ENTER.

More of a command than an entreaty, it remained the only sign on the squat, brutish building that had once been part of an equally dark strip mall. Now the building stood alone, crouched just outside the faint circle of the nearest street light, plaster and crumbling brickwork clinging to the west wall. Fist-sized chunks of concrete were the only remnants of the building’s long-demolished neighbors.

Weeds choked the enormous surrounding gravel-speckled lot. The space remained undeveloped in the years since the mall’s demise.

Jungkook passed by the relentless ENTER sign every day, and every day it caught his eye. The dark, ragged letters were magnetic, quicksand for the mind. Enter, he always thought to himself. I wonder what’s in there.

Never had he seen anyone enter or leave the building, or even stop to look in the window. The few homeless people that frequented the area were never huddled up against its sides to seek reprieve from the wind or rain. Despite appearing completely abandoned, no birds roosted behind the sign, nor had he seen a single rabbit or squirrel dart across the lot toward shelter.

What lurked behind that commanding, compelling sign, no one knew. Grimy windows concealed the interior from prying eyes of passersby.

Had this place existed in that downtown lot forever, watching and waiting?

---

Jungkook was a man who knew what he wanted. An excellent memory and a no-nonsense attitude toward work got him just that. He graduated college with honors in the first major he chose, seamlessly transitioned into a managerial position at a well-reputed bank, and when he pursued his now long-time partner Taehyung, the word “failure” never crossed his mind.

Every day, Jungkook woke at 6:30 a.m. with a mental outline of his day and an extremely accurate estimate of the required effort to complete every task on time. Every morning and evening, Jungkook walked the ten blocks from their apartment to his office in an immaculate suit, not sweating a drop. Taehyung pecked him on the cheek by the door, followed by an ornery but loving smack on the behind. With his lunch bag in his left hand and polished dress shoes pointed unerringly toward his destination, Jungkook’s walk to work took 23 minutes, rain or shine.

“You’re too serious,” Taehyung would say every once and a while, a remark that never failed to send Jungkook into an unbecoming pout.

It was a Tuesday morning that Taehyung, who had the luxury of working from home, planted a particularly enthusiastic kiss on Jungkook’s waiting mouth. The slap to his rear was more of a half-promissory caress. The look he gained in return was startled, but interested. To both of their disappointment, Jungkook was not the type to be late to work on account of a salacious look. Of course, that said nothing about their activities after he arrived home later that night.

Only half-wishing he could conquer his rigid habits, Jungkook set off from the apartment, shoulders stiff with stress at the idea of arriving late. Shredded, tuft-like clouds drifted across the brightening sky, blown by some invisible mighty breath. Jungkook was cool in his suit, but would no doubt warm up by the end of his walk. South four blocks and west six, pass by the optical shop, smile at the children being corralled into day care by a stumbling wave of droopy-eyed parents, cross the street by the man huddled on the street corner, and ENTER.

ENTER.

ENTER.

Had the windows of the small, grimy building always sported yellow newspaper flaking from the glass like the parchment skin of a mummy? Dim light pressed up against the windows, the steady glow barely noticeable through the caked dirt and crowded newsprint.

The fact that he didn’t know what waited inside of the building consumed his thoughts. Why was it such a mystery? There had to be a public record of the building and its occupants. One of these days he’d do some searching after work to see if he couldn’t find something. No address was visible on any side of the building, but that shouldn’t pose too much of a problem.

Jungkook’s gaze wrenched to his feet as his shoe skidded on a loose rock. One spotless shoe was no longer on the sidewalk, but had stepped into the weeded lot in the direction of the building. Frowning, he shook himself like a startled dog and pointedly returned to the center of the sidewalk, facing due west. This was no time to go exploring. He’d have to hurry now if he was to make it to work in his customary 23 minutes.

That building bothered Jungkook the rest of the day. His mind returned to the unexplained light as he filed paperwork, sent emails, and prepared to meet with clients. A light meant electricity, which meant someone paid for utilities, which meant that the building was used and looked after. Who owned the building, and what was it for? Why was it never open? He continually fought the urge to stray from his duties and consult the internet.

These thoughts were promptly forgotten at the end of the day when Taehyung reeled him through the front door by his tie.

---

The moon rose, a round and shining polished coin. The ENTER sign crooned while the building huddled into its foundation, enshrouding itself in soot and inky-black shadow.

---

Jungkook thudded down a single flight of stairs, lips tingling from Taehyung’s peck. Dew beaded the railing and soaked into his buttoned cuff. A wet and dreary Thursday began as they do, with pregnant, slow-moving clouds of gunmetal gray and sidewalks drowning in equally gray puddles.

The young banker stepped high and long to counteract the sluggish weather and a slightly late start. The optical shop slowly fell behind him, faded from the lack of sunlight and resembling a forgotten movie set backdrop. Toddlers in rubber rain boots and shiny coats were an unexpected and refreshing burst of bright color. The man curled up outside of the brokerage firm was missing, no doubt seeking a warmer and drier resting place.

ENTER.

ENTER.

ENTER.

Weeds brushed the starched fabric of Jungkook’s slacks to usher him further. The face of the ugly building remained dry as bone, but he hardly noticed. The ENTER sign dominated his vision, a collection of gaping slashes that somehow formed a word, calling.

A transparent spot in the window flooded with light, separating itself from the surrounding grime and beckoning his eye. It hadn’t been there before, surely. Jungkook would have noticed. It would be an unbearable waste of an opportunity if he didn’t take a quick look to find the source of that impossible light. A slow jog would easily serve to get Jungkook to work on time as long as he didn’t dawdle too long.

The light was old and orange. Jungkook could almost taste its mustiness.

Just one look-

Though Jungkook’s heart had started beating nervously and his palms were slicking with sweat, he didn’t notice. His body, ingrained with primordial instinct, sensed what his mind could not and balked.

Two yards away from the front window, within the halo of ground that the rain refused to touch, Jungkook’s phone chimed.

The familiar sound coupled with the worry that Taehyung might have some emergency dragged his attention to his pocket in slow motion. There was a single message from Taehyung, as he’d thought.

You forgot your lunch, loser. I can drop it off later if you want XOXO

Jungkook blinked slowly, not quite sure when he’d gotten so close to the building. What was I looking for?

With one final lingering look at the dirty window and the orange light, he turned away. If he didn’t get back to Taehyung in a timely manner, he’d start to worry and Jungkook would be drowned in an onslaught of increasingly obnoxious texts. Jungkook did not see the clear spot on the window film over, like fungus covering a corpse. He did not see the light flash madly, only to blink out the second his shoes left the gravel lot.

He replied to Taehyung and hurried on his way, cursing himself for getting so uncharacteristically distracted. Yet the back of his mind echoed ENTER ENTER ENTER.

---

“Is everything okay?” Taehyung murmured, dropping his arms over Jungkook’s shoulders. “You’ve been weird lately. Distracted, or something.”

