The Iron Ring and the Lantern at the Door

The Iron Ring and the Lantern at the Door

I was walking home from the grocery store late in the evening, carrying two heavy paper bags, but the street seemed carved entirely out of black, wet stone instead of asphalt. My neighborhood felt ancient, like old cathedral ruins, but my front porch light was still buzzing like usual. I tried to unlock my front door, but the deadbolt was replaced with a heavy iron ring that was freezing cold to touch. My old high school biology teacher walked past the hedge, holding a brass lantern, and warned me that the sun wasn't going to come back up this time and that I needed to hurry inside. The key turned, but the latch felt fused together, and I could hear something heavy breathing on the other side of the wood. I had that awful, heavy panic where my hands just completely stopped gripping, and I dropped the groceries across the porch as the darkness got thicker.