Lightning Strikes the Locksmith’s Grave

Lightning Strikes the Locksmith’s Grave

They buried the locksmith with a chain through his mouth

and a spike through each wrist.

Not to honour him,

to contain him.

He wasn’t a man by the end.

He was a rattle in the walls,

a whisper behind locked doors.

He knew too much.

Made too many keys.

Some said he could open anything,

even things that begged to stay shut.

Things that had no name.

Things that breathed.

They put him in the earth on a moonless night.

No prayers, no flowers.

Just six men with gloves

and fear rotting through their boots.

The grave was lined with salt.

A padlock was bolted to the headstone.

No one spoke.

No one looked back.

Then the storm came.

A streak of lightning tore down from the sky

and slammed the earth like a verdict.

Split the ground.

Melted the lock clean off.

No one heard the lid open,

but they heard the hiss.

Now the town won’t speak his name.

Locks twist open by themselves.

Nursery doors that were shut at night

swing wide before morning.

Children wake with iron under their pillows.

Not nails.

Teeth.

The locksmith walks again.

Not with feet.

With keys.

He moves where metal sleeps,

where bolts dream of snapping.

He slides between hinges

and drinks secrets through the grain of the wood.

And if you hear a click behind you,

and you are sure you locked that door,

run.

Do not grab your torch.

Do not call a name.

Just run.

Because the locksmith does not knock.

He is already inside.