He closed the door. Everything went black. His fingers reached for wall, out of reflex, but found nothing. He was suspended in… nothing. He felt for the stairs with his feet, inching a shoe forward, expecting to find the next step downward, but instead was met with weightlessness. Not the effortless

Weightlessness, as through water, no, this weightlessness felt heavy. As though something were pressing on him from all sides, making it hard to breathe, hard to move, hard to think.

And then, it was cold. And he blinked, caught himself, and found this time he grasped the rough facade of bark. Smelled the dry crispness of snow. He was outside. It was dark. He blinked again and a warm, colorful light entered his periphery. He blinked again. Christmas lights. He collected himself, looked around, and realized he was sitting in a haphazard pile of chopped wood. Behind a shed of a house he’d never seen.