Lineage

Lance noted the time and composed a message, assuring Andy he was fine, while also telling him if he ever called or sent a text again this late, he would put his phone somewhere that had never seen the light of day.

The brightness of the screen blinded him in the dark, and after he sent the message, he noticed a feeling that had been building since he had woke from the dream. It raised the hairs on his arms with goose bumps and made his breath slow, and then stop. He listened as the phone dimmed in his hand. A moment before the phone blinked off completely, he grasped the feeling he had been trying to identify. It was the sensation of being watched.

The light went out on the phone’s display and a face loomed a few inches from his own in the darkness.

He had a vague impression of two wide, unblinking eyes before he cried out and swung a flailing strike at the floating face. His clenched fist hit nothing but air. Lance opened his eyes and stared frantically around the room, trying to find a deeper shade of black moving within the darkness. No shapes stirred, and the landing revealed nothing but the banister and the empty air beyond.

He threw off the covers and leapt from the bed. As he shuffled toward the doorway, every muscle tensed with adrenaline, he heard a thumping on the stairway outside his room.

Fear morphed into anger so quickly that he didn’t register the transition. Instead, he found himself flying out of the door and barreling down the steps after whoever had been in his room.

The downstairs looked darker than it had the night before, and without the light of the moon, harmless everyday objects became attackers. Lance crossed the living area and went out into the entry, fearlessly flipping on lights as he went. His rage boiled and frothed within him as he stalked from room to room, now looking for someone to unleash his pent-up wrath upon.

Once again, the doors and windows were locked and not a soul could be found. Lance stood sweating and panting in the middle of the living room. His eyes scanned the walls, as if they would suddenly reveal a clue as to what was happening in the house.

The fat ring of keys lying on the shelf near the entry caught his attention. His head turned in the direction of the black door and stopped.

“If you’re hiding in there, you’d better come out now,” he yelled. “If I have to come in after you, it will not end well.” He wondered if his voice sounded steady, since he felt it waver, in spite of his seething anger. He waited, listening for movement from the room behind the door. He imagined it flying open and a downtrodden squatter exiting the hiding space like a child who’s been told the game is finally over.

The door remained closed. Nothing moved.

Lance walked to the shelf and snatched the keys from their resting place. He fumbled through them as he walked across the room, flipping the familiar ones aside, leaving three that were unknown to him.

He reached the door and jammed the first key into the keyhole. It stuck halfway in and wouldn’t budge any farther. Grunting with frustration, he retracted the key and pushed the next in line into the lock. The end was too large and wouldn’t even begin to slide into the opening. He held up the last key closer to his face and examined it in the dim light of the chandelier. It was old and ornate-looking, with a spiraled grip and teeth like an Appalachian senior citizen.

This is it, he thought, and felt his heart accelerate as he brought the key down and began to fit it below the iron doorknob. The key slid in seamlessly and stopped halfway, just as it should. He breathed in and out once, preparing himself for a fight, but his curiosity must have overridden his fear and anger, because as he twisted the key he only felt the snagging pull of anticipation.

The key refused to move.

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