Locked Away

There was only one rule: don’t open the door. The door appeared to have been of incredible craftsmanship so many years ago, made of an exceptionally grainy oak and fastened to the thick frame with flawless brass hardware. The knob a polished orb of the same brass a nearly perfect sphere that shined in the bright lights of the large home. It swung upon its hinges as quiet as an owl through the dark of night.

That was many years ago, now the door sat cocked slightly in the frame that had begun to rot and split, the once beautiful brass turned an ugly green under the grime and dust that covered its surface. The once strong slab of oak that made up its body resonated with a deep despair; the wood covered in the same dusty grime that only barely concealed the years of rot that had crept in like a cancer.

What lay beyond the door was unknown to most, the tumblers of the lock had not been activated since the lights went out that bright cheer filled night. Yet the growls and groans sounded every night as the sun set, and the cold of night crept in past the dormant fireplace and worked its way under and around the rotting barrier, aggravating whatever lay inside.

First came a shuffling of raggedy old clothing followed by a desperate growl and the scratching of long sharp nails tearing away at wallpaper as whatever lay inside pulled itself up and onto its feet. The screaming came shortly after, loud and guttural, infiltrating the dreams of any close enough to hear the awful sound, turning them into grotesque nightmares.