He Keeps The Keys

He Keeps The Keys

He stood outside too long,

Not knocking, just listening,

Like the door had a pulse,

Like it knew him.

I nearly didn’t open,

Something in me said leave it,

Leave him there with the dark,

Let him rot in it.

But the handle turned anyway,

Not by me,

I swear that much is true,

I never touched it.

He smiled like we had met before,

Like I had let him in once,

Maybe years ago,

Maybe when I was weaker.

His coat stank of damp places,

Old locks, rust, closed rooms,

The kind no one goes back to,

The kind that remember.

He said nothing at first,

Just looked past me,

Like someone stood behind me,

Breathing down my neck.

Then he lifted the keys,

Slow, careful,

Like they might wake something,

Like they already had.

They made a sound, not metal,

Something softer, wrong,

Like teeth tapping together,

Cold and nervous.

He chose one without looking,

A thin bent thing,

I knew it wasn’t mine,

I knew I had never seen it.

Still, he walked in,

Straight to the back door,

The one I never use,

The one that sticks.

He didn’t force it,

Didn’t try twice,

Just pressed the key in,

And waited.

The door opened by itself,

Not wide, just enough,

Enough for something to notice,

Enough for it to breathe.

The air changed then,

Heavy, thick,

Like the room filled with someone else,

Someone that had been waiting.

He stepped aside,

Let whatever it was have space,

Then turned to me,

And pressed the key into my hand.

You will need this, he said,

Not now,

But when it starts knocking back.

I never saw him leave,

But the door still opens sometimes,

Just a little,

Just enough.

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