There are loud noises of running and stomping in the hallway outside a child’s bedroom. Up and down the stairs, their feet boom and shake through the metal frame of the house. The door is shut, but it shutters with every step. Back and forth, back and forth, back and forth, like the limbs of those outside are grasping the handle with their mangled spirits, but are unable to turn it open and enter.

A young boy hides under his green and white striped blanket and holds the home phone which shines the orange digital light on his watery eyes. His cheeks glisten, wet with tears, and shake as he trembles and waits for the phone’s ringer which sounds, for the seventh time. Then, as if it is an answer to a fearful child’s prayer, a tired sigh accepts the call.

“What’s up, buddy?”

A father. The child’s face grows redder with every second he stays trapped by terror under the covers. He knows he must answer, but is afraid to make a sound. The stomping continues.

“T?”

“Are you and mum home yet?”, the child whispers desperately.

“No…”

The child lets out an almost silent but terrified moan. The phone’s light vanishes. The child breathes, shakedly, unlike the now still door, and cries violently into his pillow, unlike the now silent house.

Dark figures are surrounding the door outside, their faces nonexistent, defined only by vague shadows that become the darkness surrounding them. They can hear you. Stop crying.

They open your door.