text: *By Nicholas Cakarovski* *“Hello to those below. We are not friends nor are we foe. So, remain closed or we shall release the horrid blow.”* It was the third one, and maybe the last and there it is not a singular hint to what these messages could be. Somehow they managed to gain control of all Phoenix televisions, radios, electronic billboards and the notifications on every damn phone and plastered this message for all to see. As I woke this morning it has become rather apparent to me that this last one had everyone acting rather strange. Too strange. To me it reads a threat, a threat to Earth, or to Phoenix, I’m not sure. What did we ever do? But my suspicion had become ever so enhanced when I found a letter within my mailbox the morning before everything changed. It was strikingly different from the typical fees, bills and other random letters I regularly receive. This one was small, smaller than average, and it wore a bright white coat of an intricate texture, patterned entirely with minute diamond shapes. It screamed of importance, urgency, though it remained textless. Within it the letter it read: *“To Duke:* *Meet Sophie, 47 Winning Street, 7:27 pm. Find Wearhouse 3.* *From, Us.”* I guess they called themselves *‘Us’*. The anonymity of their supposed population failed to intimidate me. I did not know Sophie and if she was dangerous, so be it. I normally sat at home with myself and my pallet. I entertained myself with painting, but sometimes making and hanging up my works triggered my boredom. I lived alone. It felt as if it was situated within perpetual hell so someone to talk to would have ignited quite a thrill. I *was* a social butterfly. It’s six-thirty. I was early because I was unable to contain my anxiousness, restless at the fact I had been invited to the unknown. I saw a pretty woman. She wore a blend of white and black hair and wore a bottom lip blemished by metal studs. It was Sophie. I spotted her sitting with her back against an old door directly below an empty red picture frame, dirty, with dry mud upon its glass, barely hanging by a wire. I walked over with class. *“Evening! You must be Sophie, I'm Duke, pleasure meeting you.”* *‘Whatever man lets just go inside and get this done.”* *“Did you receive a letter by any chance?”* *“Of course why else would I be here?”* *“May I ask what it reads?”* She had an attitude. *“To Sophie* *Meet Duke at 47 Winning Street tonight at 7:27 pm. The Question we ask is Red or White* *From, Us.”* Cryptic it was. It posed a question. It mentioned two colours, none of which typically match as black or white or red or blue would. It was an obscure message. Nonetheless, I let her in first like the gentleman I *was*. As we stepped within its threshold we were faced with two dilapidated doors, they were painted, though done roughly with old cheap paint, left one white, right one red. No lacker. We now were situated within a little room surrounded by four walls each dark in appearance, coloured with a thick blood red. Beneath us a light brown carpet soft enough to lose your ankles in. Every corner of my eye met a myriad of empty picture frames. Dozens of them placed within a symmetrical formation, like that of brickwork, a dense array. These frames, however, seemed useless. We could see directly through them as if the glass was missing leaving only a wooden rectangle, but, the glass was indeed there, barely visible. The room was illuminated from a warm bulb that remained seldom lit above. Each frame was identical, devoid of the slightest gossamer of distinction. Between the doors sat another letter upon the floor, similar in appearance to the others. It read only a single word. “Choose” *“Ok mister, I’ll open red you open white, we get this done and go home.”* *“But what if I said I wanted red. It's my favourite colour.”* *“Don’t do that. I chose first so I get it, this is already weird enough let's just get it over and done with.”* *“Woah! How about we get to know each other first!.* *“Fine, I'm Sophie, I'm 25, I'm from Inner Phoenix and I want to get the fuck out of here. Happy?”* Ill-mannered she was. Before I could say another word, she escaped, with what swiftest pivot of the feet. She grasped the knob and turned it, pulling it just enough for me to miss the contents inside. She removed herself from my company with an unnecessary degree of pettiness. I was left alone, judged by the simplicity of wood and glass upon the walls. *Harmless* panels. It was my turn. I was entranced in hesitation, a paralysing reluctance to commit. I was still. My mind spoke with itself: *‘It can't be that bad.’ ‘I bet this is some Halloween prank.’ ‘Damn kids.’ ‘Whatever, fuck it.’* The creak was something a lick of oil was not able to fix. Before me, a narrow hallway. It too had blood-red walls. Fading to a gradient of black, thick darkness that reached for some distance. Its end was invisible. I was also unable to escape the frames. They extended beside me head height for as long as my eyes could go. One step after the other my pores flooded, a tiny drop of sweat slid ever so slowly through the density of my beard before leaping off my jaw and onto the tip of my leather boots. This hallway was hot. Very hot. Too hot. Almost *intentional*. As I made my way away from the opening, the line of lights above me seemed to follow. Passing in succession. It was as if I was not moving, as if I was walking on the spot, however, the frames were passing one by one. Returning was pointless. It felt as if I were within a beast. The esophagus of the devil. Each step I took felt as if I were gradually being swallowed awaiting my landing within the pit of its stomach. These frames failed to desist. Like pupils, they judged me. I thought if I quickened my pace I was to reach the exit sooner however I received nothing but fatigue, calves like the tip of a matchstick. I built tension with myself and walls, tension thick enough that the world's sharpest blade would break in two. The frames judged me harder. They insulted me as I could not satisfy them. Its silence shrieked within my ears. Loud. Nothingness mixed with the thumping of my heart and the subtle brushing of my feet against the bristles of the carpet amplified in volume. It had no end. There was no end to the heat, to the lights, to the blood-red walls, nor was there an end to the darkness. There was no end to the sound of nothing and no end to the frames. No end at all. I felt as if I were dead as if it killed me. And I noticed that something I had once owned was now missing. At last, I had reached its gut. The exit was before me, but not before *me.* A letter sat beneath the door. It read: ‘Success!’ I let myself out, and I felt nothing. Now I am free and I am safe\*.\* They have no reason to touch me. Sophie was gone, nowhere to be seen. I was because Sophie *failed*. She does not fit. There are others, but they lack ‘self’. They have no human in them. They are the same, they are like me. Gone. Empty. I am no longer Duke. I am nothing. I am changed as fear has changed me, morphed me, manipulated all that I was. Forced to follow neither friend nor foe. I have been made to remain closed to escape the horrid blow. I am now theirs.