I am a skeptic at heart and I believe that most people, the smart ones anyways, are too. When I was a kid I used to sit at the old dial up family computer with my little brother and watch those ‘real ghost encounters!’ videos. They always scared the shit out of us and after one particularly convincing alien encounter, my brother cried and screamed his little heart out before bed. I was a good big sister then, I sat up with him and explained all the ways it had been faked. A bit of makeup, some good lighting, maybe a toy model or two. Those stupid little videos were works of art to us, our focus shifted away from the fear and onto how they were created. My brother didn’t get scared as often as he used to after that. I would have to search much harder to find the really scary stuff, on long since blacklisted sites that showed grotesque abominations. Sometimes I’d even scare myself, but all I had to do was watch as he trembled in fear and I felt better.

If I really went digging I’d be able to find the fake ghost hunting videos we made on the old camcorder. I would be the host, walking around the basement with dimmed lights and faux fear dripping from my voice. My brother would be crouched in the corner, hitting the pipes with a stick or throwing junk across the room. We would eventually scare ourselves, convincing each other that one of those echoing knocks was the real deal. I would run, screaming out of the basement and shut the door behind me. My brother was younger, slower. He would scream and pound on the door to be let out as I laughed. I was a little shit, covering my own fear with the fear of my brothers.

Two years ago I moved out of our family home and away from my brother. We drifted apart as we aged, he stayed as a recluse in his room most days and I never saw him. I never called him, not even on his birthday like my Mom asked. I’m not a good sister anymore, I realize that now.

I saw him when I woke up a few hours ago to go to the bathroom. He was just a silhouette at the end of the hall, awkward and lanky in his teenage years. I didn’t recognize him at first and all I could do was run and lock myself in the bathroom, I never even screamed or gasped. Part of me was convinced I’d made it up, the light from outside had been cast on the shadows in just the right way at just the right time and my brain just filled in the gaps, imagining a familiar figure in the darkness. Then the pipes started groaning, like something was writhing around inside of them. I screamed then, backed up into the corner away from the door like some wounded little animal. There would be no escape in here, the one window wouldn’t even fit my fist through. With my phone in hand, automatically grabbed from the nightstand earlier, I tried to call the police. When it didn’t go through, I called my brother instead. I heard it ring from the other side of the door.

Instantly, as though it had been some signal, he started pounding on the other side. He screamed in his now much older voice to be let in, he was so scared in the dark and alone. The voice was his, undeniably so, but despite the shrieks there was no fear in his voice. It was almost as if he was reading from a script that wasn’t made for him. Though fear made my joints freeze up and my skin prickle, I was angry at the apparent prank. My own brother had broken into my apartment in the early morning and waited for this moment. To what? Teach me a lesson. I yelled through the door, cursed at him to go away and stop being such a child. Then, he stopped. No slamming or yelling, no footsteps, just the sound of something hitting the ground.

The sound went on for a few long moments before I watched something appear at the bottom of the door, sliding through the crack so slowly I barely noticed it at first. I moved closer, still shaky in the knees, to see what he was sliding under the door. I watched with my hands gripping the side of the sink for support and realized in horror that it was black tufts of hair sliding under the gap of the door. It was only when I saw the top of his forehead I realized what was happening.

He’s sliding under the door.

God, I don’t know how it’s happening. I’ve been sitting here for hours, I’m blocked in and forced to watch as my brother, or whatever the fuck that is, slides inch by inch underneath the doorframe. His eyes, his nose, his gaping wide mouth. His torso is almost through now too, the skin ripples as it moves like some grotesque insect. He’s crawling somehow, flat on his back and staring up at the ceiling. I’m too scared to move or even blink, I can’t look away because with each inch he advances he’s closer to getting in and I don’t know what I’ll do when that happens.