The Locksmith Died Twice

The locksmith died twice — once in the fire, and once when the truth came out.

His name was Ansel Merrin. In the town of Delmere, everyone simply called him "Locks." For thirty-five years, he kept a small shop wedged between an old bakery and a tailor who never smiled. His windows were dusty, his hair whiter than bone, and his keys jingled like wind chimes when he walked. He never married, never left town, never said more than needed.

When his shop burned down one October night, most assumed it was an accident. The fire department blamed faulty wiring. Ansel’s body was found in the ashes, curled beneath his workbench. Closed casket. Quick burial.

And that was that.

Until five months later, he walked into the sheriff’s office.

Alive.

His beard was gone, eyes sunken, but there was no doubt — it was Ansel Merrin. Same soft-spoken voice. Same distant look. Same long fingers that used to coax open jammed deadbolts like a piano tuner in prayer.

Sheriff Lorrell stared at him, pale as a ghost.

“You… died.”

Ansel only nodded. “I know.”

They ran tests. Fingerprints, dental records, blood work — all confirmed. He was Ansel Merrin. But then, who had they buried?

No answers. Only more questions.

He said little, offered no explanation. The town whispered louder now. Some said he faked his death. Others, that he never truly died. A few believed something darker — that he’d struck a bargain with the devil, or Death himself. No one could prove anything.

He reopened the shop two weeks later, as if nothing had happened.

But something had changed.

Where once he only cut keys and repaired locks, now his work grew… stranger.

People spoke of keys that opened more than doors. A woman claimed a key Ansel gave her unlocked a box she hadn't owned — inside were letters from her late husband, letters he’d never written. A boy said his key opened a door in a dream. An old man swore his safe had been empty for years until Ansel fixed its lock — then it held every coin he’d ever lost.

Curiosity brought more customers. Then fear thinned them.

Still, Ansel worked. Quietly. Patiently. Like a man making peace with something no one else could see.

Then came the second death.

It was just after sunset, on a Wednesday thick with fog. Deputy Reeve was the last to see him alive — or so he thought. Ansel had come to the station, handed over a key. "For the basement door," he said. Reeve frowned. There was no basement.

Then Ansel left.

Hours later, the alarm was triggered at the locksmith shop. By the time the sheriff and deputies arrived, the building stood silent. No fire this time. No forced entry. Just the front door, slightly ajar.

Inside, they found Ansel again — slumped over his workbench, just like before. Same pose. Same look of peace on his face. But this time, there was no body in the morgue to bury. By morning, the corpse was gone.

Just a circle of ash in the shape of a key.

The town didn’t know what to do with that.

They boarded up the shop. A pastor came to bless the place. Children dared each other to touch the door. No one heard keys clinking for a long time.

But the dreams began.

People across town started dreaming of Ansel. He’d appear in hallways of houses they’d never seen, offer them keys, whisper phrases in languages they didn’t understand. Some woke with small metal keys clenched in their fists. Others found them under pillows, in coat pockets, between pages of unread books.

One man claimed Ansel appeared in his dream and gave him a key labeled Forgiveness. The next morning, he walked across town and made peace with his estranged daughter for the first time in fifteen years.

Another woman dreamed of a key labeled What Could Have Been. She didn’t say what happened next, only that she cried for hours afterward and never went near the shop again.

Eventually, the townsfolk accepted it — the locksmith had died twice, but in some way, never left.

Some believed he’d found a way through the doors of life and death, unlocking something beyond understanding. Others thought his soul was trapped, bound to the metal and memory of every lock he'd ever touched.

But Reeve, the deputy, had a different theory.

He sat alone in the sheriff’s office one night, Ansel’s last key still in his drawer. On it was etched no label — just a symbol: a circle with a line through it, like a lock half-turned.

Reeve hadn’t used it.

Not yet.

He stood, took the key, and walked to the far wall of the station — where, years ago, blueprints had shown plans for a basement that was never built. Reeve looked down at the concrete, heart pounding.

Then he knelt.

And slid the key into the seam between wall and floor.

It turned.

The ground trembled.

And a door appeared.

He stared at it, heart catching in his throat. Faintly, from the other side, he swore he heard the jingling of keys.

The locksmith was gone.

But his work had only just begun.