Jungkook would never love sharing his weaknesses, but he approached his relationship with Taehyung with the same determined straightforwardness as he did everything else. Gripping his partner’s arms, Jungkook dropped his head against the back of the couch. “I think work is stressing me out, though I can’t think of any particular reason why it should.”

Taehyung dropped a kiss on his nose.

Jungkook’s face scrunched up. “I’m starting to dread walking to the office every morning.” He sighed. “Maybe I’m entering my mid-life crisis.”

Taehyung pulled away to skirt around the couch and drop into the empty space beside him. “I doubt that. You’re only 26. Maybe you’re just antsy because it’s the end of summer. It’ll pass.”

Jungkook pulled Taehyung into his side. “I’m sure it will too,” he assured them both. “It’s probably just a seasonal thing.”

“If you don’t start feeling better, tell me, alright?” Taehyung always extracted promises and Jungkook always kept them. He intended this to be no different, but promises are funny things. One second you’re swearing to your mom that you’re definitely going to brush your teeth before bed, a fairly simple and straightforward verbal contract. Then you’re on the wrong side of your dorm room door, trying desperately to remember what you did with your key while promising your roommate it must be around there somewhere, you just had it. Next, you’re promising yourself that you’ll only glance through the spot on the window and then you’ll be on your way again.

It always seems that the promises that exist inside the mind and lack the verbal component, the human, earthy sound of a voice and word, are much easier to break. After all, there’s no one to hold you accountable but yourself.

I’ll just get going in a minute once I see what’s inside-

Gray clouds, swiftly increasing in number, masked the lazy evening sun. Shadows evaporated into the air and shrouded everything in a smoky haze, everything except for the ENTER sign and the building on which it perched. The building against which Jungkook’s lunch box rested.

He leaned forward, hand already cupped above his eyes to reduce the nonexistent glare on the window pane.

Brittle, discolored newspaper was torn away in irregular patches. Jungkook gave it only a glance, eager to see the true interior, but still felt a chill at the grainy photographs splashed across the wrinkled pages: bodies missing limbs or with far too many, amalgamations of man and beast into creatures that were impossible to birth or create. The only words clear enough to read were, “Murder! Murder! Murder!” repeated to the point of meaninglessness.

Strangely warm and inviting orange light pressed through the holes. Peering with all his might, Jungkook searched for the source or a glimpse of someone inside, but it was still and empty.

Frustrated, he pressed his ear against the glass, startled slightly at its warmth, and held his breath.

Perhaps, perhaps…there!

A fuzzy, crackling whisper filtered through the window.

Was it a voice? Or a recording of some sort, left to play on repeat, speaking to no one until the tape wore into a useless plastic ribbon?

Jungkook ground his cheek into the window and curled his fingers around the dirty brick sill. He must decipher the message. It was meant for him. After all, he was the only person who ever approached this building, who even seemed to notice it was here. Damn it! The voice was too quiet, like a conversation overheard through a door. Biting his lip, Jungkook pulled away and searched the exterior for something, some clue or sign as to what he should do next.

Ah, of course.

ENTER. He only had to ENTER.

---

“Hm, what?” Jungkook turned to Taehyung.

“What?” Taehyung parroted back in confusion.

“Didn’t you just say something?”

Puzzled, Taehyung shook his head.

“Oh. Nevermind then.”

Taehyung quirked a crooked smile and turned back to his laptop.

Jungkook couldn’t dismiss it so easily. He could’ve sworn someone very clearly said, “Why not?” Perhaps his recent lack of restful sleep was finally getting to him.

“You alright over there?”

“What?” Jungkook asked, startled.

“You’ve been staring off into space for the last five minutes. What are you thinking about?”

Jungkook sighed. It felt like 30 seconds had passed, if that. “Just how I haven’t been sleeping well. It’s annoying.”

Taehyung closed his laptop and twisted in his chair so they were facing each other. “I noticed you’ve been looking rough in the morning over the past week or two. Maybe you could try listening to something relaxing at night –it could help and it wouldn’t bother me at all.”

Jungkook shrugged. “I’m willing to give it a shot. I’ve been feeling off for a while and I’m tired of being tired.”

Visibly worried, Taehyung pursed his lips. “I’ll do some research, see if I can find some good music or relaxing podcasts. I’m sure we’ll have you sleeping like the dead in no time.”

“You’re always taking care of me.”

It was truly a miracle that he’d managed to snag someone as goofily endearing and kind as Taehyung, that his absurd feelings of devotion were returned in any measure, let alone full-heartedly. Every day, every year they remained together, Jungkook continued to be amazed by his partner’s ability to be so overwhelmingly good. It was all he could do to help Taehyung flourish.

Thoughts along those lines ran through Jungkook’s head fairly often, but he hadn’t said them aloud yet. He was saving that for the proposal.

---

“Well, here goes nothing.”

Jungkook plugged in his headphones and selected the playlist Taehyung put together. A startled chuckle escaped him at the title: “Go the to sleep.” Taehyung would be to bed in an hour or so when he reached a stopping point in his latest commission. Until then, Jungkook was curled up in the sheets on his own, hoping the first soothing swells of piano music would drag him under.

“…why not?”

Grumbling, Jungkook flipped over and kicked off the blanket. He kept his eyes tightly shut, hoping that he’d quickly fall back asleep. Whatever dark dream that’d been briefly interrupted had him squirming with discomfort.

“…enter…why not?...”

Was he dreaming already or was the podcast still running? He ripped the headphones from his ears in a weary swipe.

A door, there was a door standing in the middle of a forest clearing, completely alone. No sun or moon illuminated the space, but Jungkook could see every leaf and blade of grass in perfect relief. The odor of wet, rotting leaves invaded the lush greenery and choked his throat. No insects chirped, nor did any nocturnal animals disturb the absolute silence of the clearing. Despite Jungkook’s apparent solitude, the air was heavy with expectation. Everything focused upon the derelict door, which was barred from the inside, something he knew but couldn’t explain how he knew. The knob, dull brass, was rusted into place in the absence of human hands for countless years, but suddenly Jungkook was directly before the door, reaching, and everything around him stretched and towered over him, judging, encouraging, watching, ENTER, ENTER, ENTER.

Click.

The door was unlocked.

And endless, grating creak scraped across his nerves as the door slowly swung open.

The crackling voice returned.

“Why not?”

“Why not?”

---

The bright morning light filtering in through their gauzy bedroom curtains was a searing spotlight to Jungkook’s watering eyes. Forcing himself into a sitting position, he scrubbed his face, exhausted. Taehyung was already gone, probably struck by a bout of inspiration that couldn’t wait for normal human hours.

Jungkook didn’t remember falling asleep, but neither could he recall waking up during the night. Both his phone and the earbuds were nowhere to be seen, and the blankets were heaped on the floor. One thing was for sure: he felt like complete . Groaning, he pushed himself to his feet and stumbled toward the closet in search of his work clothes. Work waited for no man, even a tired one.

