dan torrance

Dan stands at the bottom of the stairs, looking up to the empty landing, framed by faded and ruined wallpaper. Behind him, a dry clicking, bone on wood, keys on a typewriter, an empty glass on the bar.

"I'm not really here," he says, looking down at the axe in his hand. Pictures in a book, he almost says, but that's not true. "This isn't real."

"That doesn't mean it's not happening, handsome."

The smell of whiskey and old silk shoves itself inside Dan's nose, inside his head, and the clicking gets louder, takes on a rattle. "Empty devils," he says.

"Oh, that's not what's empty. You may have remembered what he forgot, but what did you forget, Danny?"

A clattering, a great storm of metal hitting thin, cheap metal, clasps and locks and tin lids, buzzing up in a cloud behind him even before the wind cuts through him. Dan turns, looks down the center of the maze, to all the empty boxes with their loose lids chattering like teeth.

"You never shut the door behind you, Danny. All the hungry ghosts."

Dan looks down, looks at the bottle in his hand, and can't move. The boxes chomp their jaw, and everything is hungry and empty.