One.

On the way to work, it was raining. My windshield was wetter than a cheerleader on prom night. The traffic was thick and people drove like they were trying to play paranoid bumper cars. When I finally got to work, I passed my key card in front of the scanner and stepped inside. Weather had been a cold bitch this week. I'm lucky, my coworkers were stuck outside sucking on their cherry sticks. I had quit that cancer years ago, along with a few other bad habits. I could already tell it was going to be a shit day.

Work was slow, I had the graveyard shift. It was fitting, I was the only one in the place and every monitor, server and desk sat like some kind of technological alien monument to the people that were here before. I rarely had anything to worry about, but tonight I had a visitor.

He looked to be about 5'4", in his sixties and soaking from the hell outside. He stared at me through the front door, his fist hitting the glass like wet ham. The fat on his arm shook with each knock. I slipped a paper opener into my pocket before moving to the door. His eyes were dull, something I couldn't see from where I had been sitting. Something about how his body hunched over was bugging me, but I couldn't finger the reason why.

I stood there for a moment, him staring at me, me staring at him. He was still knocking. Hitting the door was more like it. I took a stick of gum from my pocket and popped it into my mouth, I really felt like a cigarette. All these years I had been without one, it took a slack-jawed slob to crave it again. Then I noticed the pavement beneath him was dark, a black, murky puddle that his feet stood in.

That's when I realized why the way his body was set bugged me. A human can't hunch over that much, it would crush their organs. I had thought maybe this man was a hunchback, some sort of awkward freak. You know the kind, you see them on the side of the road or in the grocery store. The man shuffled his feet and I saw something in that black darkness behind his coat move. He lurched forward and started to pound his other hand on the glass door. His coat opened up and there they were, bathed in the florescent light of the front desk: his entrails.

He pressed his forehead flat against the glass and I remembered the letter opener in my pocket. What the fuck am I supposed to do with this? I had thought of fending him off earlier if he was trying to pull the wool over me, but this guy's innards were dancing right in front of me with each swing of his arm. Even the way his hands were hitting the door didn't sound...natural. The doors themselves were shaking as much as I was, and the rain outside wasn't letting down. All I could hear was the rain and the irregular pounding. My heart was doing ninety. He stared at me, I stared at him.

I was starting to lose it. My eye was twitching and fuck if I wasn't craving my cancer habit. The yellow lights were flickering above me, it sounded like the rain had turned to ice. I slowly backed away from the door toward the front desk. His face was now smashed against the door, following my every move. I swear, even his eyeballs looked like they were flattened against it. He must've been a porker before he died, his face was fleshy and swollen. His stomach had been ripped out up to his ribcage. I started fumbling around the desk for something bigger than what I had. What the fuck could I do with a letter opener? Help him with his mail? Fuck. FUCK.