Rotting Black Timber Door and the Curfew

Rotting Black Timber Door and the Curfew

I was walking home from the grocery store late in the evening, carrying two heavy paper bags, but the route kept stretching out into an unfamiliar cobblestone alleyway behind my apartment. The streetlights had this weird, flickering amber glow, like iron lanterns, and the sky looked bruised and stormy. I passed my old coworker Marcus, except his clothes looked ragged and medieval, like heavy wool cloaks, and he wouldn't make eye contact. He just kept whispering that the curfew had started and the 'crawlers' were already crossing the bridge. I got this suffocating wave of dread, realizing I'd lost my front door key. I finally found my building, but the familiar glass front door was replaced by rotting black timber covered in crude carved markings. I tried to knock quietly so whatever was roaming the fog wouldn't hear me, but my knuckles felt completely numb and made no sound at all.