Chapter 2: The Closet That Breathes
The metallic rasp of hangers scraping bone-dry wood jolted Ben awake. His beloved jerseys were being shoved aside, replaced by a slithering cascade of sequined fabric that gleamed with a sickly, internal light. "Everyone needs an upgrade, Benjamin," a sugary voice whispered directly into his ear, the smell of decayed roses washing over him. He tried to shout, but his lungs seized, his body floating off the bed toward the closet's now infinite, pink-throated darkness. Helpless, he watched his own hand rise, not by his will, to catch a shimmering dress hanger.
His fingers, pale against the sparkly pink plastic, began to close. A tidal wave of pure revulsion—thick and hot and his own—slammed into the floating detachment. "No," he grunted, the single syllable tearing from his throat. With a violent twist of his whole body, he hurled the hanger back into the closet's depth. The floating sensation snapped, dropping him onto the hardwood floor with a painful, beautiful thud.
Gasping, Ben scrambled back until his shoulders hit his bedframe, the wood digging hard into his spine. Before he could catch his breath, a shimmering wind he could not feel lifted his ankles first, then his legs, pulling him toward the pulsating closet. The magic was relentless as he was floated up again, his fingers scraping uselessly at the smooth floor as he rose.d
The unseen force dragged him past the threshold, his fingers finally losing purchase on the familiar world of his bedroom. The tunnel of satin and light enveloped him, the air now humming with a staticky pop song he almost recognized. Deeper in, a leopard-print bodysuit twitched on its hanger like a living pelt, while a skirt made of what seemed like woven neon ribbons coiled and uncoiled beside it.
“See? Way better than sweatpants,” Tiffany’s voice chimed from everywhere, satisfied. His struggle had been accounted for by the magic as he was carried deep into the closet, the outfits getting skimpier and more animated the deeper he was carried.