The man sat, slouched at the edge of his bed, too drunk to remember his own name. That’s how he liked it. It made things more bearable. Like the shadowy fingers screeching as their nails dragged against the scrabbled insides of his closet.

He grimaced. “Come to get me, have you? Forgotten that it’s not my turn anymore?”

The man pulled the bottle close for another swig. Gordon’s brand vodka. Bottom shelf shit, barely good enough for the rats. His father’s favorite brand. The man smirked as he half-drowned himself with the night cap. Gordon. The name sounded familiar, but he couldn’t place it.

Then came more scraping from the fingers. The man’s breathing went shallow. He glanced sideways at the slide-shut closet. Darkness peered back at him through the crack in the door. No matter how hard he tried, he could never fully shut it. The door always snagged. He should call the repairman in the morning. What was his name again? Gordon, was it? His father would’ve made a good repairman. A shit father, but a good repairman.

Eeech. Eeech. Eeech.

That time he had seen it. Oh, he knew. He really did tonight. The fingers, more claw than flesh, had slipped briefly from behind the door, offering him a glimpse of memories he’d rather stay forgotten.

Eeech. Eeech.

The man traced the lip of the bottle with his own fingers. “It’s your turn now.” His head hang heavy. “So shut up.”

But the fingers did not oblige.

He drank again.

Eeech. Eeech.

The man knew they wouldn’t wait much longer. Those fingers were hungry. With every swipe he could see their nails flashing at him from the depths.

Eeech.

The scratching felt like it was coming from inside his chest.

Eeech.

Tearing at his organs.

Eeech.

With a vicious twist, he hurled his bottle against the closet door. Drink and glass scattered, burying themselves in the carpet as the door rattled against its railing. The man pounded across the floor towards the wailing fingers, barely registering the shards tearing at his arches.

He shoved open the closet door so hard it came off the railing.

There it was.

The unmoving remains of Gordon Sr., barely held together by decaying connective tissue. Laid to rest in their family home. The man’s home. Where he had spent childhood nights cowering in his own piss, praying Gordon wouldn’t lift a finger that night. That the closet would be the worst of it.

The man muttered. “Well look at us now.”

Moving slowly, so as not to disturb his father’s body, the man picked up the closet door and coaxed it back onto its railings. He slid it shut, not quite all the way – like always – then crawled into bed. He closed his eyes and the last dregs of consciousness abandoned him.

The night lay still as death.

Until boney fingers reached out from behind the closet door. The sagging nails gripped the wood. One. By. One.

Eeech.