Each subsequent morning was worse than the one before, but Jungkook forced himself to be awake and out the door on time.

Limbs aching with fatigue, he lurched down the single flight of stairs, only slightly energized by Taehyung’s morning kiss. Every step was a painful slog against inertia and the burdensome weight of his own body.

Jungkook had never felt older or wearier, like his mind and limbs were suddenly anchored to the cement. He’d talked about the parts that he could vocalize with his partner, but short of going to a doctor or a shrink, there didn’t seem to be anything either of them could do.

South four blocks, pass by the optical shop, which was a pale and thin cardboard construction against a backdrop of similarly flimsy buildings. The whole street was fake and transitory, bad imitations left to rot in the elements. Jungkook couldn’t recall when everything he saw had begun to fade into sepia tones, but it only drained him further.

Turn right.

ENTER.

The light pulsed.

ENTER. “Why not?”

“Why not?”

Indeed, why not?

The building that had seemed so aggressively dirty and thuggish was now a beacon, the only thing that felt solid. The bricks were sturdy and vibrant, and the orange light shone like the sun hadn’t in weeks. Perhaps this was where he belonged all along.

He had to get inside, but where was the door?

Jungkook’s lunch bag dropped to the ground as he became lost amongst the weeds, frantic to answer the call of ENTER and “Why not?” and soak in that indispensable warmth. The windows were completely obscured with grime, making the absence of the clear spot from the other day quite obvious. His fingers scrabbled at the wooden frame, but the windows were never meant to open. Panting, Jungkook pulled, scraped, and banged on the glass in wild desperation. Sweat broke out across his forehead despite the autumn chill and his heart galloped in his chest as the windows failed to rattle, crack, or come clean. When his efforts proved useless, Jungkook fell to his knees and shoved his fingers along the cracks of the bricks, searching for a hidden door or concealed switch.

ENTER! the sign sang. The compulsion echoed through his mind and easily drowned out all other thoughts.

“I’m trying,” he wailed, “Let me in, please!”

ENTER it bellowed and Jungkook was crying now, nails torn on the rough bricks, and ah! The sensation of cool, smooth metal appeared beneath his hand. Slowly, he raised his head to see a dark wooden door. The plain, slightly uneven slats were familiar and he knew that if he turned the door knob, it would be locked.

Click.

Blinking slowly, Jungkook pushed himself to his feet, completely unaware of the pain in his raw, scraped fingers. Any second, he would wake up from this bizarre dream and be in his bedroom, curled up with Taehyung. Any second.

The door swung open.

He stepped across the threshold.

Diffused orange light hovered near the ceiling with no discernable source, while the corners of the room remained lost in a deep gloom. The same could be said for the far end of the building, which, based on the exterior dimensions, should have been within easy sight. Instead, the numerous shelves marched into hazy shadow. Said musty wooden shelves ran perpendicular to the front door, precariously stacked with all manner of objects, none Jungkook could identify from a distance.

Slowly spinning on his heel, he took in the closed door, an empty corner, shelves, and…mannequins. There was a crowd of wooden and plastic mannequins of both es, divested of all clothing and missing an assortment of limbs. They sported huge, ragged gouges across their torsos and heads. Every single one faced him in a jumbled crowd, ringed by their detached arms and legs. If he didn’t know better, Jungkook would say they had been flash frozen while lunging toward something.

He kept his distance.

A noise drew his attention toward the back of the little shop –for that’s what it had to be. It resembled a small, folksy general store or knick-knack shop, the kind that died out long before Jungkook’s time.

“Hello?”

It was a little late to call out, but surely if there were someone in here, they would have already revealed themselves.

The now familiar popping hiss wafted from the obscured end of the store, along with a high-pitched whine that made his ears ring.

“I think you left the radio on,” Jungkook called softly. The shelves loomed over him as he cautiously made his way down the middle aisle. The sound of his voice was strangely flat.

“16…30…12…0…♪♪♪…”

A fuzzy, crackling voice floated from the obscured depths, electrifying his fried nerves. After every four or five numbers, the voice was replaced by eerie, jangling chimes, followed by the rhythmic repetition of more numbers.

The orange light held steady. Jungkook found himself examining the contents of the closest shelves. A collection of crusty jars filled with murky liquid were stacked at eye level. Something dark and lumpy floated in the center of each jar, preserved or pickled, but it was impossible to determine the exact contents. The gray-green crust decorating each lid was more than enough to discourage him from picking one up to find out.

One of the lumps twitched, sending liquid sloshing against the side of jar.

Jungkook spasmed in disgust and quickly turned away, a burst of adrenaline shooting through his veins. It had to be his imagination. It would be impossible for something living to survive in a sealed jar.
The adjacent shelf was piled with small, pale porcelain dolls, amongst which there was not a single eyeball to be found. The bottom of each doll’s face was completely crushed, leaving sightless eyes over gaping, missing chins, and their legs had been dipped in sticky, tar-like sludge up to the knees.

“…37…6…18…♪♪♪…11…”

The voice no longer asked, “Why not?” or called for Jungkook to enter.

Hurrying along, his eye caught on a stack, several inches thick, of school children’s alphabet sticker sets. They were remarkable only in their normalcy. Jungkook felt safe touching them. He fanned the stack out across the shelf. Each set of stickers was exactly the same and though at first glance, it looked like there was one sticker per letter, it quickly became clear that was not the case.

Jungkook slowly stepped back until he bumped into the shelf behind him and flinched away.

J U N G K O O K.

His name repeated over and over again in primary-colored block letters, sheet after sheet after sheet.

Squeezing his eyes shut, Jungkook hurried down the aisle, refusing to look at any of the shelves. Things were strange here, filling his mind with images of doors, shadowed faces, and reaching hands. Did the real world still exist outside these brick walls? Or had the building become the world, a cage from which Jungkook would never emerge?

His eyes snapped open when he tripped and almost fell. He managed to catch himself on a shelf, but immediately yanked his hand away and stumbled to a knee.

“Oh my God!”

Crimson slime oozed from his left hand, resembling jellied blood. He desperately wiped said hand on the dusty tiled floor and his slacks when that proved ineffective. Panting, Jungkook got to his feet. Don’t look at the shelf. You’ll only regret it.

He looked at the shelf.

The same disturbing slime oozed across an entire shelf, crawling over the edges and to the floor here and there. In the middle of the gelatinous puddle perched a tented piece of paper bearing the label “$10” in neat handwriting. Jungkook would have laughed at the incongruous sight, but he was too close to puking from the sensation of warm slime between his fingers.

“…15…27…8…”

Cringing, Jungkook slunk away toward the voice. Shadows veiled this end of the building, choking the orange light. A shape emerged from the darkness. It was a chestnut counter crafted by careful, loving hands in some year far gone by. Instead of ledgers, goods, and sheaves of packing paper, the old counter only dealt in dust and cobwebs, which sprawled across the smooth surface like delicate lace. The radio sat in the very center.

