The squirrel stares into the closet and the closet stares back.
9:57
9:56
They walk in circles around the hallways, left, left, left, left, left, left, left, left, right. Everyone is being watched. We can’t have cheaters.
9:32
9:31
It creaks the door open. Abyssal eyes make contact—eye to eye, eye to eye. They clatter to the floor, rolling and tumbling, picking up carpet lint, and unblinking.
8:27
8:26
8:25
“Squirrel noises.”
“Squirrel noises.”
5:41
5:40
5:39
5:38
It grabs a few, picking them up and examining them—their color, size, scent, consistency, and taste.
“Squirrel noises.”
“Squirrel noises.”
3:04
3:03
3:02
It wipes away the flakes of skin and dust. They stare back, unblinking. It picks up another one. Carpet lint covered. Small. Firm. Not firm enough. Crushed. Splattered. Oozed.
1:18
1:17
1:16
1:15
1:14
Its slow feet trudge back through the halls, kicking up dust with every step.
0:22
0:21
0:19
0:18
Rounding the dimly lit hallways, the floorboards and walls moan in agony. Too many buried to hold. Too many secrets to seal. The door is ajar. The lights are unflickering.
0:05
0:04
0:03
0:02
0:01
0:00