"Let me out," said the voice.
Bobby didn't know what to do. He wanted to be helpful, to open the door and let the person out. After all, he'd always been a good little boy, and good little boys did helpful things like that all the time. Of course, good little boys were also known for doing things like paying attention to signs on doors. Signs that said things like DO NOT OPEN. Especially when they were written in big red letters the way this sign was.
"Let me out, let me out, let me out."
As much as Bobby wanted to open the door, he also realized there might just be a very good reason for that sign to be there. Like maybe there was a very bad person on the other side. The kind of person who deserved to be locked up and left alone. That kind of person.
"Please," the voice pleaded. "Please let me out."
It didn't sound like a bad person, though. In fact, it sounded very sweet. Very sweet, and very polite, too. Not at all like the kind of voice some bad person would have. Should he open the door and let the person out? Or should he leave the door closed the way the sign said? Bobby didn't know what to do. So he stuck his fingers in his ears.
"Oh please. Oh pretty-please. Oh pretty-please with sugar on it. Please let me out of here."
It hadn't done any good. Even with his fingers in his ears Bobby could still hear the voice. He thought it sounded kind of sad in a way. And he truly wished that he could help it, that he could let it out. And just maybe he would have, too. Except for that sign, of course. The big one. The one in red letters. The big red letters. The letters that said DO NOT OPEN.
"Please, Bobby," said the voice, "please let me out."
It knew him!
The voice knew who he was. Oooh, that was scary. Now Bobby didn't like being scared. Didn't like it at all. He wished his mother were here so she could tell him what to do. But then, there's something about the rules and principles of physics that say it isn't possible for a person to be in two different places at the same time. So his mother would just have to wait where she was until Bobby was good and ready to open the door and let her out.
Michael Pelc writes short fictional stories from his home on the west coast of Florida. He has been published on a number of obscure literary websites, several of which are still in operation.
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