The heat was finally subsiding as the sun began to set.
Jim sat back in his recliner and picked up a magazine.
A rustling sound made him look to his right.
There was a note sticking out from under the door.
Jim stared at the note and was intrigued especially because it was the closet door.
He reached down and picked up the mysterious envelope.
His curiosity growing, Jim rips open the envelope and carefully unfolds the letter inside.
In a beautiful handwritten script, the words were clear...
"whatever you do, don't dare open the door.
" Jim stared at the familiar handwriting.
He felt confused, anxious and scared.
He was almost certain he knew the author but that was impossible.
The person Jim was thinking of had been dead for many years.
Jim's hands began to tremble and he could hear his heart beating in his chest.
But then another sound startled him.
A distinctive scratching sound and it was coming from the closet.
His brain was screaming, "Run Jim!" But his feet would not cooperate.
He stood there frozen in fear.
If he dare open the door would he find the one thing he feared the most? Like a train rushing backwards, Jim's mind reeled as his thoughts drew him back in time.
He could almost smell the garlic on Vincent's breath...
his dear friend, Vincent.
Overweight with low self-esteem, Vincent had been a gifted writer.
But then the world would never know that--thanks to Jim.
Vincent had made a living helping other people become famous.
A ghostwriter, he always hid behind other people's names.
His passion for writing was his reason for living.
Jim knew this because he was the only friend Vincent had.
"I didn't kill you, Vincent!" Jim shouted aloud.
I only made use of something you never would.
Suspended in time, Jim barely heard the noise.
But there it was again...
a distinctive scratching sound coming from the closet.
Jim wasn't sure if it was guilt or the fear of being found out that was causing a wrenching feeling in his gut.
Vincent died 2 years ago.
Complications from a massive stroke left him unable to speak or write.
He had no family.
An only child, his parents had passed on years before Jim knew him.
No wife or children, Vincent's only legacy was the book he had written under his own name.
Not a commissioned piece of work for someone else, a creation all his own and he loved it as his baby.
Jim was the only person alive who knew about Vincent's book and he could never reveal the truth.
After-all Jim enjoyed his fame and fortune and wasn't about to let it all go to a dead man.
While Vincent lay dying in a hospital bed, Jim took Vincent's manuscript and sent it to a publisher.
The book was pure genius and Jim took all the credit.
Vince was dying so he couldn't use the money anyway.
Jim thought he could hear someone or something breathing behind the closet door.
"You can't hurt me, Vincent" he screamed.
Then the familiar ring of his cell phone jarred him and made him jump.
It was his agent, Seth Mittleman.
His agent was ecstatic, and as always talking fast.
Jim walked over to the window and peered out.
There was nothing but darkness...
no one around for miles.
Jim's agent had good news.
He had received an offer from HBO to write a mini series based on the book.
"Cha-ching!" replied Jim.
His agent would be by tomorrow morning to talk about the details.
Jim said goodbye and as he pressed the END button on his phone he heard a loud bump coming from the closet.
He laid his phone down and walked over to the door.
He reaches for the doorknob wondering why he hadn't mentioned any of this to Seth, his agent.
But what would he say that wouldn't make him sound silly or even worse...
crazy? Jim begins to open the door and as he does, the room is filled with a loud screeching sound.
Much like a woman screaming but this sound was not human.
About the time that Jim's mind connected the sound with what he saw next, it was too late.