Stan knew he shouldn’t look but there are certain times when a person is a slave to curiosity and he felt the urge growing inside of him. It swelled as it gradually absorbed his mind, guiding him along a path not of his choosing. It whispered in his ear, contradicting his common sense and laughing at his usually cautious nature. He approached the splintered, solid oak door slowly. All around him the walls swayed to the surrealistic groans of inhuman and unseen sources. The door, the only seemingly normal object in sight, stood before him promising sanctuary or death… or perhaps both. For there were definitely times when Stan felt he needed death. He wasn’t suicidal but he had to admit that there were times the promises death offered outweighed his options in life. Stan knew he had to make a choice soon. Normally he was rather quick with decisions but this was not a normal situation. He felt time itself circling around him, compressing with each passing second. It had never been a friend to him, a lesson he had learned long ago when he was first diagnosed but he still tried continually to make peace with it as best he could. After all, what choice did he have? He thought about what terrible fate would await him if he decided not to open the door. What hideous and malevolent things would eagerly overtake him and consume his body and maybe even his soul. And then, almost as if on instinct, he opened the door and passed through it into the waiting arms of the ravenous things on the other side.

Faith had never looked so beautiful before. Her long black hair flowed around her face as if she were under water. Stan felt himself become disoriented. His head grew light and his mind was clouded over by mists which were spawned by his love for her. He had been in love with her for an eternity, for longer than he had been alive and he had no doubt that she returned the same feelings. She said nothing. She merely gazed at him with eyes that radiated sincere and utter compassion…and something else? Was there a hidden emotion behind those soft blue eyes? Was there an alternative motive to her beautiful smile? Stan felt compelled to investigate despite the nearly irresistible urge he had to rush to her and embrace her in his arms. Her smile grew wide, wider than it was possible. So wide that the entire top portion of her head fell clean off as if sheared by some invisible blade. Stan stumbled backwards as the bloody heap that had been the woman he loved fell on top of him, enveloping him in its wet grip of death.

The memories flooded in. The house stood before him, a brick and wood invitation to his childhood. It virtually spoke to him, ushering in thoughts of his youth and embellishing his memories. Stan began to walk towards the house. He gazed down at the pathway leading to the front porch. It was pockmarked with all the cracks he had remembered as a kid including the large one that he had used as a trench for his imaginary battles with his plastic army men. He couldn’t help but smile as he reminisced about all of the skirmishes between the green army men and the gray army men. The green were the good guys, the gray the bad guys and each had their fair share of equipment. There were tiny molded tanks and jeep and even artillery. Stan approached the porch. The carved initials S. H. still clung silently to one of the posts. Stan remembered vividly etching those letters and he recalled just as vividly the punishment his father had meted out to him for it. The screen door creaked loudly as he opened it revealing the interior of his childhood home, an interior he hadn’t seen since he was nine years old and one that he couldn’t explain why he was seeing it now. The dimly lit hallway beckoned to him to enter. Shadows hung along the walls occasionally shifting slightly to reveal even more shadows. Stan stepped over the threshold and closed the screen door behind him. And then the gunfire started. At first it was no louder than a small firecracker heard from a dozen feet away but it quickly escalated to alarming intensity. Stan was forced to seek immediate shelter although the origins of the gunfire were nowhere to be seen. Peering out of the living room window where he had spent countless hours watching television he surveyed his old front yard. The shots were filling the air and he watched in disbelief as chunks of the front porch were splintered before his eyes. The bushes that lined both sides of the house were being hit repeatedly as were several areas of the front porch. Stan’s fear was matched only by his confusion. He had developed a rational mind during his childhood, partly due to being ignored by his parents and partly due to his ability to clearly access any situation he found himself in. But this situation easily dodged common sense. And then as his mind was feebly grasping at the last few nearly impossible explanations he saw the truth crystal clear…army men. Thousands upon thousands of tiny, green and gray plastic army men. They were literally pouring out of the same sidewalk crack that he had used as a trench for his many childhood battles. The impossibility of what was happening stung his common sense like an angry hornet. And then a stray artillery shell, a minuscule blob of molded green plastic, struck him dead center in the forehead and catapulted him into darkness.

Stan breathed in deeply, inhaling as much of the cool autumn air as he could. It felt good to watch the trees sway back and forth to the music of the wind. It had been quite a while since he had last been here and he knew it might be an even longer time until he could come back…if at all. In the distance he caught a glimpse of movement. Not the type of movement that is to be expected in the wilderness like a scavenging squirrel or dried leaves rustling in the breeze but movement unnatural to the woods…or anywhere else for that matter. Movement usually attributed to horror novels or bad dreams. Stan sensed something watching him and somehow he knew its intentions. He barley had time to avoid the huge branch that came crashing down with such force that he literally felt the ground shake. The trees came at him rapidly. Their size and sheer numbers made death seem like the only escape. And when he felt the pain begin in his head he knew the end was near.

Faith held her husband’s hand tightly. She was grateful that the experimental drug he was on seemed to alleviate any discomfort he was in and made his final days rather peaceful. But still the anguish sliced deep into her heart. She was alone now and the fact that she would never hear Stan tell her he loved her was difficult for her to accept. She walked slowly through the splintered solid oak door and out onto the front porch. A smile crept onto her face when she noticed the carved initials on one of the posts. Stan had wanted to die in his childhood home and she was glad that she was able to grant it for him. It was his last wish. She stepped off the porch and onto the pathway that led to the house almost stumbling on one of the large cracks on the walkway. Her mind was filled with memories of Stan. Both good and bad times swirled around in a reminiscing collage of tears and joy. The woods greeted her with the gentle sound of trees swaying to the wind. Overhead, gray clouds hung in the sky and a few stray birds glided past. Faith breathed in deeply, inhaling as much of the cool, autumn air as she could. And then in the distance, she caught a glimpse of movement. . .