Don't Let Them See You

There was only one rule: don’t open the door. Grandpa kept it locked, the key always hanging from a chain around his neck—the same key I now hold in my hands. I managed to slip it from him unnoticed on the day of his funeral. With a deep breath, I insert the gold key into the lock and slowly twist. The door groans on its hinges. As I step inside, a sharp crash echoes through the room—a cup shattering on the floor.

“What are you do…” My grandma’s voice booms behind me, but before she can finish, the door slams shut. I spin around, reaching for the handle—but It’s gone. Instead, the words “Don’t let them see you” slashed into the door

The room looks familiar, like an abandoned version of my grandparents’ house. I steady myself and glance out the front window. That’s when I see him. A very large man with pale skin, his 4-foot top hat swaying in the wind, pedaling a massive tricycle down the street. Behind him trails a cage filled with people, their faces twisted in terror, clawing to escape. The man casts a giant fishing rod, reeling in more victims with ease.

Without thinking, I fling the door open. “Stop!” I scream. The tricycle halts. The man turns slowly, a twisted smile forming, his piercing green eyes locking onto mine. "Don’t let them see you" flashes in my mind.

I hear the creak of the door behind me. It’s my grandma. The man dismounts, coming toward me. I dash for the door. The zip of the fishing line cuts through the air as I dive through. The door slams shut, the hook clinks against it. Grandma laughs softly. “You’re lucky your grandpa kept a spare.”