there were a logical answer to be found. Stefan picked up his cup and brought it to his lips, saying with boredom, "Just imagination. Plain and simple."

Then it sounded again. Clearer this time. A desperate cry, followed by frenzied clapping emanating from deep within the maintenance corridors behind the mall. "No, that was definitely not just imagination!" Kane shouted, springing to his feet. "Let’s check it out, sounds like there’s serious action back there!" "Oh, sure," Stefan muttered through his coffee cup. "Because it’s always such a brilliant idea to follow hollow noises inside massive buildings!" Yet curiosity outweighed reason. Shane and Stefan tagged along, following Kane as they trailed the sounds.

Kane walked down the wide corridor of the mall. His footsteps echoed against the concrete walls, and his buddies quickly caught up with him. The bright light of the transit mall died behind them. The cold crept through their jackets, biting directly into their skin. No more emergency lights. Only the faint, dying pulse of light particles from the distant table they had left behind. Only the thin beam of Kane’s smartphone flashlight granted a few feet of visibility against bare concrete.

Stefan stared up at the ceilings as they pressed on, the noises growing louder and louder. He suppressed the chattering of his teeth as the icy air enveloped him. His doubts intensified. He tapped Kane on the shoulder, asking in an uncertain tone, "Are you sure we should keep going?" Kane kept his eyes locked ahead and replied dryly, "Yeah, why not? It definitely sounds like there's still a crowd back there!"

At the end of the hallway, they came upon a towering, massive wooden door with metal hinges. Three beams of smartphone light hit the solid block, the metal throwing the reflection back at them. The applause thudded dully through the seams of the wood. "This is it," Shane said, certain. "Now what?" Kane pressed against the door. "Now we open it and claim our applause!" He wrapped his hands around the giant handle and pulled with all his might. It swung open with a loud groan that echoed all the way back to the entrance hall. They were standing inside an old theater.

The noises vanished in an instant. Silence.

They saw a massive stage at the far end of the room. It looked ancient. Grim. Stretched across it was an endless wall of wide, blue fabric. Kane aimed his smartphone flashlight at the heavy duvetyn. The beam of light was simply swallowed up. The fabric reflected nothing. They started walking toward the stage. "Gu—?" Shane couldn't finish. As he spoke, he couldn't hear his own words. And every single step faded away like a hysterical silent movie. Kane tore his mouth open. He tried to scream: We're leaving. The words caught, quite literally, in his throat. Shane flailed his arms, pointing toward the stage of the old amphitheater.

With racing hearts, they approached the stage.

Kane raised his arm. The shadows of the three teenagers on the blue fabric moved… differently. The dark silhouettes lagged behind somehow. As they drew closer, the shadows didn't shrink. They looked at one another one last time. Beads of sweat stood out on Stefan’s face, glistening in the glow of the flashlight. The boys froze instantly. They saw it clearly now. The shadows were not projected onto the fabric.

Part 2: One Week Later

One week later, 1:00 a.m. Transit Mall (NYC)

Another workday finished, ending the late shift in the IT department of a major retail company. Michael sat on his bench, waiting for the subway that would whisk him away from the darkness of this lonely station and bring him safely home. He had been here every single night for years; it was pure routine. Nothing special. But now? The air tasted dry. Too cold for July. He checked the display for the next train every two minutes. Every night it grew icier; these nights, he heard murmuring. Distant, so faint. Yet they drew closer, unbearably closer every single night. He was terrified of getting on the subway after work only to be stranded here—which by now felt like a gamble on whether he would make it out at all.

The whispering was almost at his ear, breathing right into him, so cold and damp inside his ear canals that he stood up and spun around. Of course, no one was there. Perhaps he had just been alone for far too long and was starting to lose his mind. He promised himself that eventually, he would actively go out and mingle with people. But right now, he wanted only one thing: to know the source of the sounds that demanded his attention every time. He walked to the right corner and glanced left. A small door, inconspicuous and old, loomed quietly before his eyes. Was someone inside?

He pressed the handle. The door was unlocked. It swung open soundlessly. Michael took a step inside. It was pitch black. The faint light from outside failed to illuminate the room. He reached into his jacket and pulled out his phone. Tapping the flashlight icon, he shone it into the space. He took a step. He paused briefly. He heard absolutely nothing. With the beam of light from his phone, he swept the room in search. On a script painted on the wall, he discovered a sweeping "Fulton Theatre." Michael was standing right in the middle of a stage. He realized he must have entered through the stage emergency exit.

