It was a basement apartment.
Concrete steps without a handrail.
Faded blue chipped plaster walls.
There was an aroma of stagnate steamy
air and garbage. Light
bulbs hung from brown wires.
Echoes of dripping water. Heavy
footsteps in the hallway above. Pipes
ached from sending hot water to the
floors above. The furnace growled with
energy. Wires emerged between beams
and openings in the walls. A metal door
slams shut, waking the dead while
stirring the rats.

– Joan M. Donovan

editors note: On this Hallows Eve, we wickedly wonder what could lurk on either side o’ that slam. – mh clay