When he woke up, he was hung over. Hell of a dream. Or did he, uh, really...

Bob laid still, gritting his teeth in time with the throbbing in his head. When he could, he worked back through yesterday. Didn't remember finding a bottle, in the park. Or buying one. It didn't feel like a hangover from beer, or that really cheap wine. He hated that shit...

This had to be... Saturday. His birthday was Wednesday. He didn't remember coming across any alcohol since then.

He braced himself, rolled over. Groaned anyway. He was on something soft. Like, foam rubber. Didn't seem wet, from dew, which it should be. He tested it, and felt something else. Leather? His hand -

Gloves, on both hands. He looked at 'em. Same gloves as in his dream. This felt like a real hangover, though.

The van. Driving north. Was all that... real?

This wasn't the park. He was indoors. Where w-

Slowly, he opened his eyes.

There was a water bottle. Standing there, on the floor, within his reach. Same kind as the ones in his dream. The room was cool and dark. The only light was low - a flashlight, laying on the floor. It was on. The beam was shining through the water...

Water sounded really good to Bob, right then. He reached over, carefully, and snagged the bottle. Took his time sitting up.

The foam was like a skinny mattress. Thick. He tested it a little, bouncing. Nice -

When he could unclench his teeth again, he drank some water. It helped. He wanted a smoke then, so he pulled out his pack. After he lit it and took a drag, he got another surprise. It was strong. Whoa... He looked at the pack. Wrong brand. These were the ones in the dream, too. There were maybe five left, so he must've smoked the rest.
 

Well, maybe this was still the dream. He had to sit there for another minute and just breathe, until his headache eased up again. Then he took a quick drag. So that was okay.

He just sat there, knees up, arms on his knees. He wanted a big, fat line. Instead he had another smoke, and drained the water. By then the headache was backing off a little, so he took off his jacket slowly. Looked around...

Dark room. What the fuck was this place supposed to be?

"Uh... hello?"

No answer.

Creeped him out. Bob didn't know why, exactly.

The smell, maybe. Even over the smoke, there was... an old smell. He couldn't place it, and he really wanted to. Like a garage. Motor oil? Gas? Machine oil. Reminded him of something. Why here, anyway? And the mattress - was he in a shooting gallery, in an old auto body shop? Alone?

What place had smelled like this?

He looked at the flashlight. Picked it up.

Concrete floor. Cracked, stained...

Further away - wood, and metal. Furniture? Didn't look right. The beam moved over... frames. Big skeletons of fixtures he didn't recognize. For livestock, maybe. That iron box, there, with the rings bolted all over i-

Bob noticed the wall, and froze. It was the paint. Over cinderblock...

He knew that color.
 

"Nah," he whispered to himself. Just a coincidence.

Almost purple. So light, he didn't know what to call it. Lavender wasn't right. Lilac, he thought numbly. Maybe lilac. Real sloppy paint job. Not enough paint on the roller, so bumps and pits showed through.

Now why the hell would somebody pick that color, for a garage? And right away, after thinking that, he remembered his old nightmare. Tough Bob had that exact same thought. Uh-oh.

If this wasn't the exact same color of paint... it was pretty damn close.

Coincidence, he told himself again. A shaky thought, far away.

Swinging the flashlight around, hoping so bad -

Uh-huh. Shit.

"Shit," he said out loud. The wall in front was that same color. And the one to his right -

There was a click. Overhead, a flourescent light came to life.

That was the color, all right. Real light purple -

And worse - even worse! - there was the pipe. High up there.

Bob stared up at it. His throat got tight, but he couldn't even swallow.
 

He was back in the toolshed.
 

That was... impossible. No way he'd come b-

North. He'd driven north. Not back to Kansas. It takes longer than one night to drive to fucking Kansas. And he sure wouldn't have come back here.
 

He'd just turned eleven. They'd all dared each other to climb the fence. The old mill, closed forever. Sitting in the middle of a town that was just about dead, everyone clearing out, though he hadn't realized it yet.

Jason and Joe were there. Them... and Earl.

The mill itself had been boring, despite the stories the bigger kids told about it being haunted. In the back of the lot, though... Way back...

A small building, surrounded by two more fences. Mainly on the theory that it must be worth getting in there if it was so hard to get in there, they took the challenge. It wasn't easy. But they made it. They'd barely been able to squeeze through the widest fenceposts, so they might have been the first kids to do it. No graffiti, no Trojan wrappers...

By that time Joe, a year younger, was bored. He and Jason took off and went home.

Right after they did, Bob saw the chain. It was old. Big greasy links. Ready to fall off this shelf, over his head...

And he had to go and pull on it -

As it fell, it looped over his wrist. Just as he realized that, and how heavy it was, the rest of the links slithered down. But they fell off the end of the shelf. Over the shelf bracket -

His wrist flew up in the air. He pulled, but the chain was too heavy. So he started rolling the links off his arm...

And that was when Earl poked him in the armpit.

"Hey!," he said, turning -

Earl laughed, then. It wasn't a nice laugh. He was almost a year older, and bigger.