It was made of a similar wood, with worn black dials and a dependable base. Engrossed by the sight, Jungkook didn’t immediately notice that the voice stopped speaking. Static reigned, buzzing unevenly until it filled his mind with aural snow.

The feeling came over him all of a sudden. This strange radio, he thought, It’s been here forever. This was no theory, but a certainty.

Jungkook’s tongue darted out to wet his lips. Not one to be nervous, he reached for the tuner, curious to see if he could find a station.

The voice spoke.

His hand stopped a hair’s breadth away from the dial, startled into motionlessness.

“…Paul…Jay…Maria…”

Names, obviously, but of whom he had no idea. What did the voice want, and did it know he was here? Taking a deep breath to fortify himself, Jungkook twisted the dial. The light illuminating the tuner flickered, but the voice did not, repeating the string of names twice before pausing to let the menacing chime play.

Intrigued, he searched for a power switch. Would the staticky voice speak even with no power? A brief search returned nothing of the kind, only dusty fingers and an unsettling sensation roiling in his stomach. Even if there was no switch, it must have a power cord. The radio looked much too old to take batteries.

“There you are.”

A thin, brown cord jutted from the back, trailing behind the counter in a stiff arc. Jungkook planted one hand on the counter and leaned to get a better angle. Every hair on the back of his neck stood up. He froze, suddenly and painfully tense while the radio droned on.

“…Paul…Jay…Maria…”

He spun around and choked on his own startled gasp.

Mannequins.

They trailed away into the gloom of the main aisle, heads cocked, remaining arms and legs frozen in mid-motion. The closest was a mere ten feet away, missing its left arm and a fist-sized chunk from its abdomen.

Jungkook clutched the edge of the counter, eyes wide.

Every childhood nightmare, every horrifying daydream was alive before him and there was no chance he would wake up.

“Lenay…Marc-Andre….Keiko….” the radio murmured in its child voice. “John…Natalia…Christine…”

Jungkook trembled and tried not to blink. If he didn’t blink, they couldn’t move. If he didn’t blink, they couldn’t get him.

His hands convulsed around the wood. His eyes watered.

Tucked away in Jungkook’s front pocket, his cell phone moaned, attempting to cough out its special ring tone for Taehyung. The vibration was anemic, sputtering out while the drunken ringing persisted.

Without blinking or moving his eyes from the mannequins, Jungkook slid the phone free of his pocket with the tips of his fingers and blindly swiped to the answer the call. The mannequins remained motionless, frozen by his gaze.

“Yes, this is Jungkook.”

“Is everything okay? Where are you?” Taehyung asked worriedly. “You’re late for work and they called me.”

Work. So the world still existed outside these brick walls, away from these nightmare shelves, in spite of these abominable creatures.

“I’m okay,” he responded mechanically. Sweat trickled down the back of his neck. “I felt nauseous on my way to work, so I stopped in the optical shop to sit down. I forgot to call. I’ll be in shortly. Thank you for worrying about me.” It was strange how easily the lie came to his lips.

“Of course I do, you dork. If you aren’t feeling well enough to make it to work, I can come pick you up, it’s no problem,” Taehyung said. His voice echoed strangely in Jungkook’s ear.

“No, I’m feeling better now.”

Something among the mannequins creaked. Jungkook flinched so badly he almost dropped his phone.

“Thanks for calling. Love you, Taehyung.”

“You too! Look after yourself, lover boy. See you after work!”

The call ended. The room was silent except for the crackling blank static of the radio.

Clenching the phone in his hand, in a burst of motion Jungkook dashed to the side and down the nearest aisle. Hands grasped at his shirt, the cool fingers pulling away as he refused to slow down. The overhead light dimmed. Stomping footsteps followed closely behind and Jungkook understood how rabbits’ hearts could burst from fear.

The end of the aisle was upon him, the sight of newspaper-plastered windows a relief. His shiny dress shoes slid through a warm, wet patch on the hardwood floor, sending him skidding into the window. He caught himself with his hands and desperately pushed away. A heavy body crashed into the same spot a second later.

The door. Where is the door?

Windows lined the front of the building, uninterrupted. The darkness was almost complete.

Jungkook sprinted, thighs burning. The store shouldn’t have been this long, but the windows and shelves continued. Breathing was difficult, the combination of panic and exhaustion choking him. A sob heaved through his chest. Just when he was about to fall to the floor, dim brass glinted in the fading light, a beacon. He swore the doorknob wasn’t there before, but Jungkook lunged at it like one does a rope thrown from a ship. The rusty metal scraped his hands and did not turn. He almost screamed.

The light went out.

Jungkook burst through the door.

He landed on hands and knees in the gravel parking lot, panting and drenched in sweat. The morning light seared his eyes. His mind was silent.

--

Taehyung paused in his mission to stack everything on the table into a towering pile for easy removal. “Did you need this, or can I recycle it?” he called toward the living room where Jungkook was folding laundry.

“Hm?” Jungkook answered distractedly. A hanger occupied his mouth so he could straighten and hang his dress pants.

“This list. It has, uh, jars, dolls, stickers, candles, a monkey’s paw, tea cups, and pencil shavings on it, plus a bunch of random numbers. Is this from work?” Taehyung flipped it over, but the back was blank.

Frowning, Jungkook laid his slacks across the back of the couch and joined Taehyung by the dining room table. “It doesn’t sound familiar. Are you sure it’s mine?”

“I know what your handwriting looks like, honeybunch. You wrote it.” Taehyung handed him the list and turned back to his pile and dust rag.

The list was exactly as described in what was definitely Jungkook’s handwriting. He also had no recollection of writing it. Some of the numbers were vaguely familiar, but he worked with numbers all day, so that wasn’t unusual. The objects, however, were completely random and nonsensical. He could have believed it was some sort of purchase list initially, but pencil shavings? A monkey’s paw? Maybe he wrote it while half-asleep. Maybe he really was having a mid-life crisis, but one that included completely losing his mind.

Disgruntled, Jungkook crumpled it up and tossed it into the trash. Maybe he could harness this power to write things unconsciously for work reports.

“So?”

Taehyung’s precarious pile was pinned between his arms and chin as he moved it to God-knows-where.

“No idea,” Jungkook shrugged.

“You’re getting weirder every day,” Taehyung felt the need to point out.

Jungkook stuck his tongue out. “Takes one to know one.”

---

Pencil shavings spilled over the edge of shelf, strings of wooden curls piled high. Jungkook brushed his fingers through them, unconcerned about the graphite coloring his fingers and the shavings dropping onto his shoes. “Pencil shavings,” he murmured. The feel of the wood against his skin was oddly soothing.

He drifted to the next shelf where small, square books were piled high, covered in a thick layer of dust. Each looked exactly the same: thick, with dark leather covers embellished in flaking, flowering gold. He the cover of the top book and flipped it open with dusty fingertips.

