Finders Keepers

There was only one rule: don’t open the door.

That's what Tommy's grandmother said, pointing to the old door with fractured wood and gray paint peeling like dead skin.

His grandparents' basement was a small concrete box with no heat and tiny slits for windows where sunlight was choked out by thick dust. The dampness clung to the walls of Tommy's lungs like a cold hand clasped around his throat.

Tommy shivered as his gaze landed on the faded carpet meant to depict a happy town with streets for Hot Wheels, which seemed to be missing.

His grandmother set down a glass of red liquid on a cracked plastic table.

"Here's some fruit punch. It's got extra vitamins so drink up," his grandmother said, her smile lopsided.

Tommy took an obligatory gulp, his grandmother nodding her approval. She patted his head and disappeared up the stairs, the door slamming behind her.

Tommy swallowed more fruit punch, an odd metallic taste sliding over his tongue. Wiping his lips with his hand, Tommy sat on the scratchy carpet. He stared at the old wooden door until his vision blurred into a kaleidoscope of colors that faded to black.

Blinking, Tommy woke to a soft moaning and fingernails scratching concrete. Whispers floated and the hair on his arms rose like a spider crawling across his skin.

Help me.

In a trance, Tommy approached the door, running his fingers down the paneling, the splinters pricking his fingertips. He placed a hand on the doorknob, his palm burning from the frigid metal. Tommy crouched to peek through the mangled keyhole.

A pale blue eye stared back at him.

Tommy's body jerked backwards by a firm grasp on his elbow, his grandfather's gnarled face above him.

"She's mine. I found her."