The Locked Door

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

The rule dated back generations, to when the only actual buildings in the area were lean-to shacks, and the door was the most solid thing around. The buildings were stronger, now; stone and steel and concrete, but the old doors remained, ancient oak banded with iron.

If anyone had broken the rule in the hundreds of years between then and now, no record existed of who had done so, or of what - if anything - had happened to them as a result.

In the modern day, the Locked Door was viewed as the realm of superstitious elders, a relic of old beliefs that could be disproven with five minutes of modern science and a halfway-decent locksmith.

"I dare you."

"I double-dare you."

"You're the one bragging about your lock-picking skills."

"You're the one studying forensic science!"

"You're - look are we doing this or not? Because I have other places to be if you're just going to stand around like a wimp."

It was the accusation of being a wimp that did it. Of course it was, Desdemona had never met a teenage boy who didn't leap to action at the sound of that word.

A professional would have done it faster, but Adam had the lock clicking open with a triumphant cry within ten minutes of fiddling and not-so-muffled swearing. Desdemona caught the chains before they could clank loudly enough to give them away. "Damn, these doors are heavier than they look."

Adam tested them. "No kidding. Together?"

They each gripped a heavy iron ring. "Don't think we have much chance alone."

Old, solid oak creaked on rusted iron hinges.

The door opened.

The last thing they would ever hear was a single word, hissed in sibilant glee.

"Finally..."