The Bloody Doors Off

I’m seeing shadows. Not the ordinary kind that just hang around when the light hits right. No, these are something else—shadows lurking just outside my line of sight. Smoke, perhaps? They drift like smoke. If you, like me, were a smoker back in the ’90s and spent your days in an office building, you might recall management trying to contain our vice by throwing together a smoking room that could barely fit a broom closet. You’d step inside and be engulfed by the swirling haze while colleagues took much-needed breaks. And those shadows? They’d sway.

Sure, they threw in a tabletop air purifier, but that thing was a joke.

At first, I wondered if it was just the floater in my left eye. My optometrist assured me back in September, “You’ll get used to it.” And eventually, I did. That’s probably why I shrugged it off at first.

Oddly enough, it seemed to vanish a few days back.

But then came the Smell™.

I stepped out to toss the garbage and, after passing the second unit on my right, it hit me—like a freight train and impossible to ignore. The Smell™: a grotesque blend of rancid meat and some harsh chemicals. It was overwhelming.

I took a few cautious steps, broke through that invisible barrier, and sprinted to the garbage chute. I shoved the white bag in and hurried back.

I paused before unit *07 (keeping it vague for reasons). One step. Another.

Nothing. Whatever it was seemed to vanish. Maybe I was just imagining it.

Then came the Taste™.

Out for a walk with Maisie, washing the night air down, I carefully navigated the steps and turned toward the Distillery entrance.

Yep.

That rancid smell was back, lurking like a ghost, and it clung to the back of my throat.

I’ve had my share of epic heaves. More than a few left a nasty taste that just wouldn’t quit.

But this? This was different. The aftertaste lingered for what felt too long.

Now I’m at the kitchen island, chopping up a salad for Marlo.

Out of the corner of my eye.

Those smoky shadows again, gliding past like they own the place.

I can’t make sense of it—what this thing is trying to tell me.

If it’s the makings of a dark story or a short play, I’ll roll with it.

But if it’s not?

God help me.

Because something’s definitely out there.

And it’s coming.