Beyond the Void

My childhood friend, William Barnard—Bill—was reported missing this morning. According to the paper, he was last seen at the old McGuire house on Dubois Street. That rotting 19th-century husk had always unsettled me. Its fence sagged toward the ground like it was trying to bury itself.

A drunk across the road claimed he watched Bill rip the plywood off the front door, slip inside with a flashlight, and never come back out. “I wasn’t paying much attention,” he told the paper. “He walked in, and that was it.”

I kept reading, though my hands were shaking. The police were only beginning an investigation, but the community already assumed the worst. And I agreed with them. Bill was reckless, sure, but he wasn’t stupid. He loved streaming his urban-exploration trips. He never went into a building—any building—without his phone.

But his phone had been found inside his Tahoe. Engine off. Doors locked.

That was when the fear really hit.

I dropped the paper onto the table and pressed my palm to my forehead as if that could stop the panic from rising. Bill wouldn’t have left his phone behind. He wouldn’t have gone dark. Something had gone terribly wrong, and the realization hollowed me out.

My eyes blurred. I hadn’t cried since childhood, but I cried then. It wasn’t dramatic; just a slow, helpless collapse as I imagined my friend wandering an empty house alone for the last time.

I forced myself to take deep breaths. In… Out... In… Out…

It barely helped.

The fridge held almost nothing. I grabbed a bottle of water just to have something to do with my hands, drained it in one long gulp, then tossed the bottle aside and shut the fridge with my hip. My thoughts were circling themselves, tightening, falling apart.

I plopped down on the living room sofa, telling myself I just needed to rest. I knew that was a lie. But exhaustion pulled me under anyway.

I slipped into sleep fast. Too fast. The nightmare was waiting for me.

I was inside the McGuire house with him—watching Bill, following him but unable to reach him. My throat strained as I screamed his name, yet no sound came. Bill kept moving through the dark living room, the beam of his flashlight wobbling over peeling wallpaper and warped floorboards.

He found the basement door.

Whispers drifted upward from the dark below, soft as breath against glass. Bill hesitated only a moment before descending. The steps bowed under his weight. The sound echoed like something stirring awake.

I wasn’t watching from afar anymore. I stood beside him in the basement, though he still couldn’t see me. Bill’s flashlight carved thin arcs of white through the dusty air. Shelves sagged beneath mummified books and rusted antiques. Cobwebs clung to everything like old wounds that never healed.

The whispers grew louder.

Bill finally saw the door.

It didn’t belong. The ornate wooden paneling seemed untouched by the decay around it, as if someone replaced it recently—or as if it didn’t belong to this house at all.

Bill moved toward it. I felt his panic growing, pulsing through the air like a heartbeat. I also heard his thoughts.

Just a peek. Just look inside, then leave. Nothing more.

His hand hovered over the knob. His breathing was ragged now.

Should I really be doing this?

Bill hesitated for a moment, then released a breath.

Screw it.

Just as Bill’s hand touched the door knob, the door exploded open, almost taking Bill’s hand with him.

For a moment there was nothing—no shape, no figure, only a sheer wall of black.

Then a hand shot out of the darkness. Thin. Gray. Withered. The claws dug into Bill’s arm.

His scream ripped through the basement as he was yanked inside.

The door slammed shut so hard the shelves rattled.

I woke with the echo of his scream still thrashing in my skull. My heart hammered so violently it felt like it might break ribs on the way out. I rubbed both hands over my face, trying to steady myself, but the panic clung to me like wet cloth.

Twilight glowed through the blinds. I had slept far longer than I meant to.

Still shaking, I pulled on my shoes, grabbed my phone and keys, and stepped outside. The air was cool, quiet, too normal for what I had just seen.

I got in my Denali and drove straight toward the McGuire house. I didn’t stop at a single sign. There was no traffic. No witnesses. Just the empty streets sliding past as a single thought beat through my mind: I had to know.

I parked in the same spot where Bill’s Tahoe still sat like a gravestone. I left the keys in the ignition, climbed out, and crossed the street at a near-run. The sagging front gate was cold metal under my palms as I vaulted over it.

The smell hit me halfway up the porch—sour, heavy, like wood rotting through its bones.

The plywood covering the front door came off under my kicks, splintering into strips. Beneath it, the actual door cracked after three hard blows. The third kick forced it inward.

A faint, rasping moan drifted from somewhere inside the house.

I froze. “Am I really doing this?”I hesitated, but thought of Bill possibly still alive on the other side of the strange door to a dark void in the basement. “Yeah, I’m doing it.”

