Gatekeeper - The Portal That Should Not Be Possible (Dimensional Horror)

Gatekeeper - The Portal That Should Not Be Possible

© Andre Michael Pietroschek, all rights reserved, A Horror Story Inspired by George Wofford's Rules of Passage  

Disclaimer: No warranties! This narrative bears no affiliation between Andre Michael Pietroschek and George Wofford. I acknowledge the original copyright holder whose work inspired my endeavor.

Nightscribe licenses: CC BY and non-exclusive narration rights for narrators. Please refrain from AI narrations, as I undertake the task myself.

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The story unfolds:

In the heart of Sewage City, that imaginative Hollywood where dreams often collide with stark reality, twilight cast a gentle shadow over the day.

A pale-skinned man stirred in his modest apartment, movements slow and uncoordinated, reminiscent of a marionette tangled in its strings. He shuffled into the bathroom, inspected a filter attached to the faucet, and washed his hands and face. With a careless gesture, he placed the towel back, then bent down to retrieve a bottle from the floor, pouring its contents into a kettle. He fumbled with a package of paper filters, nesting them together before filling them with rich brown powder from a glass jar. As he set them atop a mug, his gaze lingered on the kettle, dissatisfaction etched across his face. He executed a series of haphazard movements, echoing yoga poses or ancient martial arts, the kind one might mimic in front of a flickering screen.

As steam billowed from the kettle, a soft click broke the silence, rousing him from his groggy state. He poured the steaming liquid into the mug and opened the fridge, adding a splash of milk. Inhaling the fragrant steam, a smirk crept onto his lips. Satisfied, he returned to the cramped main room, took a sip from his mug, and lit a cigarette.

Time slipped away as he savored the cigarette, extinguishing it in what appeared to be a makeshift ashtray. After another sip of coffee, he stood, accidentally kicking the ashtray and prompting a flurry of cleaning. Once the chores were done, he dressed in layers—a wool cardigan over a sweatshirt, clumsily donning pants and slipping into lightweight slippers.

He opened a small window, retrieving an incense burner from his desk. Lighting a stick labeled "Light Sandalwood," he positioned a classic metal fan to circulate the air. Another sip of coffee, another half-smoked cigarette, and then he cradled his phone in his left hand, waiting for a call or message.

Moments turned into eternity before the phone's screen flickered to life. He approached the door, opening it to reveal three visitors from the dim corridor. The first was a Latino man, their greeting revealing a shared history. The second was a woman, likely a beautiful blend of cultures, her demeanor formal and distant. Last was a large, dark-skinned man, moving with the precision of a soldier, a protective aura surrounding him as he positioned himself between the woman and the others.

The host, the groggy dweller of the apartment, broke the silence.

"Welcome, I'm Aron Plebs. You've engaged my services to guide you to a peculiar anomaly and to stabilize it long enough for you to step inside, should you choose. I stumbled upon this by chance, not by skill or training. I'm not interested in monetizing paranormal streams, nor am I any crazier than the average person you might encounter in the subways of New York or the suburbs of Chicago."

Exchanges of glances flitted among the visitors as Aron gestured toward a wardrobe door.

"Precautions are necessary. What you're about to see, hear, and experience is uncharted territory, even for us. The glowsticks are essential, and the vests I've prepared are not a gimmick; they're for your safety."

He unveiled three packages, each containing a silvery blue vest, proudly displaying the white glowsticks attached to the chest and back.

"I assure you, I'm neither delusional nor dangerous. The shadows I mentioned are very real and quite perilous! Thus far, I've learned that bright white light repels them better than the yellow light our eyes prefer, far more effectively than the green or purple lights used by investigators."

The visitors listened, some feigning interest, as Aron continued.

"The shadows manifest in at least two forms. The first are lurkers, capable of emerging from any dark space. That's why you'll wear those glowsticks; true darkness will be nearly impossible unless you misstep."

Melinda Wong interjected, skepticism evident in her tone. "We're meant to venture into a wardrobe wearing these construction vests with glowsticks?"

"Yes," Aron replied, "in simple terms, that's exactly what you paid for. Soon, this wardrobe will transform from a mere closet into a portal reminiscent of something out of *The Twilight Zone*."

Melinda scoffed while the others exchanged uncertain glances.

"None of you are obligated to enter. If you prefer to observe, that's perfectly fine. However, activating the glowsticks and donning the vests is crucial."

Ebon Chappelle asked, "You mentioned two types of threats—what's the second?"

