This is how it happens.
Make love in seedy parts of town like teenagers again. Ignore the hip pain, hitch your breaths. “No-one’s going to use this for its intended purpose,” one of you says as you step into the glowing box.
And one of you disappears.
The one who stepped in turns around to no-one; the one who stayed outside sees you vanish when you walk in, like there’s a filter over your eyes. Going in after won’t help. You try. (It doesn’t.) You can never explain it. No reason, no explanation. ATMs have cameras. The recording shows nothing.
(Nightmare Fuel October is a Thing you can learn more about over here: https://plus.google.com/u/0/109187322359266879884/about)