I stepped inside.

Darkness swallowed everything beyond the reach of my phone’s flashlight. Dust swirled like slow-moving snow, and the air carried the stench of mildew and something older, something unclean. Every board beneath me groaned.

A mouse darted across the floor. I rolled my eyes.

I moved deeper into the house, through the living room and into a narrow hallway lined with peeling wallpaper. Halfway down stood the basement door—white paint cracked, deep gouges carved across it. It was already cracked open, waiting.

I nudged it with one finger. It swung inward with an agonizing creak.

A thud echoed from below. A book? A box? Something else?

My breath clouded the air as I descended the staircase. Each step complained beneath my weight. Halfway down, the whispering began—the same soft, lulling whispers from my nightmare.

“Nice try,” I muttered. “I know what you’re doing.”

I didn’t. Not really.

The basement spread out before me exactly as I had dreamed it. Shelves slumped under the weight of antiques. Dust coated every surface. The air felt thick enough to choke on.

At the far end stood the ornate wooden door. Wide open.

A stereo from upstairs suddenly crackled to life and began playing “Paranoid” by Black Sabbath—warped, distant, like someone dragging the song through water. My nerves jolted. Of all songs.

A sane part of me whispered not to go any farther. Another part pushed me forward.

“Why the hell not,” I said, barely hearing my own voice.

I stepped through the doorway.

The basement vanished behind me.

I stood in an abyss of perfect darkness, the muffled music fading behind me like it was sliding away down a long tunnel. The floor beneath my feet—totally pitch black—felt smooth, cold, unreal.

A moan rose behind me, this time no longer muffled. It was close. Too close.

I spun around just in time to see the doorway narrowing, the basement shrinking into a sliver of light.

“Shit—no, no, no!”

I sprinted toward it. The door slammed shut in my face.The impact rattled my teeth.

I braced my shoulder against it, pushing with everything I had.

It didn’t budge.

“Son of a whore. What now?” I muttered into the dark.

“Good question,” Bill’s voice answered—clear, close, and impossible.

“Bill? Is that you?” I asked, though there was nothing around me. Nothing at all.

“Yes, it’s me, shithead. Who else would it be? Santa? Jesus? Hitler?”

“Shut up. Where am I? And more importantly, where are you?”

“I really can’t say for certain, Joey. I’ve been stuck here for what feels like an eternity. Sitting in this pitch-black void with nothing to look at, nothing to touch, nothing to hear except faint raindrops way off in the distance. I’ve tried wandering, but it doesn’t matter. This place goes on forever in every direction. No landmarks. No walls. Just nothingness. I was about to lose my mind before you showed up.”

I took a breath, the darkness pressing on my skin like weight. “Are we dead?”

“I don’t think so. But my arm’s pretty messed up from being pulled into this… whatever this lifeless dimension is.”

“I wonder why we can’t see each other.”

“I dunno.”

“What is this place?”

“Your guess is as good as mine.”

“I wonder if sound just travels forever here,” I said.

“Seems like it.”

“Do you think we can find each other?”

“It’s worth a shot. I’m bored to death anyway.”

“Before we wander off randomly,” I said, “I’ve got another idea.”

“Speak.”

“Do you remember the direction you came from?”

“I think so.”

“Walk that way. I’ll walk straight away from the door I came out of. Maybe we’ll meet in the middle.”

“Sounds splendid.”

I started walking. My footsteps tapped softly on an invisible flat surface. As I moved, the muffled stereo music I’d heard earlier faded, thinning out until it vanished entirely. In the silence that followed, something else drifted in.

“Hey, Bill,” I said. “You said you heard raindrops?”

“Yeah. Why?”

“I hear them now.”

“That helps… a little. Just keep walking. Maybe we’ll cross paths.”

“I hope so. This place is really freaking me out.”

I pushed forward through the emptiness. The darkness never shifted. The ground never changed. But then something appeared far ahead—a shape, faint at first, like the darkness itself had simply decided to rearrange.

As I got closer, the figure sharpened until I recognized it with a shock of nausea.

It was me.Standing perfectly still.Head craned straight upward at a wrong angle.Mouth hanging open.

“I think I see you, Joey,” Bill said somewhere ahead. “Yeah, that’s gotta be you. But… why are you standing like that?”

Then I saw Bill too. His white hoodie—splattered with fake blood—white cargo pants, white Nikes. He stepped cautiously into view.

“Standing like what?” I asked.

“Standing still with your head pointing up and your mouth wide open.”

