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October 2025 STARDATE:2025.10.15:
The Story:
The Key That Wasn’t Ours.
by
Brian Lynn Crosthwaite.
The key slipped into the lock with a reluctant scrape, a sound like bone on stone. It wasn't our key. We’d found it half-buried near the rusted gate, a tarnished brass skeleton key that felt unnaturally cold against my palm. Liam, ever the optimist, had declared it a sign. "Means we're meant to explore," he’d grinned, oblivious to the way the overgrown hedges seemed to lean inwards, whispering secrets to each other in the breeze. The heavy oak door groaned open on hinges that hadn't tasted oil in decades, exhaling a breath of stale air thick with dust and the faint, metallic tang of old iron. Beyond lay a foyer swallowed by gloom, the only light filtering through grime-caked windows high above, illuminating swirling dust motes dancing like disturbed spirits.
We shuffled inside, our footsteps echoing hollowly in the cavernous space. Cobwebs draped the grand staircase like ghostly lace, and the air hung heavy and still, pressing against our skin. Liam flicked on his flashlight, the beam cutting a shaky path across faded wallpaper peeling away in long, diseased strips. "Place is a dump," he whispered, his voice unnaturally loud in the silence. I clutched his arm, my eyes straining against the oppressive darkness beyond the weak circle of light. That’s when we heard it. Not the settling creak of an old house, but a distinct, rhythmic *thump... thump... thump*. It came from directly above us, slow and deliberate, like something heavy being dragged across the floorboards of the second story. My blood turned to ice.
Liam froze, the flashlight beam jerking upwards towards the shadowed landing. "Did you—?" he started, but the sound cut him off. A low, guttural moan seeped through the ceiling, vibrating the dust motes in the stale air. It wasn't human, not quite – it was the sound of immense, ancient sorrow, or perhaps unbearable hunger. It echoed through the foyer, seeming to come from everywhere and nowhere at once, wrapping around us like a cold, damp shroud. The dragging sound stopped abruptly.
Panic, pure and instinctive, seized us both. We spun as one, scrambling back towards the heavy oak door, the rectangle of fading daylight suddenly seeming impossibly far away. Our boots skidded on the grit-covered marble floor, the frantic slap of our footsteps shattering the oppressive silence. The door, which had groaned open so reluctantly before, now felt like our only lifeline. We lunged for it, hands outstretched towards the splintered wood and the promise of the overgrown garden beyond.
Our fingers brushed the cold, pitted brass of the handle just as a sound like a thunderclap exploded behind us. The door slammed shut with impossible, violent force. The impact shook the frame, dislodging a shower of ancient plaster dust that rained down like grey snow. The rectangle of light vanished, plunging us into near-total darkness, broken only by the frantic, bouncing beam of Liam's dropped flashlight. The sound echoed, not just in the foyer, but deep within the bones of the house itself, a final, deafening punctuation mark.
Silence rushed back in, thicker and heavier than before, pressing down like a physical weight. The air felt charged, crackling with unseen energy. Liam fumbled for the flashlight, his breathing ragged and loud in the sudden void. The beam, when it finally steadied, illuminated the door – now shut tight, the keyhole empty. The tarnished skeleton key was gone, vanished from the lock as if it had never been there at all. We were locked in, sealed tight with whatever made that dragging sound, whatever had moaned with such profound, chilling despair.
Above us, the dragging started again. *Thump... scrape... thump.* But this time, it wasn't moving away. It was slow, deliberate, unhurried. It was coming closer. The sound shifted, moving from directly above towards the head of the grand staircase. Each heavy drag vibrated through the banister, a tremor we could feel in our own teeth. Dust sifted down from the landing above, catching the light like falling stars in a nightmare sky. The moan didn't return. The silence around the dragging footsteps felt infinitely worse.
