The end of the world didn’t arrive with a bang, but with a sound much more intimate. Every night, there is a scratching at the door. Those who open it simply vanish. No one can explain how this catastrophe began, nor does anyone know if there will ever be a morning where it ends. 1 It is exactly midnight, and the thing outside is getting louder. I’ve constructed a fortress on my bed using a weighted blanket and a duvet—a psychological barrier, if nothing else. I check my phone. Twelve percent battery. In a night without electricity, that glowing bar is the closest thing I have to a companion. Iris: You really don’t want to know what it is? A notification slides onto my screen. It’s from my girlfriend. Well, "girlfriend" is a loose term. It started a week ago. The scratching woke the world up. Everyone who opened their doors to investigate disappeared into the dark. The government collapsed within days; the grid went down; cities became isolated islands. We were left with the "Self-Rescue" protocol. Every night, I hear weeping. Every night, someone’s resolve breaks, they open the door, and they are gone. The scratching continues until 5:00 AM. Then, as if a switch is flipped, humanity falls into a collective, comatose sleep. We wake up with the night’s terror wiped from our memories. The world functions: traffic flows, baristas pour coffee, the stock market ticks. But at 11:00 PM, the memories crash back in. The terror returns. The missing people are remembered. And at midnight, the scratching begins again. Our reality has been cleaved in two: The Day: violently normal. Humans and machines obeying the algorithm of life as if the horror never happened. The Night: a silent void, filled only with the sound of claws on wood and the agonizing choice of whether to turn the handle. It took three nights for the survivor groups to figure it out. The announcement went out in the "Last Stand" group chat: “Residents, do not listen to the voices. Do not open the door. Repeat: DO NOT OPEN THE DOOR.” Those who leave never come back. Walk out, vanish. So, we stay in. I met Iris in a sub-group called "Apocalypse Survival Guide." It was full of twenty-somethings, pragmatic science majors, and burned-out cynics. Our admin was a Ph.D. candidate in Nuclear Physics at MIT who rarely spoke, except to talk someone off a ledge. I was explaining to a frantic user why this wasn’t an elaborate prank or "performance art." Iris chimed in. We clicked. Iris: We don’t know when we’ll die. We should probably date. I’ve never had a boyfriend before. Maybe it was the crushing nihilism of the chat room, but I hesitated for a second, then agreed. Iris: I bet a lot of girls like you, right? I gave a vague, non-committal answer. I’ve never dated anyone, but I didn’t want to be the guy who died a virgin andalone during the apocalypse. User_A: Is it aliens? Or did Cthulhu finally wake up? User_B: We’re screwed. Might as well end it now. At least I can choose how I go. User_C: Why? Can’t we fight back? User_B: ...If it’s cosmic horror, fighting is useless. It always ends in tragedy. Iris: What are they talking about? She DM’d me. Me: Just a literary trope. Basically, the idea that the entity is so powerful that human resistance is futile. Iris: But in stories, isn’t there always a hero? Someone who suffers and sacrifices but eventually leads civilization to a rebirth? Me: Umm... usually. But cosmic horror is different. Or, look at it this way: If a hero leads humanity to a rebirth, is the civilization that rises from the ashes still human? Iris: Wow. That’s deep. My roommate, a guy who changes girlfriends like he changes socks, once told me: "When a girl says 'That’s deep,' she means 'I have no idea what you just said, but I like you.'" Me: Did you buy the supplies? I changed the subject. I’d told her to stock up on first-aid kits, lithium batteries, bleach—the works. Iris: Of course! I always listen to my boyfriend. She sent a photo of a cramped storage closet overflowing with gear. See? I can barely close the door. Iris: So... you really aren’t curious about what’s outside? Me: Curious? Yes. But I’m terrified of dying. The most honest answer I could give. 2 The thing is, I don’t just hear scratching anymore. "Holden. Get out here. If you don't come out, you're going to die." I’ve heard this voice every day for two years. It belongs to the guy who sleeps in the bunk above me. My best friend, the charismatic heartbreaker, Davis. Davis, usually I’d kill to hear you ramble about nothing. But for three nights straight, the moment the scratching starts, he’s out there at 12:00 AM sharp, repeating the same mantra. Come out. Or die. But tonight feels different. The scratching is softer, more frantic. And out of the corner of my eye, I swear I see something dart past the window. "Holden! Get out here! Before it's too late!" Too late? What happens then? I don’t know what Davis is right now. Dead? Alive? Something in between? Do all the people who vanish end up as voices on the other side of the door? My door is an old solid wood slab with a heavy deadbolt. No peephole. No chain. To see him, I have to open it. My window faces east. I inch toward it, peeling back the curtain a fraction of an inch. Moonlight spills in—thin and pale—but the world outside is an impenetrable blur. My phone screen lights up, startling me so bad I nearly drop it. Iris. Iris: Holden... sobbing emoji ...my best friend got taken. I know this happens every night, but reading her grief makes it real. Iris: Why didn’t she