The Hidden Lock
Heather knew the place was abandoned.
The stone house on the edge of the woods had sat untouched for years, swallowed slowly by ivy and shadows. Kids at school called it the “Grey Widow’s House,” whispering stories about the old woman who vanished without a trace one October night. Heather never believed in ghost stories but she did believe in secrets. And this house had them.
She waited until dusk, when the light turned soft and blue, and hopped the rusted gate. Her boots crunched on broken glass as she pushed open a window and slipped inside.
The air was thick with dust and memory. Peeling wallpaper curled like dry skin. Furniture stood where it had been left decades ago, frozen mid-life. Heather’s flashlight beam landed on a cracked photograph of two women, arm in arm, smiling in black and white.
She wandered deeper, careful not to knock anything over.
It was in the upstairs study that she found it. A wardrobe, oddly pristine, its wood untouched by the mold creeping up the walls. One of the drawers inside wouldn’t open, jammed halfway. Heather crouched down, fingers slipping behind the panel.
Click.
It back swung open. Inside: a small metal box. smooth, matte black, no markings. Just one thing on it.
A lock. No key. No dial. Just a strange symbol: an eye with a crack through the pupil.
Heather touched it.
The box pulsed. Just once.
Then something behind the walls shifted. A sound, like breath being drawn in.
Heather stood, heart pounding. Behind her, the old mirror on the wall suddenly fogged over from the inside.
Words began to appear in the misted glass.
“You found it. Now it will find you.”
The box was still warm in her hands.
And the house no longer felt empty.
