No one remembered the old slaughterhouse at the edge of town.
It was condemned. Shut down after a fire.
But the blood stains on the walls had never dried.
Teenagers broke in on dares.
Only one rule: Don't go past the red door.
Because the red door wasn't there before the fire.
---
Malik was dared to open it.
He brought a camera. Said he'd livestream it.
Walked through the butcher's hall, where the hooks still swayed.
Reached the back wall.
And there it was.
The red door.
Pulsing. Wet.
It wasn't painted red.
It was made of stitched skin.
---
He opened it.
Inside was not a room.
It was a throat.
Walls of meat. Dripping organs.
The floor squished beneath his boots.
His camera cut to static.
But the mic stayed on.
For six minutes, people watched in horror as Malik screamed.
Then… a voice whispered through the stream:
> "We wear the brave."
---
When they found the camera, it was lying outside the slaughterhouse.
Still recording.
But the footage showed something impossible:
The red door closing by itself—wearing Malik's face like a curtain.
Now, every few weeks, a new face appears on it.
Eyes bulging. Lips silently mouthing "Help me."
But if you watch too long…
The door opens from your side.
---
Warning found carved into the gates:
> *"We are hungry.
Flesh remembers the taste.
Knock once to enter.
Knock twice… to become the door."*