Studio of Doom

Story Sent in by Davis:

Every day on my way into work, I would pass by Wendy. She looked great in what looked like a handmade scarf and a brown pea coat. Day in, day out, I biked in, she walked in. We worked in the same building, but in different companies. We never exchanged words, but always arrived around the same time.

One day, I arrived a bit early and made it in time to lock my bike just as she was arriving. I opened the main building door for her, she thanked me, and we took the elevator up together.

She worked at a small recording studio, it turned out. I expressed an interest in her work, and promised to stop by her company to learn more about it.

After a week or so of such visits (during which time I grabbed her number), I asked her out after work. She told me to meet her at her office at 6:30pm, which I did. When I arrived, she was shutting down the studio. If there was anyone else in there, I couldn't see them.

"Hey, Wendy," I said, walking past the front desk.

She froze. "What are you doing here?"

"I'm here to take you out to dinner. Remember?"

Her eyes went wide, and she looked all around. "Who are you?"

I laughed. "Can I help you shut the place down?"

"Get out!"

"I—what?"

"Who are you?"

"Davis. From upstairs. We made plans to hang out tonight. Is everything okay?"

"You're not Davis! You're—you're—wearing his skin!"

She then cried out something awful, ran away from me, booked it into one of the recording studios, and locked the door behind her. I knocked and knocked, but she made no further sound, and I couldn't see her from where I was. I figured that for some reason or another (she hadn't let on that anything was wrong before), she had some serious second thoughts. I finally said, "Okay, Wendy. I'm going. See you around."

Disappointed, I left the building and went to unlock my bike outside. A text arrived from her as I did so: "Where are you? Still coming?"

I called her up. It went to her voicemail. I texted her: "Everything okay?"

She texted back, "Everything's fine. Come on down."

Hoping for an explanation that would assuage my fears for her sanity and somehow ensure an enjoyable evening, I returned upstairs to her studio. The door to her company was locked and all of the lights were off inside. I texted her, "I'm here. Where are you?"

No reply. I made for the elevators, but they took a while, and I was antsy, so I headed for the stairs (I was only eight floors up).

I opened the stairwell door, and there, on the landing, was Wendy, herself. She was squatting and reading a book or maybe it was a journal.

We locked eyes. She yelped and ran upstairs. I called out for her, but didn't pursue. I called her one more time, then walked downstairs by myself. I unlocked my bike and rode home.

The next day, I made it a point to arrive for work five minutes later, so that I would hopefully not encounter her on the way in, which I didn't. There was a note in my mailbox, messily scrawled in black ink: "Do not come by the studio again or they will eat out your insides."

I've since made it a practice to go into work a few minutes later than I previously had. Haven't seen or heard from her since.