Once there was a man who wasn’t. Because he was not, he could not knock on your door. You were not staring at the ceiling in the darkness of your room. The knock does not fill you with a dread that you had been awaiting. You do not feel the knock fill the silent night. You do not get out of bed and move towards the door as if pulled by strings. You do not open the door knowing what is on the other side and knowing what is to come. You do not stare into the man’s hollow eyes and feel a chill travel down your spine as a wide, toothy grin doesn’t spread across the man’s face. The man doesn’t gesture toward the car behind him and you don’t find yourself getting into the backseat. You don’t see the man climb into the driver’s seat and adjust the mirror. You don't see those sickening eyes and menacing grin greeting you again. You don’t feel the car lurch forward, all while those eyes and that smile remain exactly where they were.
You don’t notice the landscape rolling by. You don’t realize when the familiar changes to the unfamiliar. You don’t wonder whether it was ever familiar. You don’t realize when the car glides to a stop and you don’t sense your door open. You don’t see the man holding open the door with that vile grin remaining carved on his face. You don’t find yourself climbing out of the car and you don’t find yourself following the man. You don’t look at the graves you pass by. You don’t stop at an older grave standing away from the others. You don’t run your fingers over the etching of your name. You don’t look up to see only that ugly, chilling grin commanding you. You don’t start to dig into the dirt with your hands. You don’t try to pointlessly pull back your arms. You don’t start to feel the corners of your mouth twitch. You don’t start to feel them pull back. You don’t try to scream through the grin stuck on your face. You don’t eventually feel the wooden surface of a coffin. You don’t pull open the lid and climb in. You don’t see that grin again as the man closes the coffin, this time for good. You don’t sense the earth being packed on top of you. You don’t feel the tears welling up in your eyes. You don’t bring up your hands to try and move your mouth back, so that at least you may meet the end with your own face. You don’t feel the blood being drawn on your face as you rake your fingernails across it, the grin remaining etched in its place.
It is a good thing, I suppose my dear reader, that none of this happened. Let us hope, then, that it won’t.