Rules for Guarding a Ruined Temple

On a stormy night, I took refuge in a ruined temple deep in the mountains, only to find five rules written in blood behind the door.

“Sleep with your back to the door. Do not answer or look.” “If someone knocks at midnight, ask who it is...”

I gritted my teeth and followed the rules, but could only watch as my companion was swallowed by the darkness.

Before dawn, I found a blood-soaked note on his corpse: “The temple rules are only the bare minimum for staying alive. Between the rooster's crow and sunrise, you must complete three tasks to truly leave.”

Following the note's instructions, I used my blood to write the time on a bronze mirror, then smashed it to pieces.

I thought I had escaped.

Until one rainy night a year later, when the dripping oil-paper umbrella from the ruined temple stood silently beneath my apartment building.

A voice whispered against my ear: “The time was wrong... Come back...”

I knew there was no escaping. That man-eating temple was still waiting for me.