On a familiar street in an average town sits a standard brick house. It is silent at night, not because the noise of the day magnifies the quiet of the night, but because the days themselves are listless and simply carry on late into the evening. It’s only natural.

The state of this home reflects the disposition of its owner, which is that of an amiable widower. J.D. has lived alone for years in the same standard brick house he and his wife moved into before their first child was born.

The kids are gone now, of course.

J.D. is the oldest gentleman on his block, and he often flirts with memories of a time when he was the block’s youngest. There are two empty houses now, across the street. Their owners died and thus bumped J.D. to the top of street’s generational food chain.

The view from the top wasn’t so bad.

“Bastard!”

It was 6 a.m. and J.D. just dropped part of his breakfast toast into his “World’s Best Dad” coffee mug.

J.D peered out toward the block. Strange. The “For Sale” sign across the street had changed to a “Sold” sign overnight. He couldn’t even recall any visitors having looked at the house. And who changes a for-sale sign in the middle of the night anyway?

Another set of new neighbors. A fresh start for a new couple, perhaps, or maybe a single man. Maybe a man his age. Maybe a woman his age.

J.D. gulped his coffee down, soggy toast, cream, sugar and all.

Then, like skid marks on a dark interstate passing beneath at 80 m.p.h., the “Sold” sign was gone—just as quick as that—and the house had one corner window ablaze with a red light. Or was it just a red curtain with white light cast upon it?

It was night, now, of course. That’s why the light was so bright.

But J.D. certainly thought this move happened in the blink of an eye. Where was the U-Haul? They really stay the night on the first day, huh? J.D. peered out from between his curtains. He must be getting old.

He strolled to his front door and glanced through the window.

The house was like midnight, except for that red window. Or was it a red light? The rays cut through the healthy blades of grass, fresh from a summer rain.

“Oh—you, god…!”

Another day and another dropped bit of toast. Another coffee mug. “I’d rather be fishing.” The tint of the early morning sun indicated to J.D. the darkness was not ready to give up its hold of the heavens to the morning sun quite yet.

Or was that just the clouds.

J.D. looked outside. The red light shined, permeating even the dim morning light. It was much more luminous than he had thought.

Knock, knock.

Knock, knock, knock.

Introductions were important to J.D., and he was, after all, the big fish on this block. But, his new neighbors didn’t answer, despite their red light. He hadn’t seen a car yet. Perhaps the realtor had left it burning, there was no one inside after all!

The dead leaves on the foreign porch reminded J.D. that fall was coming. The block seemed deserted, he thought. The red light burned.

Back at home, face pressed to the window, he tried to deduce clues from the house, but it gave up nothing. Maybe it was a candle, in there. It seemed to emanate with infernal ferociousness, whatever it was.

He opened the door and stood on his porch, looking at their porch. The front door was open. Leaves were scraping the ground in the wind. The door was open and there was a great abyss leading inside.

J.D. ambulated on his lawn, then ventured to the curb. The new moon was quite consuming, he thought, though he couldn’t see it, he felt it—of course. He was compelled forward…

But the door wasn’t open. J.D. felt foolish, he blushed, his cheeks flushed crimson. He retreated to his house, but not before a look at the red window, again.

“Shit.”

The coffee tipped completely, today. Forget the toast.

The drips and drops didn’t burn his lap—it was cold. It was yesterday’s coffee. Soggy toast washed to the floor. Today was very much overcast, the night still seemed to have a grip on the day and the clouds swirled in a glorious fashion. Perhaps a thunderstorm was coming?

Like a glowing coal furnace at the end of a black boiler room, he thought—with the door closed, of course, and flames flickering out of its mouth.

Coffee dripped from his robe but no one was there to see him standing on the porch. His feet touched the cold cement. Where were they? His neighbors, of course.

Knock, knock.

No answer. But why, it was Patty’s house. She was always home in the morning, and a good chat, too. He would ask Patty about the strange neighbors.

Knock, knock, knock, knock.

J.D. about-faced slowly and shakily. Was the sun really setting? This wasn’t his porch. He fled home and stared again at that fireball window. The front door was still standing open ,too. Close it, dammit.

On another porch again, feeling foolish, filled with anger. The door was ajar, yes! Yes! But here, in front of him it stood closed, now. A nice oak door it was.

“Oh… god.”

The walls seemed to glow like fresh blood, and the light in the ceiling was indeed burning red. Opening the door—touching that brass handle, and pushing hard—had made his pulse race, but the room, that was a real experience.

Thump, thump.

It was because of the chair that the room was so vulgar.

The chair sat there staring at him. Positioned to face the door directly, shunning the small sweaty window it gazed upon him confidently. The room vibrated with a life he had not encountered before, and the walls trembled as color oozed from them.

Funny how things appear larger on the inside, he thought. Ha, ha. It’s not really funny, J.D. He looked around, eyes wide, gaping mouth, false teeth…

Each night he sleeps alone in a bed made of hand-me-down linen.

He took a seat in the chair and the door closed. He watched it close. He didn’t close it.

That is how they found him, staring straight ahead, motionless, just watching the door. The room was littered with bodies. Who they belonged to was anyone’s guess.

The clouds circulated and the evening descended again.