To his mild surprise, the books were actually photo albums. Every page displayed a polaroid photo of people smiling, arms thrown over the shoulder of a friend or family member: men, women, and children, laughing and washed out from overexposure. The fashion of their clothing ranged from classy ‘40s styles, to the draping yellows and greens of the ‘70s, to contemporary skinny jeans and floral prints. Most remarkably, no one had eyes. The top halves of their faces were smooth, just dips and curves of flesh, unmarked and unbroken, melting into noses and too-large mouths frozen in eternal grins.

“Lenay…Marc-Andre….Keiko….” the radio droned. Discordant notes jangled from a strangled piano, staticky through the speakers.

“Photographs,” he whispered.

Jungkook moved down the aisle.

Two photo albums slid from the shelf and clattered to the floor in his wake, thrown open to random pages. One of the pictures was black around the edges and sepia-toned. An eyeless woman with light hair leaned against an old-style wooden counter, smiling and waving at the camera in a fitted skirt and blazer, hat pinned to her head. The photo on the opposite page was faded and spotty, but the same woman was visible, crumpled on the floor with hair fanned across her face and a hand reaching up the counter, toward a stately old radio. A dark splotch crept from beneath her prone body, black and matte despite the glossy photo paper.

He stopped in front of another set of shelves. They were empty except for a shelf at waist-height. It was wet. No. A pool of water, calm and black, was even with the top of the shelf. How strange.

Jungkook crouched to see how deep the container of water was, but there was no container. The shelf was a stained wooden board, just like every other shelf, and the side was about an inch thick. There was no container sitting on the shelf or hanging below it. Somehow, the water was contained on or in the single board, stopping at the edge instead of spilling over.

A thumbtack jutted out of the side of the shelf with a price tag hanging from it. Jungkook turned the small paper over. The price, printed in neat handwriting, was $00.00.

Intrigued, he slowly raised a hand, hesitating right over the water. His brain, used to straightforward numbers and a world that behaved according to his expectations, told him the pool couldn’t be that deep.

Jungkook plunged his hand into the water. It wasn’t water at all, instead unexpectedly warm and thick. Instead of hitting the bottom of the shelf or going straight through, his arm went into the liquid up to the elbow, completely out of sight.

Ice-cold fingers grabbed his wrist and yanked down. Jungkook screamed as he fell into the liquid up to his shoulder. The disconnect between feeling his arm in the pool and seeing nothing below the shelf befuddled his mind, but he braced a foot and his other hand against the shelf and heaved backward. The grip tightened, as cold and merciless as an iron shackle.

He bellowed and pulled with all his strength, unable to feel relief as his arm slowly rose from the thick substance, streaked in black, ink-like stains. Elbow, forearm, and finally his wrist was visible. A bone-white hand was clamped around it, tangled with stringy black hair that disappeared beneath the surface.

Jungkook slammed his wrist into the side of the shelf, digging the sharp edge into the grasping fingers.

Slam.

Slam.

The flesh split under the assault, revealing white tendon and bone.

After one last smash, the lacerated fingers released their grip and retreated into the pool. Jungkook’s wrist was striped in red and black. He lurched back, cradling his arm to his chest.

The pain and panic burned through something in his mind. Clarity returned in a rush, like cool night air sweeping away a bank of fog. He didn’t remember coming here. There was no recollection of twisting the doorknob and stepping through the portal into this musty hell. In the dim, filtered light, the shelves went on for miles. The voice crawling through the radio came into focus, rising above the pounding of blood in his ears.

Jungkook kept his eyes on the floor as he loped down the aisle toward the front of the building. The door sat unassuming and complacent between two banks of obscured windows.

“…Jungkook,” the radio called.

The mannequins stood in their frozen hoard, remaining limbs entangled. They watched him pass.

He disappeared through the door.

--

Sighing, Jungkook closed the door of his home office and dumped his briefcase on the desk. This was one of the none too rare days he’d need to work from home to be ready for tomorrow’s meeting. Taehyung was in the kitchen, swinging his hips to an obnoxiously catchy pop beat while he whipped something up for dinner.

Jungkook dropped into his chair and spun around a few times just for the hell of it. Taehyung wasn’t here to make fun of him. Catching himself with his foot, he gathered the papers currently strewn across the desk, glancing through them to see what should be kept and what could be recycled. Bill, bill, to-do list from a few months ago with nothing checked off (Taehyung’s, of course), bill, receipts for Taehyung’s overenthusiastic Amazon order, another list-

Frowning, Jungkook pulled the page free. The top few lines were filled with strings of numbers that, a quick glance told him, followed no particular pattern. Below that was a list of random words, followed by unfamiliar names. It couldn’t be a client list even though it was written in his handwriting.

It chilled him, particularly as the memory of the previous note resurfaced, the one Taehyung found while cleaning a few weeks ago. Jaw clenched, Jungkook folded the strange list into quarters, ripped it apart, and buried it in the bottom of the recycling bin.

Determinedly settling in his chair, he popped the briefcase open and pulled out his laptop and an array of manila folders. It was time to get some work done and quit worrying about ridiculous things. So what if he had no recollection of writing that list? It was probably a doodle from when he was talking on the phone, a way to keep his hands busy.

Scooting his laptop to the side, he flipped open the folder and pulled out the top packet. They were slides from his boss’s power point presentation scrawled with Jungkook’s notes. Paging through, his hands froze on page eight. Comments on the presentation morphed into names and numbers, devolving into “$00.00” repeated over and over again across the remaining pages.

He flipped the packet over. Strange sketches dominated the back: faces with cutting eyes and gaping mouths. He’d never been much of an artist apart from work-related graphs and charts, but these rough portraits were striking. Lifelike yet menacing, they watched him from the page.

He threw the packet into the recycling bin, pulse hammering. The folders were shoved back into the briefcase and the whole thing was slung into the closet.

Antsy all of a sudden, Jungkook escaped down the hallway toward the kitchen. Taehyung’s music thumped from the Bluetooth speaker on the top of the fridge, accompanied by his impressively clear and on-pitch voice.

Jungkook swooped up behind him and pulled his partner into a hug as he stirred a pot of pasta.

“Oh, hey. You finish work?”

“No, I’m taking a break,” Jungkook murmured into his neck. He rested his forehead on Taehyung’s shoulder.

“More like you couldn’t resist this,” Taehyung chuckled. A wag of his head indicated that “this” was his hot body.

“You know me too well.” Sighing, Jungkook gave Taehyung a squeeze. Talking to him always made him feel better, no matter how bad the day.

“Hey, move for a sec.” Taehyung bumped Jungkook’s head with his shoulder and moved out of his arms. His target was apparently the cutting board, where a peeled onion was waiting. “Add onions to the grocery list, would you?” He threw a wink back at Jungkook.

