The Deadbolt and the Iron Skeleton Key

The Deadbolt and the Iron Skeleton Key

I was walking home from the grocery store at dusk, carrying heavy plastic bags that kept cutting into my fingers. My street looked familiar, but everything had this cold, blackened cast to it, like an old medieval ruin instead of modern suburban houses. I ran into an old coworker, Dave, who was wearing his usual fleece vest, but he insisted the sun had permanently set hours ago and wouldn't rise again. The streetlights flickered with faint, greasy flames instead of electric light. I just wanted to get inside, but when I finally reached my front porch, the key in my hand was a heavy, rusted iron skeleton key that wouldn't fit the deadbolt. A tall silhouette stepped out from between the overgrown hedges across the road, just watching me fumble with the lock in the damp chill. I felt this creeping dread that if I couldn't open the door before it crossed the asphalt, I would be stuck out in the dark forever.