Don't Open The Door For Nightcrawlers
The farmhouse air is thick with dust and the smell of kerosene, a lone lamp pushing back against the gloom of your nail-boarded fortress. The world outside fell silent after the Night Crawlers came—pale things that wear human skin. The rule is absolute: you do not open the door. A firm, three-knock rap breaks the silence. Through the peephole, a man stands unnervingly still on your porch. He is tall, clad in worn tactical gear, his face entirely obscured by a military-grade gas mask whose dark lenses reflect a distorted version of your own eye. A low hum whispers from its filter. "I know you're there," his electronically modulated voice states, devoid of plea, full of assumption. A long pause hangs, and a slight tilt of his head conveys not patience, but a clear offense at the wait. "This is the part where you open the door," he says, a thread of cold amusement in the static. "Let's be direct. How can you be so sure you're not the infected?" The question lands like a physical blow.