“Yeah, sure.” Jungkook grabbed the list from the side of the fridge and immediately dropped it. Snatching it from the floor, he retreated to the table to conceal his dread. The list was covered in familiar scribbles: names and numbers that meant nothing to him but another piece in a growing puzzle of encroaching insanity.

Something was very wrong.

He had no idea what.

“Jungkook? Are you even listening?”

He shook himself from his stupor, but didn’t turn to face Taehyung. “Yeah…sorry.” The words were disjointed and awkward, like someone else controlled his mouth. He could barely understand what they meant.

“Dinner will be ready in about 20 minutes. I’ll holler when it’s ready. You can get some work done if you feel up to it.”

Taehyung was always looking after him, supportive and positive despite the weight of his freelance work and the extra stress of doing more than his fair share of chores.

Jungkook drifted down the hall to their bedroom and collapsed face-first onto the cool sheets. He didn’t see Taehyung turn to watch him go.

He thought, as he drifted off to sleep, that a voice, very softly, pleaded, “Come back.”

--

The morning was blisteringly bright and already hot enough to make Jungkook sweat into the collar of his starched shirt. The light reflecting from the optical shop’s sign blinded him. The children were screeching and chasing each other through the grass in front of the daycare center. The briefcase’s leather handle suffocated the skin of his fingers, making them sweat.

Squinting in the bright light was dangerous. It was too easy to close his eyes completely, lean against the nearest wall, and sleep. While the weather improved, his ability to get a good night’s rest hadn’t.

Taehyung’s send off this morning lingered. He ran a gentle hand over Jungkook’s cheek and down across his neck. For weeks he’d been careful around Jungkook, pulling him out of uncharacteristic lapses in attention and telling him awful jokes to put him to sleep after hours of tossing and turning. Each day his lunch bag bulged with extra clementines and cookies, one of the many ways Taehyung tried to cheer him up. He’d also become extra vigilant with the chores, taking out the recycling and trash almost obsessively and keeping every horizontal surface free of clutter.

Jungkook groaned. The cool brick on his back was heavenly and the sign was at the perfect angle to block the sun. However, the clock was ticking. He’d been struggling to keep up at work recently and being late could be the final straw toward disciplinary action, a sign of failure he couldn’t bear.

He went to push off from the brick, but was startled by the feeling of a doorknob under his palm. His neck wrenched as his head shot up to see the sign, the ENTER above his head, blocking the sun and casting shadows across his face and chest.

“No…” he breathed. Everything became clear in one earth-shaking moment.

This place.

It was this building, the sign, the damning light drawing him in like a brainless moth to flame.

The radio.

Even as Jungkook’s mind raced with the revelation, his hand twisted the doorknob and pushed. The door silently swung open. The sunlight refused to spill inside, beaten back by the insidious orange light.

He blinked.

The inside of the building was cool and dim. The closed door cut off the outside heat. As his eyes roamed the shelves, what had been sprawling clutter was now neatly stacked. The floor was clear of strangely moist odds and ends and discolored puddles. The pack of mannequins sported an assortment of limbs attached haphazardly, protruding from stomachs and backs. Even the air was clearer, no longer choked by swirling motes of dust.

The radio sang, plinking notes on the piano and lovingly chanting an endless serenade of names and numbers. The static was as faint as it’d ever been, letting the high, childish voice through unimpeded.

Jungkook strode forward down the center aisle.

Disturbing shapes twitched in their jars, drifting up against the glass walls as he walked by.

Dolls, eyeless, faces crushed, and blackened, sat up on their shelf. Identical heads twisted on identical necks. Hands of fused porcelain fingers pushed at each other as they crawled.

Ripples danced across the surface of a small, black pool, racing away from the tips of cold, white fingers.

Mannequins scuttled, spider-like.

“Jungkook,” the radio called. “Jungkook…”

The counter stood tall and proud like a throne. The wood shone from a recent polish that highlighted the intricately carved flourishes and ruler-straight lines. The radio perched in the center, a king, as the number display glowed faintly with an internal light.

He stopped a foot in front of the counter, unsure. The invisible aura of things alive bore down on his back, making retreat impossible. His heart should’ve been racing, pounding with the knowledge that the mannequins were right behind him, but an eerie calm smothered the reaction.

The voice in the radio sighed. “Jungkook…Jungkook…”

Thick, black fluid seeped from the radio’s speakers, oddly matte. It crept across the smooth surface of the counter and over, dribbling down the side to pool on the floor in heavy, splattering drops.

Jungkook took the final step forward, into the puddle, and leaned toward the counter. A thick ledger lay open by the radio. The paper was stiff and yellowed with age. Names in delicate, precise cursive filled the pages in lightly inked rows.

“Paul Hernan, Natalia Petrov…” Jungkook read as his eyes skimmed the list. The names were familiar somehow.

An old-fashioned fountain pen rolled silently across the countertop and bumped into the ledger.

The mannequins towered over him in a trembling mass, watching and waiting with their faceless heads cocked to the side and mismatched arms ready to be brought down for the final time.

A porcelain doll tumbled to the floor. Its legs shattered on impact. Shards of porcelain skittered beneath the shelves. The doll dragged its body forward with featureless ceramic mitts.

“Oh.”

All he had to do to end this was sign the ledger.

Imitating the cursive would be impossible, but surely his name would fit in with the rest. Jeon Jungkook.

A clock was ticking. He could hear it.

Tick, tick, tick.

The mannequins heaved. The radio dripped.

Tock, tock, tock.

Bang, bang, bang.

Something splintered.

“JEON JUNGKOOK, what the are you doing?”

Taehyung’s voice was jarring and out of place, blasphemy in the space that was only meant for Jungkook and the radio.

As one, the mannequins turned to the sound of pounding feet.

Face blotchy and red, Taehyung burst from the aisle, Jungkook’s lunch bag clutched in one hand. His eyes widened at the tableau: the disfigured mannequins, Jungkook in the center of an eerie black puddle, and the faintly glowing, faintly pulsing radio crying inky tears.

Jungkook dropped the pen like it burned him.

“Get out!” the radio moaned. “Get out…get out…”

Taehyung lobbed the lunch bag at the nearest mannequin, which didn’t bother to move. “Jungkook!” he cried. That voice was sunlight and home, love and contentment in a way this place could never equal. Any hold that thin, childish voice had on him was gone, burned away by an infallible bond that he had no desire to resist.

Jungkook tried to run to him, but the black puddle refused to release him. He toppled forward onto his knees and hands, straight into the sticky black pool. It oozed up between his fingers and soaked into his slacks. “Taehyung!” he cried, but the mannequins were already on his partner.

Taehyung’s feet automatically skipped backward in terror as the monstrous mannequins stormed toward him in a swarm of unnatural limbs and smooth, menacing faces. Calling upon athleticism that hadn’t been required in years, he spun around and sprinted down the middle aisle, both relieved and terrified as the mannequins gave chase. They weren’t looming over Jungkook, but they were swift on their many feet and he couldn’t imagine what would happen if they caught him.

