Hauntings of a Dead Man

I’m afraid to close my eyes. I haven’t been able to get a decent night’s sleep in two days.

My eyes want nothing more than to close. I have to wink to keep them from drying out.

Under no circumstance must I be allowed to completely close my eyes.

My room is the only safe place.

The voices aren’t real.

▓

“Thevoicesarentrealthevoicesarentrealthevoicesarentrealthevoicesarentrealthevoices—”

Unintelligible murmurs and whispers followed by three booming knocks emanate through my now illuminated door. Someone must’ve turned on the hallway light.

The thing is, that shouldn’t be possible.

Why?

Because I live alone.

The voices gradually get louder. And I, being as sleep-deprived as I am, grow more irritable by the second. It didn’t take long for my patience to run out.

I open my door in a fit of tiresome rage.

𓉙

Nothing.

As I bear witness to the empty hallway before me, I suddenly feel the strangest sensation. It was that of a hand being placed on my shoulder.

“Hey, what color is my hand?” a voice says from behind me.

I break out in a cold sweat, shocked to hear a voice other than my own. Against my better judgement, I instantly turn around.

And that’s when I see… it.

The space once recognized as my room was nothing more than a pitch-black void.

The last thing to enter my field of vision was a monstrously agape maw, filled to the brim with jagged teeth as it emerged from the darkness, closing the distance between us before it—