Anger and anxiety paraded through him. He’d heard a noise. The noise caused him to think, the fucking raccoons are back. But the sound seemed to come from the front coat closet, which harpooned that raccoon idea and punted him back to, now what the fuck? He didn’t need any more shit in his life.

With that coursing through mind and simmering in blood, he marched to the closet and yanked open the door. It wasn’t a large space. The coats and shoes crowded it. But it was an irregular shape, so he dropped down on his hands and knees to explore the left back corner.

One, it was darker than he’d expected.

Two, it was warmer.

Three, the closet was larger that he’d thought.

The door behind him closed.

“Hey,” he said. Fury amped his motion. Someone was fucking with him. He’d kick their fucking ass. Rising into a tangle of coats, he shoved them aside and grabbed the closet handle.

The door pulled him forward. 

“You son of a…,” he said, not knowing who he addressed. Ready to see some idiot friend on the other side, he wasn’t prepared for what he found.

“Where the fuck is my house?” he said. Where it was supposed to be, he saw a gray shaft and wooden ladder.

He looked up the shaft. Probably a hundred feet above, he could see a faint white patch. So what the fuck was that? What, was he supposed to climb out of here? No fucking way. Screw that noise.

Firmly decided, he stepped back in and closed the closet door. It’d changed once; it would again.

That’s where one of his idiot friends found his desiccated body days later.

It looked like he’d been there for years.


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