I stared at the thing wearing my shape. “Bill… don’t freak out. But what you see—and what I see—that’s not me. I swear it’s not me.”

“Then what the hell is it?” Bill asked. He edged closer to the doppelganger, his face tightening with concern.

“I don’t know. But don’t get close to it.”

“Good idea,” he said, instantly backing up. Then he broke into a quick walk toward me. “Joey. We got to get out of here. ASAP.”

“I don’t know where ‘out’ is,” I said. “This place wasn’t made for humans. I can’t guarantee we can make it out alive.”

“There’s gotta be an exit somewhere.”

“That’s exactly what I thought. I don’t know which direction we need to go, but we need distance between us and that thing.”

“You don’t have to tell me twice.”

We moved off together, choosing a direction at random—anything to get away. The sound of raindrops grew louder in the void, tapping rhythmically against the unseen flat ground. Nothing else changed. No light. No walls. No sky. Just the endless black.

Then I heard it again.

A moan.

The same low, distant moan I’d heard before.

“You heard that, right?” I asked.

Bill nodded, jaw tight. “Yep. I heard it. And I don’t like it. What’s our next move?”

“Our next move?” I glared at him through the dimly lit dark. “We keep going in the same direction until we either find an exit or collapse from exhaustion and die. Unless you want to lie down and die now. Your choice.”

“Fair point. Let’s keep walking. And let’s hope we don’t run into any more doppelgangers.”

We walked on. And on. And on. The void never shifted. No matter how far we moved, nothing changed. No shapes. No horizon. No walls. Just the flat, invisible ground under our shoes and the darkness stretching in every direction. The only sound was the constant whisper of rain somewhere in the distance, falling forever on a surface we couldn’t see.

Then a new shape appeared—small at first, barely outlined by the darkness itself. As we approached, it resolved into an old man curled into the fetal position, rocking gently back and forth. Long gray beard, tangled white hair, nothing on but a pair of faded blue jeans clinging to a body that looked weeks past starvation.

He whispered to himself over and over. “They can’t hurt you. They’re not real. They can’t hurt you. They’re not real.”

Bill and I stepped closer.

“They’re just an illusion sent by the screechers,” the old man muttered.

“Who are you?” I asked.

“Who am I?” He laughed weakly. “I’m nobody.”

“Bullshit,” Bill said. “I remember you from when I was a kid. You’re Gordon McGuire. You disappeared seventeen years ago. You used to walk past my house every evening. One day you just stopped. Have you really been down here for seventeen years?”

Gordon scratched his head, eyes darting. “Possibly. You two should keep your voices down. The screechers don’t like loud noises.”

“Is that so?” I asked.

Gordon nodded, staring blankly into the endless black.

“Jesus Christ,” Bill muttered. “How did we get into this mess?”

I shrugged. “Think we should help him?”

“How? He’s clearly gone insane. He can’t be helped.” Bill dragged his hands through his short, spiky hair in frustration.

“Shhh!” Gordon hissed. “Quiet.”

“What for?” Bill said.

Gordon’s whisper turned panicked. “A screecher is coming. It must’ve heard you. Run. Run before it catches you!”

Bill frowned. “Why should I trust you? Why should either of us trust you?”

Gordon gave a small, broken chuckle. Then he gulped and exhaled, defeated. “I’ve been here seventeen years. I know exactly what to listen for. The screechers kept me alive because I was bait. But now I’m too old. I’m no use to them anymore. Quickly. Both of you. Run. RUN AND DON’T LOOK BACK!! GO NOW!!”

Bill’s face drained of color as he looked at me.

“We should hurry,” I said.

Bill nodded.

We bolted.

The sound of raindrops cut out. Behind us, Gordon screamed—high, thin, terrified—followed by a wet, tearing sound, like something massive taking a bite out of him. Then silence. Only our shoes striking the invisible ground. Only our ragged breathing.

We ran faster.

“How long are we going to run?” I gasped. “We can’t run forever.”

“I know,” Bill panted. “I just want distance between us and whatever the hell Gordon was talking about.”

A moment later, Bill skidded to a stop, completely winded. I stopped too. He bent over, ripped off his hoodie, and threw it aside.

“What are you doing?” I asked. “That’s your favorite hoodie.”

Bill panted in between his words. “Who… gives… a shit.” He sucked for air. “I think we’re good. For now.”

Guilt hit me. “I feel awful leaving old man McGuire behind. I can’t imagine what that thing did to him.”

