Underneath the Red on the Door

Underneath the Red on the Door

You lock the windows, double-check the latch.
Lights flicker, heart pounds, shadows crawl across the glass.
You hear footsteps echo on tile, slow and sure.
Sweat beads your skin as silence floods the floor.

You tell yourself it’s nothing, just a creak, just a breeze,
but you feel it—something moves, you forget how to breathe.
Outside, the world sleeps, but the dark never rests.
You pray for the sun but tonight’s not done yet.

There’s red on the door and you know it’s for you.
Heavy breath in the hallway, metal glinting through.
Don’t bother screaming—no one’s awake.
I’m coming for the fear you can’t fake.

Keys drop, lights snap, you freeze on the stairs.
The walls close in, I’m already there.
Floorboards remember every secret you’ve spilled.
Tonight you pay for the wish to be thrilled.

Heartbeat pounding, you can taste the copper heat.
My hand at your throat, your pulse skips a beat.
The blade isn’t mercy, the mask isn’t kind.
You see what you are in the flash of my mind.

You never believed in monsters until tonight.
Now you’re praying for silence, begging for light.

There’s red on the door and you know it’s for you.
Final breath stolen, nothing you can do.
I was the whisper, the knife, the stare—
the last thing you feel is the chill of the air.

Under the mask,
it’s always goodbye.