listen? Why did she go out? You go out, you die. Why did she do it?! "Holden, come out! Seriously, man, you’re running out of time!" Davis is screaming now. I feel a sudden spike of irritation. I don’t know how to comfort a crying girl over text, and Davis yelling in the hallway is ruining my focus. "You keep saying the same thing over and over! What are you? If you’re really Davis, tell me how the hell I’m supposed to comfort a girl!" The scratching stops instantly. Silence. Shit. Did I just say a trigger word? I crawl out of my blanket fortress, phone forgotten, and creep toward the door. Total silence. It’s as quiet as the grave. Iris: Holden? Are you there? My battery is red. I wish I could call you. I’m about to type back when a voice speaks from the hallway. Not screaming. Just talking. "Holden. You’re behind the door, right? Listen to me." "When you comfort a girl, listen first. She might not want a solution; she just needs to vent. Then... give her a hug. Or send a hugging bear sticker. Or the rabbit patting the bear’s head." What kind of psychological horror movie is this? It’s 1:30 AM. My maybe-dead-maybe-demon best friend is giving me dating advice through a locked door? Iris: Holden?! She’s desperate for a response. Me: I’m here. I pause, scroll through my sticker pack, and send the cartoon rabbit patting the bear’s head. "Holden. It's me, Davis. I’m not dead. But if you don't come out, I will be." "How do I prove it's really you?" I steady my breathing. I’m exhausted. The nights are draining the life out of me. "Remember my ex? The Music major? The one with the violin?" Everyone knew Davis dated the Music department’s golden girl. That’s public knowledge. "She came to our dorm to dump me at the start of the semester. She accused me of cheating. I denied it. You even vouched for me." True. But also, not a secret. "I did cheat." His voice is clear. Steady. That arrogance I know so well. You son of a bitch. "Holden, you snore. You talk in your sleep. You mumbled about..." Ding-ding-ding-ding. An incoming voice call. Iris. I thought she had no battery? "Holden!" "Holden!" They speak at the exact same time. The name I’ve carried for twenty-one years suddenly sounds alien. "Who is that?!" "Who is that?!" 3:00 AM. Separated by one door and one screen. Outside, the voice of my best friend. On the phone, the voice of the girl I’ve loved for three days. Iris sounds soft, terrified, bewildered. The silence stretches from the phone, fills the room, and bleeds through the door. A minute later, she hangs up. Dead battery? Or fear? Me: Iris? No reply. "Davis?" I whisper. Silence from the hallway. Then, the scratching begins again. Soft at first, then louder, joining a chorus of scratching sounds coming from the apartment next door, and the one below. Just like every other night. 3 At 5:00 AM, the world resets. But something has changed: I remember last night. I passed out from exhaustion and didn’t wake up until 9:00 AM. I bolt upright, heart hammering. Sunlight filters through the blinds, mocking me. Holy shit. The terror of the night hits me in a wave. I remember everything. I scramble to the window and rip the curtains open. The aggressive sunshine gives me a momentary hit of courage. Then I freeze. Along the edges of the window frame, there are gouges. Deep scratches, like a wild animal—or a person with very sharp tools—tried to get in. Bang! Bang! Bang! I scream. I haven't even reached the door when my phone buzzes. "Holden! Open up!" It’s Brody, a guy from my calc class. I live off-campus in a studio because of my insomnia, but he crashes here sometimes. I open the door. He pushes past me. "Dude, where have you been? You promised to help with the club fair today!" Right. The Robotics Club meet-and-greet. I promised to be the face of the operation. "If you don't show, the president is gonna eat us alive. You know the freshmen are only coming to see you." He looks fresh. Rested. Like he gamed until midnight, slept like a baby, and woke up ready to seize the day. Am I the only one? "How was your night?" I ask, testing the waters. He looks at me weird. "Fine? Won ten ranked matches in a row." "Did... did the power go out for you?" "Maybe? I slept through it if it did." "You didn't hear anything? Like... scratching?" "Scratching? Like a cat? Or..." He raises an eyebrow, grinning lewdly. "Or did you have a guest over?" "I just didn't sleep well," I say, deadpan. "Right, right. Hey, maybe you’ll find a girlfriend among the fresh meat today." I ignore him. "Did you see Davis today?" "Davis? He’s in Boston for the competition, remember? Man, you really are out of it. You drove him to the airport." Bullshit. I know he went to the competition. But how do I tell Brody that Davis spent the entire night clawing at my door? I follow him to the campus center, my mind racing. I need to check on Iris. Previous days, I’d wake up and the horror would be gone. Erased. Daytime: Normal. Nighttime: Hell. This is the first time the two worlds are bleeding together. I find a corner in the club room and pull out my phone. Nothing. The "Survival Guide" group is gone. Iris’s chat history is gone. I search my contacts. Fifty-seven friends. Three groups. They don't exist. Around me, students are laughing, setting up banners, eating donuts. They look so happy. For the first time, their happiness makes my blood run cold. I hide behind a curtain in the corner, grab a notepad and a pen. When my mind is chaos, I write.
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