Liam frantically shoved against the door, shoulder-first, a desperate grunt escaping him. The wood didn't yield an inch. It felt less like oak and more like solid iron, cold and implacable beneath his palms. I scrabbled at the empty keyhole, my fingernails catching on splinters, finding only smooth, unyielding brass. That's when the cold hit me. Not the ambient chill of the abandoned house, but a sudden, localized, penetrating cold. It seeped through the thin fabric of my jacket sleeve, a point of intense, unnatural frost just above my wrist. My breath hitched, a strangled gasp escaping me.
I looked down. My arm was bare where my sleeve had ridden up slightly. Resting lightly, impossibly, on the pale skin was the distinct, greyish outline of long, skeletal fingers. They weren't solid, not entirely – they shimmered with a faint, internal darkness, like smoke held in the shape of a hand. The cold wasn't just cold; it was an absence, a void sucking the warmth and life from my flesh. It didn't grip, didn't claw. It simply *was* there, a terrifying, intimate violation. The air around it seemed to warp and darken.
Liam spun, flashlight beam swinging wildly. It passed over me, over my arm. His eyes widened, not in horror at the sight of the hand – which the beam seemed to slide right through, illuminating only my own skin beneath – but at the expression of pure, silent terror on my face. He saw the gooseflesh erupting on my neck, the way my jaw clenched against a scream that wouldn't come. "What?" he hissed, voice cracking. "What is it?" The dragging sound above us paused. A single, heavy footstep landed on the top stair. The ancient wood groaned under a weight it hadn't borne in a century.
The skeletal pressure vanished from my arm as abruptly as it had appeared, leaving only a deep, aching cold that burrowed into the bone. Simultaneously, the heavy oak door gave a violent shudder, as if struck from the outside by a battering ram. A splintering crack echoed through the foyer. Then, with a shriek of tortured wood and snapping metal, the door burst inwards. Not open – *inwards*. Daylight, blinding after the gloom, flooded the space, momentarily silhouetting a figure standing just beyond the threshold. It wasn't human. It was tall, impossibly thin, and seemed woven from the same shifting, internal darkness as the fingers on my arm, outlined starkly against the sunlit garden.
Instinct took over. We didn't question the impossible physics, the figure, or the sudden freedom. We lunged. Not towards the figure, but *past* it, through the shattered doorway, driven by pure survival terror. Our boots crunched on splintered wood and shards of broken brass. The cool, damp air of the garden hit us like a physical blow after the house's stale tomb. We didn't look back. We ran, stumbling over tangled roots and uneven ground, the frantic rhythm of our own gasps loud in our ears. The overgrown hedges whipped at our clothes as we crashed through them, blind to direction, needing only *away*.
We hadn't made it ten paces into the tangled wilderness when the sound came. Not the slam we expected, but a low, resonant *boom* that vibrated up through the soles of our feet. We risked a glance back. The door wasn't just shut. It was whole. Unblemished oak, the tarnished brass handle gleaming dully, the keyhole empty. The figure was gone. The house stood silent and still, bathed in afternoon light, the jagged hole we'd just escaped through vanished as if it had never existed. Only the frantic pounding of our hearts and the phantom ache in my arm testified to what had just happened. The dragging sound started again, faint but distinct, from somewhere deep within the house. *Thump... scrape... thump.* It was moving away this time.
The End.
The Poem::
The Key That Wasn't Ours.
It slipped with a scrape, like bone dragged on stone,
We shuffled in, where shadows swallowed space,
*Thump… scrape… thump.* The dragging sound returned,
Instinct screamed: *GO!* We lunged, not thought, but flight,
Not our key, this cold brass thing we found alone,
Half-buried near the gate, a tarnished sign
To Liam’s grin: "Our path! A twist of the divine!"
He missed the hedges leaning, whispering low,
Their secrets rustling as the damp wind blew.
The oak door groaned, exhaling ancient breath –
Dust, iron, stillness thick as sudden death.
Footsteps echoing in that hollow place.
Cobwebs draped the stairs like spectral lace,
Air pressing close, a cold and damp embrace.
His flashlight cut a path, a shaky blade,
On peeling walls where faded grandeur frayed.
"Just rot," he whispered, loud within the hush.
