At your doorstep is a man who isn’t. Because he isn’t, he cannot knock on your door. You were not staring at the ceiling in the darkness of your room. The knock does not fill you with dread. You do not feel the knock fill the silent night. You do not feel yourself get out of bed and move towards the door. 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 that menacing grin greeting you again. You don’t feel the car lurch forward, all while those eyes and that smile remain exactly where they are. 

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 still 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 wide smile again as the man closes the coffin 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.

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 did not fill you with a dread that you had been awaiting. You do not feel the knock echo in the silence of the 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 was to come. You do not stare into the man’s hollfeel a chill travel down your spine as a wide, toothy grin didn’t spread across the man’s face. The man didn’t gesture toward the car behind him and you didn’t find yourself getting into the backseat.  You didn’t notice the car starting to move. You didn’t notice the landscape rolling by. You didn’t stop to wonder whether it was all familiar or unfamiliar. You didn’t see the man grinning at you in the rearview mirror. You didn’t notice the man’s gaze resting on you the entire time. You didn’t see the toothy grin he had the entire time. You didn’t realise when the car slid to a stop and you didn’t sense your door open. You didn’t look up to see the man staring at you again and you don’t see the grin still remaining on the man’s face as if it were carved. You didn’t find yourself climbing out of the car and you didn’t find yourself following the man. You didn’t look at the graves you passed by. You don’t stop at an older grave and run your fingers over the etching of your name. You don’t look up to see only that ugly, chilling grin [looking back at you]. You don’t start to dig into the dirt with your hands. You don’t eventually feel the wooden surface of your coffin. You don’t pull open the lid and climb in. You don’t see that grin again as the man closes the coffin again, this time for good. You don’t sense the earth being packed on top of you. You don’t feel the corners of your mouth stretching back involuntarily into a grin. You don’t feel the tears welling up in your eyes. You don’t bring up your hands to move your mouth back. You don’t feel the blood being drawn on your face as you rake your fingernails across it, all while that sick grin remains on your face. It is a good thing, I suppose my dear reader, that none of this happened. Let us hope, then, that it won’t.