“You have to get out. You have to get out now. Now. You are not safe.”

Hearing that play again erased all of the rational explanations I had created in my head in about two seconds. The horrifying truth was I was alone, in a cold, dark house in a just as cold and dark little town with my dead father warning me through an answering machine from 1995.

The doorbell rang throughout the rickety bones of the house and I literally screamed and jumped up into the air.

It was the pizza. It was the pizza. It was the pizza. I told myself over and over again.

Each step towards the front door felt like a mile. I walked with my skinny arms tensed and outwards like they would actually be able to do something should I need to defend myself. I couldn’t have been more pissed at myself for leaving the light in the living room and the foyer off. I had to walk through a dark corridor just to get to the door.

I stopped just inside the door and looked out the glass at the top.

Standing outside was a pencil-thin delivery boy who couldn’t have been 18 wearing a crooked Domino’s hat and picking his nose.

I opened up the door and the boy barely looked at me.