Guided by the light directly ahead, he kept walking. The beam lost itself in an infinite blackness that threw nothing back, until he bumped into an invisible, soft, yet dense wall, nearly wrapping himself up in it. With a cry, he thrashed around, but his voice died unheard. Michael stopped his movements instantly and held his breath. No footsteps, no scream, and he had absolutely not seen this soft wall coming. He felt it. It was heavy, blue fabric.

A vibration rippled through his body. And in that second, he remembered that he was actually here to wait for his subway. Michael hastily untangled himself from the fabric and ran carefully back toward where he had come from, flashlight in hand and one arm outstretched. Just don't get tangled up again, don't run into anything, he thought to himself. The vibration grew stronger. The train was likely pulling in, slowing down. He had to hurry if he still wanted to make it. He was in a blind panic that his last chance to get home tonight might just speed away right in front of his nose. He scrambled forward in a rush, hoping to finally see that damn door so he could truly pick up the pace. But he couldn't see it. He swung the flashlight wildly around, desperate to see anything other than this eternal, unbearable blackness.

The vibration could no longer be felt. Oh no, Michael thought. The train is already here and could leave at any second. He lunged forward, ready to risk a nasty bruise, but there was no way he was staying here.

His hand slammed heavily against cold metal. Pain shot up his forearm, but the feel of the handle beneath his fingers was pure deliverance. Michael threw his entire body weight down against it and lunged forward. The fire door flew open. The harsh, sterile light of the subway station cut into his eyes. The sudden acoustics of the platform crashed over him like a wave—the mechanical hiss of the brakes, the dull hum of electronics. The train was idling on Track 2. The doors were already open. The warning chime for closing doors began to beep. Michael ran. His footsteps echoed sharply against the tiles. His lungs burned from the stale theater air; his legs felt like lead. With one final, desperate leap, he threw himself through the closing rubber edges of the train door. The doors clicked shut behind him. The train pulled away with a gentle jolt. Michael collapsed onto the hard plastic seat. He was utterly drenched, his breath coming in ragged gasps, his heart hammering in his throat. He stared through the grimy window of the departing train back at the platform. The old, inconspicuous door of the Fulton Theatre glided past until it vanished into the darkness of the tunnel. He had made it. He was safe. For tonight.

IT Department (NYC), 12:30 a.m.

The monotonous beep of servers, blinking system lights. Michael glanced nervously at the clock and groaned. His shift would end soon, and he would have to ride the subway back to that dreadful station. Lost in thought, he spun around in his chair, racking his brain for ways to avoid the station entirely. But it felt as though the subway shaft was impatiently twisting the hands of the clock just to welcome him back—the day had simply flown by. Yet, it was his only connection home. The thought of staying longer just to log overtime faded against his natural drive for efficiency. Right then, the office door opened. His boss stepped inside with a confident stride. "Mr. Carter, good work. The system is excellently stabilized, and there are no more error logs. We have everything under control here. Your colleague is already in; head on home." Michael tossed his pen onto the desk, ripped off his headset, and let out a brief sigh. With heavy steps, he left his office and headed for the elevators. He exhaled sharply. An uncomfortable tingling flared up in his body. With a "ding," the elevator door slid open in front of him. Right now, he felt as if he were stepping into a microwave. Ready to be served for the subway station. "Ding." Michael stepped out of the elevator, walking through the glass office complex toward the North Exit. Just three traffic lights left until the subway that would inexorably carry him to the transit mall station.

The dull, rhythmic clatter of the tracks vibrated directly in Michael's stomach. The car was nearly empty. The cold ceiling lights flickered in time with the track switches. Michael sat rigid, his fingers buried deep inside his jacket pockets to hide the trembling of his hands. He stared upward. Above the seats, the digital route monitor flickered. Each passing station felt like a step deeper into a cold abyss. He swallowed. His eyes darted nervously across the glowing line of stops. Just two left… Just one… Then the display changed. The pixelated font spelled out the name: Transit Mall Station. A sharp stab pierced his stomach. The tingling from the elevator was back, hot and cutting. The train was already braking. The screech of metal brakes devoured the silence. Michael stepped onto the platform. The dull thudding of his own heart pounded so loudly in his ears that it drowned out the grinding of the brakes. A single glance at the cold, dirty stone of the platform was enough to turn his stomach. The bare concrete seemed to literally breathe the station's chill. He took a deep breath, trying to swallow the icy lump in his throat, and closed his eyes for a brief moment to regain control.

Behind his back, the train doors closed with a sharp click. The subway pulled away with a loud, deafening roar, accelerating into the darkness and tearing the last shred of civilization away with it.

The noise faded. He was alone. Again. Here.

Michael snapped his eyes open—and froze. On the opposite platform, a silhouette loomed. The sight sent a stab straight through his heart.

To be continued on