"Brutes," Aron clarified. "They rush at you like rabid dogs, but they cannot approach the light. Their screams may induce headaches or dizziness, but as long as your glowsticks are lit, they cannot reach you. You'll enter with extra glowsticks to illuminate your path or retreat if needed."

Paco Gomez remarked, "So this is the real deal, huh? After all these years, science isn't always right."

"Stay alert," Aron cautioned. "Keep your first venture brief. If you must check the diner for deceased relatives, place active glowsticks along your path, and don't linger for more than two hours. If I fall asleep waiting, that's a risk we can avoid for now."

He unpacked two bags of glowsticks and three lanterns.

"I'll keep a few glowsticks; you each get a lantern and at least eight more glowsticks to light your way."

The visitors nodded, their skepticism mingling with curiosity.

"Just a hunch, but I assume one of you is armed?" Aron inquired.

Ebon responded, "I have a concealed carry license."

"Is it a 9mm or a .357 Magnum?" Aron pressed.

"Magnum," Ebon confirmed.

Aron retrieved something from his jacket pocket and offered Ebon a slim metallic object.

"Dragonbreath? Phosphorous bullets—those are illegal in most states," Ebon remarked.

"An untested survival measure," Aron replied. "One magazine, ten bullets if they didn't cheat me."

Ebon inspected the magazine, checking each bullet with practiced precision.

Aron glanced at the incense burning down, gauging the passage of time.

"Excuse me a moment; I'm feeling anxious."

He returned to his bed, lit another cigarette, inhaled deeply, then extinguished it before rejoining his visitors. But their attention was drawn elsewhere—the wardrobe door vibrated, pulsing light emanating from within.

"Let me handle this!" Aron declared, stepping toward the door and opening it. Though the wardrobe should have been shallow, he vanished completely upon entry.

"Knick-knack one, knick-knack two. Done. Kick-knack three, and knick-knack four. All set; you can look now."

The visitors, awestruck by the unfolding phenomenon, hesitated before peering through the portal.

"For what it's worth, you've earned your pay," Melinda remarked, raising her phone to display the 'Bitcoin Bombardement APP' with Aron's name as the recipient of 250 bitcoins.

At last, curiosity and courage intertwined, leading the three to step hesitantly through the portal, glowsticks activated, shrugging off disbelief and latent fears.

After two minutes, Melinda returned to the threshold where Aron awaited.

"We've decided to check the diner and say hello. Our timer is set for thirty minutes; we'll be back in around forty."

Aron nodded, glancing at his phone, maintaining his vigil at the threshold.

As time passed, the trio rushed back through the portal, relief washing over them as they escaped the danger zone.

"Let me close it for good!" Aron exclaimed, reaching into the pulsating light. The portal grew unstable, vanishing completely.

The visitors shed their vests, with Melinda claiming hers as a trophy. Shortly before 9 PM, they exited the apartment, making their way to the parking lot.

"From low-income loser to guardian at the threshold, just as you said, Paco. Odd but true," Melinda mused.

"Indeed, but actually experiencing it—that was the real deal. Who did you meet at the diner?" Paco inquired.

"Deceased relatives—an uncle and his second wife, if my family tree serves me right," Melinda replied.

"Are you satisfied with your investment?" Paco pressed.

"More than that, and a bonus for my bodyguard!" Melinda beamed.

"You did great, especially when those shadows tried to close in on us," Ebon added.

"We still had a handful of glowsticks left—safe enough for a first exploration," Melinda noted.

As they reached the elevator, the parking lot lay eerily empty, devoid of the notorious punks who had recently terrorized the area.

"I'll drop you both off at the motel, right?" Paco offered.

"Thank you; it saves us waiting for a taxi or Uber," Melinda replied gratefully.

As they settled into the car, they were finally ready for a restful night.

Then, in an instant—a flicker of light, akin to a brief power outage—darkness enveloped them. Life drained from their bodies in ways only seen in video games or films. Skin withered, flesh stiffened, and death reigned, replacing what was once a joyful existence.

The following morning, police would arrive to investigate yet another unexplained death, but for now, no witnesses remained. Whatever had slithered through the darkness had slipped away, cloaked in shadows.

The end!

Postscript: An improved edition may emerge in the future; however, I make no promises, as my medical struggles, age, and acceptance of my limitations have become a routine I now navigate.

Adam `Capricious´ Cabrera did a cost-free narration of the original version:  https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XcydRIyaTgw