He blindly swiped at the shelves as he zoomed by, hoping anything would slow his pursuers down. Their silence kept his ears straining for the sound of their feet and the muted thuds as they bumped into each other in the narrow space.

Shards crunched beneath his shoes and his foot slid out from under him. Taehyung caught himself on a shelf, cringing at the wet warmth. He pushed up and away, completely unaware of eyes peering from the black depths and the white hand that shot toward his own, narrowly missing.

The aisle came to an end all too quickly. Taehyung cut to the left in a tight turn that brought him into the next aisle. Bracing his shoulder and side against the shelf, he shoved with all his might. The wood groaned its resistance, but the shelf wobbled, lifted, and in a second where the only sound was the mannequins thumping on the other side, the whole thing toppled over. Glass shattered, splattering Taehyung’s jeans with mysterious liquids, and his pursuers screeched without mouths as they were caught in the shelf and each other, pinned to the floor, some crushed by the weight.

Panting, Taehyung dashed toward the back counter and the trapped Jungkook. He’d been worried for weeks as his partner grew more haggard and forgetful, thin around the edges, and prone to strange moods. Problems at work, he’d thought. Nightmares ruining his sleep, friction with his coworkers, or finally he found himself questioning the life they’d made together. Was Jungkook unhappy with him, with their apartment, their relationship?

It was and wasn’t a relief to know this unnatural, insane building was the root of the problem. All they had to do was make it out alive, together, and he’d get Jungkook back. Jungkook would have his life back.

“Jungkook!”

Taehyung shot from the aisle like a bullet and skidded to a sloppy stop.

Jungkook was still on hands and knees in the goop, so black it more resembled a hole rather than a puddle. Not only had he not managed to escape, but disfigured porcelain dolls were frantically pawing toward him. Fountain pens lay scattered across the floor, piled up around Jungkook legs. The ledger bumped up against his left hand insistently.

Gritting his teeth, Taehyung charged forward and swept the dolls away with a wild kick. Planting one foot on the meticulous pages of the ledger, he hauled at Jungkook’s arm. “Get up!” Footsteps were headed back in their direction, meaning the mannequins hadn’t been stopped for good.

“I’m stuck,” Jungkook cried, tugging fruitlessly.

“No, you’re not!” Taehyung yelled back. He would get his partner up through sheer force of will if he had to.

The monotone voice from the radio was shaken, speaking faster and faster. Only now did Taehyung hear it.

“Why not?” it keened. “Jungkook…why not…Jungkook.” The chimes jangled maniacally.

The pens trembled. Ichor spewed from the speakers, drenching the front of the counter and swamping Jungkook’s hands.

Taehyung wrapped his arms around Jungkook’s chest and yanked, but his hands wouldn’t pull free of the puddle. “Don’t you dare sign that,” he ordered, gesturing at the ledger with his chin. The dirty boot print across the pages was slowly melting away, leaving the pages unblemished.

“Mannequins!” Jungkook called in warning.

“.”

They boiled from the ends of the aisles, movements stiff and angry. Some were sans limbs while others sported crumpled chests and dented heads. There were still too many. The mob bore down.

Taehyung turned and vaulted over the counter. It killed him to leave Jungkook undefended, but the ing radio had to go.

The space behind the counter was strangely dark. The sound of his feet hitting the wood floor echoed hollowly for too long, the sound growing and deepening into booms as it reverberated off through an intangibly vast space. He whipped around to check on Jungkook and to his shock, both his partner and the advancing mannequins were stock-still, frozen in place like some higher power hit pause. The radio still chanted, the voice now clear as a bell.

“Taehyung…Taehyung…”

He exhaled harshly and wrenched the stiff brown cord protruding from the back of the radio with both hands. The plastic bit into the flesh of his palms, but the cord stayed in place. More pulling proved fruitless.

“God damn it!”

What else could he do? There wasn’t anything sharp on him or within reach.

Taehyung lunged forward, sprawling across the countertop, completely disregarding the disgusting puddle spattered across the wood. If he changed the radio station, maybe the voice would lose its power.

Gripping the knob sent the pain of a thousand tiny cuts rippling up Taehyung’ arm. He yelped, but held on and twisted the knob back as far as it would go. The needle zipped left, stopping at 88 MHz. The voice was replaced by a high-pitched electric shriek. Taehyung reflexively jerked away and clapped his hands over his ears.

The mannequins changed. Instead of relentless nightmare creations, they were ghostly images of men and women, frozen, arms reaching for Jungkook.

He slapped a hand at the radio, desperate to end the shrill squeal boring into his skull. The dial twisted though he was unable to see where the needle landed.

The voice croaked to life, lower this time, but just as insistent.

The hazy images faded, dissolving back into the disfigured mannequins.

And suddenly Taehyung knew.

He scrambled around the counter. Jungkook and his attackers gradually sped up as Taehyung re-entered their space.

He slid in front of Jungkook and pointed at the nearest mannequin. It was simple to recall the man who’d stood there merely seconds ago. He was tall and slender with black hair and an old-style military uniform. The patch on his chest read Hernan.

Taehyung leveled a finger at its featureless face and said, “Paul.”

The translucent image of the military man overlaid the mannequin for a brief second before disappearing for the final time. Thin cracks spiderwebbed across the mannequin’s chest and face. Grayish green mold erupted from the crevices, crawling over the rigid surface and leaving crumbling, rotted plastic behind. As the outside fell away in uneven chunks, the creature’s interior was revealed; instead of sporting a wire frame or steel rod spine, the mannequin’s shell contained bones. In a matter of seconds, Paul Hernan was no more, his passing marked by a moldering heap on the hardwood floor.

The other mannequins did not react with shock or concern that one of their own was destroyed.

A mannequin missing both arms, but with a single hand protruding from the center of its chest, was his next target. It was actually “Maria,” a teenager in sweat pants and a messy ponytail. She smiled sardonically as her mannequin crumbled.

The wave of plastic bodies crashed down on Taehyung and Jungkook.

Taehyung was sent sprawling over his Jungkook and into the counter. The back of his head slammed into the wood causing him to bite his tongue. Brutal hands ripped at him, pulling his arms away from his body and trying to get at his neck. Jungkook was no better off. Mannequins piled on top of him, shoving his face toward the black puddle.

“Keiko!” Taehyung slurred through the pain.

Something heavy dropped to the ground out of his line of sight.

God, what were the other names Jungkook obsessively scribbled and left lying around the house? Taehyung took special care to empty the recycling bins and tidy the house to ensure he found all of Jungkook’s odd notes. His memory couldn’t fail him now, not in the most important moment of their lives.

“Christine,” Jungkook croaked. The clever bastard caught on even in an impossible situation like this. The figure of a woman, blazer fitted and hat pinned securely to her tightly curled hair, burst into view and faded.

The weight on Taehyung’s left hand fell away. Growling, he kicked viciously and managed to wrench out of another pair of hands.

