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The first time I came home to an unlocked door, I figured I’d just forgotten to lock it when I went to work. I’ve done that before.

This morning, I made sure to lock it - jiggled the knob a few times just in case - and thought nothing of it until I returned.

 

I combed the house. Nothing was out of place, no murderers stashed in my closet, no valuables missing. I slept fitfully that night, hugging a baseball bat to myself. When I woke up, I found conditions to be the same as before: there was absolutely nothing unusual.

 

That night I slept with the bat again. In the morning, I poked through every nook and cranny of every room in my house. Nothing. I locked my door and left for work. And when I got home, it was unlocked. This continued for weeks.

 

As weeks turned into months I became used to the state of my door; even got to appreciate it. I liked that if I stayed out late, I didn’t have to fumble for my keys in the dark.

 

One night, when I returned home, my door was locked. After a good deal of messing about with my keys, I finally managed to unlock it and go inside. I clicked on the light - then I spotted the tiny dripping crimson writing on my wall.

 

"You Need Me."

Impressum

Tag der Veröffentlichung: 13.05.2014

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