There’s literally nothing here. Nowhere at all to hide. You crouch down in the furthest corner and turn you torch off. You hope that whatever-it-is will pass you by. But you hear the door open, and the dragging of footsteps towards you.
You straighten up and shine your torch at the deeper shadow. The torch beam picks out a shambling figure, wrapped in rags and plastic. Davy. It has to be Davy.
Also, it can’t be Davy. You know that it’s not Davy.
“I’m sorry,” you say, “whatever it is you think I’ve done, I’m sorry.” But he’s beyond words, beyond life, beyond even death. Wherever it is you are now, these things are meaningless. You’ve nowhere to go to, and Davy is closing, slowly, tirelessly closing.