Chapter 9: A Locked Door from the Inside

The house was awake when Ethan returned.

He felt it the moment he stepped onto the porch—an awareness in the walls, a tension in the air that hadn’t been there before. The fog clung low, muffling the town below, isolating the hill as if it were cut from the world.

Ethan unlocked the door and stepped inside.

It locked itself behind him.

The click was soft. Final.

He turned sharply, hand already reaching for the handle. It didn’t move.

“No,” he said, testing it again.

The door was solid. Deadbolted.

His phone showed no signal. No service. No emergency call.

The house smelled faintly of damp wood and something else—metallic, sharp.

Blood.

The kitchen light flickered on by itself.

Ethan froze.

The photograph lay on the table again, face up. Beside it sat a key he had never seen before—old, iron, rusted at the teeth.

And the drawer beneath the counter was open.

He stepped closer, pulse hammering. Inside the drawer lay his wallet.

Open.

His ID had been removed.

Someone wanted his name.

Footsteps sounded upstairs.

Slow.

Deliberate.

Each step heavy enough to announce intent.

Ethan backed away, grabbing the kitchen knife. “Who’s there?” he shouted.

The footsteps stopped.

Then resumed—closer now, descending.

The banister creaked.

Ethan’s chest tightened. He positioned himself near the counter, every muscle coiled.

A shadow appeared at the base of the stairs.

Then nothing.

The air grew colder.

A whisper drifted from behind him.

“It wasn’t supposed to be you.”

Ethan spun.

No one stood there.

The whisper came again—closer, clearer.

“He locked the door.”

Ethan’s breath caught. “Who did?”

Silence.

Then a soft click echoed through the house.

Upstairs.

A door locking.

Ethan stared toward the staircase. Slowly, carefully, he climbed.

The hallway was darker than it should have been. His bedroom door stood open.

The unused door at the end of the hall was no longer closed.

It stood ajar.

Cold air poured from the gap.

Ethan approached, heart pounding. The iron key in his pocket felt suddenly heavier, as if recognizing its purpose.

He pushed the door open.

The room beyond was small—far smaller than the space it occupied. Concrete walls. No windows. A single bare bulb flickering weakly.

And a door on the far wall.

Locked.

From the inside.

Ethan stepped closer. Something was scratched into the concrete beside the door, carved with desperation.

HELP ME

Below it—

3:17

The bulb flickered violently, plunging the room into darkness.

The locked door rattled.

Once.

Twice.

A voice whispered through the crack.

“Ethan… please.”

He staggered back as the house groaned around him.

Then, suddenly—

Silence.

The bulb steadied. The door was still.

No voice. No movement.

Ethan stood frozen, breath shallow, heart racing.

Whatever had been locked in this house had been waiting.

And now that Ethan had returned…
It knew his name.

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