Bill shot me a hard look. “Just imagine what it’ll do to us if it catches up. Use your brain, Joey. There was nothing we could do for him.”

I sighed. “You’re right. I just don’t know how long we can keep this up. You’re panting so hard you couldn’t run another quarter mile without having a stroke.”

“Ha. Funny,” Bill muttered. “You try having asthma.”

I smirked despite everything. “Seriously. We can’t keep running. We need a different plan.”

“Like what?”

“I dunno. Something outside the box.”

“You’re hilarious, Joey.”

“Think about it,” I said. “Maybe this whole place is a box. A sealed infinite box.”

“That’s exactly what it feels like.”

“Right. So instead of running aimlessly, we figure out how things get in and out.”

Bill’s eyes widened. “Those things Gordon mentioned. The screechers. If they can get in and out—”

“We can use one,” I said.

“But how?” Bill asked.

“Rock, paper, scissors. That’s how,” I enlightened my friend.

“Dammit,” Bill said. “Fine. Best two out of three.”

I rolled my eyes.

“Rock. Paper. Scissors!” We shouted low in unison.

Bill picked paper. I picked rock.

“Haha! I got you,” Bill said, smug.

“Keep going,” I said.

“Rock! Paper! Scissors!”

Bill threw paper again. I threw scissors.

“Son of a bitch!” Bill shouted. “Dammit! Not cool!”

We were evenly scored. But before either of us could breathe, a deafening roar split the void. A pale, lanky creature—half reptile and half humanoid—shot upward from the darkness behind Bill and slammed him to the ground.

“Holy shit! Fuck!”

Bill extended a hand for me. The creature, in turn, swatted, slicing Bill’s arm clean off.

“Joey, help me!” Bill screamed as blood spurted out of his fresh wound.

But I knew better. That thing pinning him wasn’t letting him go. And if I got anywhere near it, I was finished, too. I was already thinking ahead, trying to find a way out of this endless dark box. I knew I only had one chance.

I shut my mouth and began backing away as the screecher tore into Bill.

"JOEYYY!!" Bill shrieked.

I didn’t answer. I just kept stepping backward until I was at least twenty feet away. Each step felt like betrayal. Part of me wanted to dive in, grab him, and die trying. But another part knew if I went, we’d both be finished. Survival outweighed heroics.

He didn’t scream again. He couldn’t. Bill lay limp and silent as the screecher feasted.

When it had its fill, the creature rose onto its hind legs and sniffed the air. My stomach twisted. I thought I was done for. But it didn’t detect me. Instead, it straightened its spine and began morphing. Its limbs twisted, its face stretched, its skin reshaped itself until a perfect replica of Bill.

I almost exhaled in relief before catching myself.

Bill’s doppelganger walked away on steady, casual steps. I followed it—quiet as a mouse, careful not to breathe too loud—as it moved ahead without looking back. Five minutes passed before it stopped, about ten feet from a door. The same door I had stepped through earlier before the void swallowed me.

The screecher reached for the handle, opened the door, and stepped through. The door began swinging shut behind it.

I rushed forward, silent as I could manage, and grabbed the handle before it clicked closed.

A shaky breath slipped out of me. I pulled the door open a few inches, slid through, and closed it gently behind me.

Finally. I was back in the real world. But not without cost. Bill was gone, and so was Gordon McGuire. Who knows how many others. My stomach knotted as I stood there, realizing I didn’t have time to grieve. Not yet. Not inside this house. Not while those things could still be here.

I tiptoed toward the basement stairs and climbed them one at a time, slow and careful, until I reached the top.

Footsteps echoed beyond the door.

I bit my bottom lip, closed my eyes for a moment, then pushed the door open with a single finger.

Nobody was there.

I let out a shaky sigh of relief.

I moved toward the front entrance. My thoughts raced with every step. What did I just experience? Whatever it was, it wasn’t natural. It was nightmare material. I never wanted to come back to this house. I would willingly bathe in a tub full of scorpions before setting foot in that basement again.

I reached the front door. The orange streetlamp glow filtered through the gaps in the plywood I’d kicked through earlier.

“Thank goodness,” I whispered. “I’m actually free.”

I crouched and slipped one foot through the hole.

“Hehe. Fuck you, screechers. Y’all thought you had me. Well guess what. I’m—”

A blur in the corner of my eye—Bill’s doppelganger.

It lunged and seized me with long jagged claws.

Nobody heard me. Except the screechers watching from the shadows, silent and emotionless. Their faces stared straight through me.

They don’t just take your shape. They take your place.