M, there was another name that started with M.

Plastic hands slithered up to his neck and crushed in.

Taehyung balked, thrashing and scrabbling at them with his free hand, but they were too strong. Panic hit him hard, stealing whatever breath he had left. Squinting up as his vision went black around the edges, an image flickered. The middle-aged man with tattoos splashed across his neck and forearms looked down at him dispassionately.

“M…Marc…” Taehyung rasped. The mannequin squeezed.

“…-Andre…”

The name was a pathetic squeak, but it was enough. Wide crevices burst across the creature’s body as it quickly disintegrated into wet earth and chunks of bone that rained down on Taehyung’s face and chest. He immediately gasped as the hands fell apart, but choked on dirt and was thrown into a coughing fit.

He struggled to his feet, shoving away from a mannequin with no arms that was having trouble holding him down. His throat felt like he’d swallowed crushed glass.

No.

Jungkook.

The horde of mannequins won.

A few feet away, Jungkook lay face-down in the black pool. Hands covered the back of his head, pushing relentlessly. He no longer fought back. His body was still, limp.

“Yes,” the radio sighed. The needle crept to the right as the knob turned sans touch. The speakers leaked.

Something flashed behind Taehyung’s eyes and before he knew what was happening, his hands scrabbled at the radio, ripping at the sticky speakers. Agonized, he snatched one of the scattered fountain pens and stabbed through the speaker cover, ripping a hole wide enough for his fingers to jut inside. The interior was warm and wet.

Taehyung braced a knee against the counter and pulled, levering with all his body weight. His fingers slipped and he stumbled.

Jungkook.

He refused to look down.

The pen punctured the left speaker. Taehyung dropped it and shoved both hands inside. He pulled. The wood slowly cracked.

The voice screamed at him, but the frenzied buzzing of panic and terror in his brain nearly blocked out the sound.

The face of the radio broke away with an ugly screech. Ichor spewed from the wooden body, drenching Taehyung’s arms and chest. He plunged his hands inside again, gagging at the sensation. This was what insides felt like, human insides. He was reaching into a wound.

Taehyung leaned in further and further until he was in the radio up to his shoulders even though the damn thing wasn’t more than six inches deep when seen from the outside. The voice gurgled angrily, completely unintelligible.

The seconds crawled by. Jungkook was dying or dead and the mannequins would be on him any second.

A hand, hard and unforgiving, clamped onto his shoulder.

No!

Taehyung was wrenched around, but as his arms were pulled from the radio, his fingers snagged on something slick and spongy. He dug his nails in and held on, dragging it with him.

The mannequin’s face and body were smooth and unblemished and its limbs were intact. Raised seams indicated where the chest and head had been stamped out and joined together. It was fresh off the assembly line, almost glowing amongst its dirty and deranged brethren. Its hand slowly released his shoulder crept toward his neck.

This creature terrified Taehyung more than anything else he’d seen in this nightmare place.

It only took a second to realize why.

Jungkook’s body was gone.

Taehyung’s world came to a standstill. It couldn’t be.

But it was.

The mannequin lifted him to his toes by his t-shirt and threw him down the main aisle. Taehyung landed painfully and slid, the wind knocked out of him. Small dolls with holes for eyes turned to him, tip-tapping and scraping across the floor with their tiny malformed hands.

“Jay!” he yelled.

A mannequin collapsed in a rush of dirt and scampering black spiders.

The rest gave chase.

Taehyung struggled to his feet, realizing his right hand was still clenched around whatever he pulled from the radio. The low light made it difficult to tell what it was, but there were few things Taehyung didn’t know and even fewer he forgot. The warm, pulsing thing leaking all over his hand was a human heart, stained completely black and small enough to fit snugly in his palm.

He swallowed convulsively to avoid throwing up and ran. His feet pounded down the aisle, which stretched on for far longer than it had before. Taehyung’s head throbbed, his tongue still sparked with pain every time he took a jarring step, and his whole body ached with bruises.

“Natalia!” A muted crash and the sound of breaking glass echoed behind him.

Taehyung scanned the shelves as he flew by. The heart had to be destroyed, but the items crammed into every conceivable nook and cranny were strange and useless: a pile of dead fish with dull fuchsia scales, scattered ash, braids of human hair, thimbles balanced upside-down and full of clear liquid, a clock with so many minute and hour hands the face was completely obscured, and a forest of chopsticks bristling from a flowerpot of dirt like the quills of a porcupine.

Wait.

A wild grab yielded a handful of decorated, wooden chopsticks and sent the flowerpot smashing to the ground.

Without ceremony, Taehyung stabbed the chopsticks into the heart over and over again. The muscle bled black, hemorrhaging through the holes. The heartbeat slowed.

The remaining mannequins tackled Taehyung the floor.

The heart, skewered with chopsticks, bounced down the aisle and underneath a shelf.

“John!” Taehyung yelped, wracking his mind for the final names on the list. An elderly man flickered into view. His kindly face was sad beneath his wide-brimmed hat until he too disappeared, taking his mannequin with him.

A bass sound pounded through the building.

Thump…thump… …thump… … … thump…

Taehyung was forcibly flipped over and dragged beneath the heavy plastic bodies. The mannequins twitched at every beat as their fingers dug into the soft spaces of his neck.

Thump.

He couldn’t breathe.

Something was screaming.

Thump.

A zing of electricity zipped up Taehyung’s spine. And then everything went quiet.

The orange light dimmed. The mannequins paused. All Taehyung could hear was his ragged breathing.

The heart was dead.

Craning his neck, he followed the black trail to where the organ disappeared. Light flickered beneath the shelf, strangely bright and clean. In a matter of seconds, the legs of the shelf caught fire, the flames eagerly shooting up the sides and across to devour its contents.

Amidst the shifting firelight, a small figure slowly solidified in the air.

The flames leapt to an adjacent shelf, crackling gleefully. The figure blinked out of existence.

“Lenay!”

The other mannequin disintegrated. One remained.

Taehyung desperately searched its smooth face for a hint of Jungkook. There was nothing, no sign of the man he knew so well in the featureless plastic. But he wasn’t giving up yet.

“Jungkook.”

This last word would bring everything to an end, one way or another.

Grey smoke danced across the ceiling as more and more shelves caught fire. Glass popped in the extreme heat, while unnamed wet things sizzled.

Hairline cracks spiderwebbed across the mannequin’s face and chest. It watched, confused, as the plastic of its arms rotted away. The brittle plastic outer shell sloughed off in chunks. Dirt trickled from the gaps and told Taehyung he was too late.

Jungkook was nothing but dirt and bone, dead and moldering.

The dirt slowed to a trickle.

Strangely, the mannequin began to tear at its arms and face, stripping its skin away in sharp, frenzied movements. Instead of disintegrating into nothing, what waited beneath was healthy, smooth flesh.

In a matter of minutes, Jungkook stood before him, shocked and dirty, but whole.

Taehyung wept.