Knock knock, the sound of bone on wood. You risk a peep out of the keyhole - and see an eye staring back.
You'd recognise that iris anywhere. It's Harris.
You stagger back, breathing hard. Your eyes dart here and there, bulging like ripe frogspawn as they search for a way out. Seconds slip away while you stand, rooted by panic, and all the while the Reaper-man is pulling back his grisly scythe, ready for the harvest.
A raven quoths croakily outside the window. An auto-tuned banshee screams your name into the night.
Knock knock. She won't ask again. You hear the wet plat plat of great gobs of saliva splattering on the ground outside - if you don't want your bones licked clean, you best do something. Fast.
What do you do?