In a ground floor apartment with only one bedroom, the closet doorknob turned.  Patrick was too far gone in sleep to notice.

She emerged from the closet, watched him for most of the night.  She had dark hair and beautiful features; her mysterious brown eyes were sunken, her olive skin was pale, her white shorts and t-shirt were stained maroon.

Patrick straightened his tie and stared into the mirror.  He was well-groomed, built.  She watched him—unnoticed—as a reflection.

Denise had a lovely time during her date with Patrick.  He took her to dinner at a Thai restaurant and then drinks at a club on the strip, and she loved the idea of going back to his place, until she walked across the threshold.  She felt chilled, gooseflesh on her forearms.

Still, she stayed for drinks, the trepidation eased as they sipped and talked.  They laughed, flirted. Denise sat her third drink on the coffee table, glanced about, felt jittery all of a sudden.  Her own drink jumped, spilled over the carpet, down the table, across her dress.

"I’m so—"

"Don’t worry about it.  You can freshen up in there."  He pointed down the short hall to a door immediately on the left, right across from the washer and dryer.

Denise smiled, walked into the bathroom, flicked on the light.  The small room was clean, the wastebasket empty, a fresh hand towel and body towel draped across the two towel bars.  The colors matched, a fresh roll of toilet paper, and little clutter around the porcelain sink, which like the tub was clean.  She turned on the faucet, a rush of water and steam. Denise looked to examine herself in the mirror . . .

And screamed—

A little buzzed, Patrick finished his drink as the door closed behind Denise, and then he downed the one he had prepared for her.  He went to bed not long after.  He was completely unaware of the closet doorknob being turned from inside.  She watched him breathe, his chest rise and fall until early dawn, and then she retreated back into the closet as he rose.

The first of the month, Patrick answered the door to a bald spot and the smell of cigar smoke, amid a blackout.

"Did you pay your electric bill?"  The landlord was a round man with the stub of a cigar tucked permanently between his teeth, his gray wife-beater stained brown with sweat.

"Called an electrician out, said the wiring was faulty."

The landlord grumbled a bit, cursed when his clipboard flew from his hand, the pages spilling and whipping about, sheets tearing, whirling about the two of them as though thrashed by a tornado.

"Has anyone ever died here?"

Gathering his papers, tucking them back into the clipboard, the landlord paused long enough to look up to Patrick from where he knelt.  "Yeah, once, a girl."

Patrick handed the landlord the rent check, the sweaty man snatched it from his hand, papers tucked haphazardly under his greasy arm.

***

She had thought it was her boyfriend, that night; that’s why she opened the door.  The police finally caught the real intruder, but this brought no relief for her.  He had violated her in many ways, worse than just killing her.  What he did to her both before and after he eviscerated her was unspeakable.

***

Patrick dropped his bags in front of the closet and crashed into the mattress, the sheets falling about him.  He felt himself drift off.

Patrick sat up in bed.  Twilight crept in through the blinds, producing shadows only, no real shapes.  There was a pounding that would not go away, and a smell—decay.  He looked straight ahead, his eyes adjusting to the light.  He could see the bags, vibrating off the closet door, and then he saw them fall away.  The door blew open.

Patrick screamed.