His hand came back - and ran down Bob's side. Made him squeal, and try to run. But the chain pulled him back.

Earl grabbed his rib cage, on both sides.

He squealed and howled and lunged all around. Instead of getting his right hand free, Bob's left hand was punching Earl, when he could connect...

But Earl, he was laughing. And tickling. He kept going.

Bob couldn't hold still, and he couldn't slip the chain off. He was panicking, and he couldn't go anywhere...

When Earl finally stopped, he was leaning against the shelves, panting for breath. So relieved it was ov-

Metal, clinking. He opened his eyes - and saw Earl had grabbed the chain. He was pulling on it. Turning Bob a little. And he pushed on Bob's elbow... and let go.

The chain dropped around his left wrist. Bob pulled, but he was just too tired. Earl got his arm up, slung a loop around both wrists, and carefully stuck the bulk of the chain over the shelf bracket.

Both arms went up. All the way up.

Earl snuck his hands under Bob's shirt...

He tried Bob's stomach, and neck. After a while, Bob couldn't squirm at all. He just kepr howling.

When Earl's hands went away, he tried to catch his breath. Tried to pull the chain down. Earl was going around the room, looking for something.

Of all things, he found a ball of twine.

He kicked a shelf out, and lifted Bob by the ankles. Pushed him, so he was kneeling on a lower shelf. And he didn't have too much trouble tying Bob's ankles together. Anchoring them to another shelf support. It was only twine, but there was plenty.

And then Bob's shoes and socks were taken off...
 

Most of the afternoon, wailing and barking laughter - Until Earl finally cut his feet loose, and used the rope to pull the chain free. Bob was worn out. After a few seconds, staring down at him, Earl laughed and helped himself again...
 

After he left, Bob laid there for what seemed like an hour. Too tired to get up. And so damn afraid - looking for Earl to show up in the doorway. With the other guys - or some bigger kids.

And that was where the idea must have come from. The nightmare he'd had more times than he could count. What if he... got stuck in here? Earl probably knew he was still worn out, and could come back.

What if... the twine started to move, slowly... around his wrists... and over to that shelf bracket -

Or over the pipe.

It made sense, somehow, that twine would know how to tie good knots... if it wanted to. And there he'd be, caught. For more tickling. 

 

He never got over being mad at Earl, who kept trying to poke him in the armpits. Then Earl moved, and Bob's folks did too - but they only ended up a few blocks apart. But it was enough. Bob solemnly promised Earl he'd kill him if anyone at school tickled him, 'cause it would prove Earl had blabbed. Being a coward at heart, Earl apparently never told anyone.

A few years later, the last gas station closed in the town where they used to live. And the last family left. It was a modern-day ghost town, and that suited Bob just fine. He used to fantasize about burning the place down...

 
And now, seeing the texture of the walls painted that certain color, he really wished he had torched it. But this was cinderblock, and it wouldn't burn for anything.

He turned off the flashlight. Looked at the exit -

And saw... the door.

Thick, dark door. Closed. Barred shut. The bar was iron, and a padlock hung from the end.

The padlock was closed.

"No," he blurted. "Not a door -"

"Yeeeeeahh."

His head flew around. Somebody. In here - but he didn't see anybody. "Who said that?"

The voice chuckled, from somewhere in front of him...

And it wasn't a nice chuckle. 

He started to creep toward the door.

"It's locked up tight," the voice said helpfully. Guy's voice. Low, calm.

"Shouldn't even be a door," Bob wailed. "No door. There wasn't a door, it was gone. Just the opening -"

"We hung it real well, too. And it's stayin' locked. Not so curious kids will stay out. Nossir, Bobby. We got that door to keep you in."

The guy knew his name? "Keep me... in?"

"Sure."

"Don't... keep me in. I don't wanna be kept in -"

"Look at it this way. You were gettin' kind of desperate, there, weren't ya? Downtown? Crankster gangster, huh. Like it a little too much. Maybe thinkin' about a new line of work, there? Shit, you don't wanna go and do that. So we got you out of there. Before you made a mistake, huh? While you're still healthy. Strong. And hey, as it turns out - there's no crank in here."

"No? None?" he babbled, looking for the source of the voice... staring at the weird frames and fixtures. "You sure?"

"Yeah, Bobby. Real sure. You're gonna detox. Booze, now, that's okay. You like that. Beer, too. Hey... you ain't even seen it yet, have you? Turn around."

He thought that over... and looked behind him.

At the shelves. Full of... boxes.

Cases of water. Beer. Bourbon and whiskey. Smokes -

Food. Oh, shit. A lot of food.

And there was... bathroom stuff. Or first aid stuff. Emoillent - wasn't that soap, or something? Oil. Message oil. Wait, that must be massage oil -

A good dozen boxes, on the end, had nothing printed on 'em. Blank cardboard boxes.

"I don't need... just lemme out," he stammered.

"And a water purifier," the voice said, with a contented sigh. "Yeah, you're set for the rest of the year."

"But... it's May."

"Yeeeeeeeup."
 

He stared at all the boxes... then at the door.

The rest of the year?
 

In the toolshed?