I clutched his arm, felt silence start to crush.
Then came the sound: not settling, not old wood’s sigh,
But *thump… thump… thump* from somewhere up on high.
A heavy drag across the floor above.
My blood turned ice. A cold, unwelcome love
Of terror bloomed. Liam froze, light jerked,
Towards the landing, shadows where it lurked.
A moan seeped down – not human, low and deep,
A guttural sorrow from eternal sleep,
Or hunger vast. It shook the dusty air,
A sound of everywhere and nowhere, there,
Wrapping us cold. The dragging ceased. We spun,
Scrambled for light, for safety, for the sun!
That door, so hard to open, now our prize,
Seemed miles away beneath our frantic eyes.
We skidded on grit, boots slapping loud and fast,
Shattering silence meant forever to last.
We lunged, hands grasping for the splintered wood,
For garden air, for all things safe and good.
Fingertips brushed the cold, pitted brass –
Then thunder cracked! A violence, swift and crass.
The door slammed shut with bone-shaking, final force,
Plunging us into darkness, no recourse.
Light vanished. Plaster rained like ashen snow.
The echo roared where safety used to glow.
Then silence rushed back, thick as leaden dread,
Charging the air above our lowered heads.
Liam snatched the light, beam wild and thin,
Illumed the door – shut fast. Locked deep within,
The keyhole gaped. The tarnished key was gone.
Sealed tight with *it*. The thing that dragged upon
The floor above. The moan of deep despair.
We were its guests now, breathing poisoned air.
But closer now. A lesson quickly learned?
It shifted, heavy, slow, deliberate,
Towards the staircase, sealing our grim fate.
Each drag vibrated banisters, our teeth.
Dust fell like stars in nightmare’s twisted wreath.
No moan now. Silence worse than any cry.
Liam slammed the door. A desperate try.
Wood stood like iron, cold and absolute.
I scratched the keyhole, finding no pursuit
Of mechanism, only smooth, cold brass.
Then came the touch – a cold that seemed to pass
Through jacket sleeve, a point of frost profound,
Sucking the warmth from skin, from solid ground.
I looked. My arm, where sleeve had ridden high,
Bore ghostly fingers, grey against the eye,
Not solid, no – a darkness shaped like bone,
Smoke given form, a chill that chilled the stone
Beneath my feet. A void that simply *was*,
An intimate dread without a cause.
The cold bit deep, a lifeless, aching brand.
Liam spun, light passing through the hand
(It showed my skin beneath!), but saw my face –
The frozen terror in that awful place.
"What?" he hissed, voice cracking like old glass.
Above, a footstep landed. Wood screamed, alas,
Beneath a century-forgotten weight.
The pressure vanished. Left a cold that ate
Into the bone. Then – CRACK! A splintering roar!
The door burst *inwards*! Not just open – tore
Itself apart! Daylight, blinding, stark,
Flooded the gloom, banishing every dark
.
Silhouetted there, against the sunlit green,
A figure woven from the dark unseen:
Tall, impossibly thin, a shifting shade,
The very substance of the fear it made.
Past shifting darkness, towards the blinding light.
Boots crunched on splinters, brass, the shattered door
.
Garden air hit us – life we’d longed for!
We ran. Roots tripped. Hedges tore and scratched
.
Direction lost, escape the only thing hatched
In frantic minds. Our gasps were loud and raw.
We hadn’t cleared the wild when, with a law
Defying sense, a deep and resonant *BOOM*
Shook the ground, dispelling all the gloom
Of our escape. We glanced back, hearts near done.
The door stood whole. Unblemished. And the sun
Shone on oak and brass, the keyhole bare.
No figure. Just the house, still standing there,
Silent and still. No jagged hole remained.
As if the violence had been restrained
By time itself. Only our hammering hearts,
The phantom cold where ghostly touch departs,
And faint, so faint, from deep within the keep,
The dragging sound: *thump… scrape…* in endless sleep.
Moving away. But locked inside the core,
The key that wasn't ours – forevermore.
The End.
