Chapter 6 - Locked Inside
The heavy thud of the deadbolt sliding into place echoed through the basement like a gunshot. Arthur scrambled to his feet, sprinting up the concrete steps three at a time. He slammed his shoulder against the heavy wooden cellar door, but it didn't budge. The lock was solid, reinforced from the other side with iron bolts that had never been there before.
"Clara!" Arthur yelled, banging his fists against the splintered wood until his knuckles bruised. "Clara, are you out there? Open the door!"
There was no answer from the hallway. Only the sound of muffled footsteps pacing back and forth right above his head, moving with a heavy, deliberate rhythm that didn't belong to a five-year-old child.
Arthur slid down the door, burying his face in his hands. Panic, cold and sharp, clawed at his throat. He had lived his entire life believing in logic, in hard work, in the steady progression of days and years. But logic had no jurisdiction in this house. The foundation wasn't concrete and steel; it was built on sorrow, betrayal, and things that refused to stay buried.
"Arthur," a soft voice whispered right beside his ear.
Arthur snapped his head to the side. The basement was still dark, save for a faint, ethereal blue glow emanating from the far corner near the workbench. Standing in the center of the pool of light was the small figure from the crawlspace—the boy wearing Arthur’s childhood shirt.
The boy looked younger now, scarcely five years old, with dirt smeared across his cheeks and a deep, angry burn scar running down the left side of his neck.
"You still haven't said you're sorry," the boy said, stepping closer with unnaturally fluid movements.
Arthur pushed himself back against the cellar door, his breathing shallow and rapid. "I was a child," he choked out, the words tearing through his throat. "I was terrified. The fire... the smoke was too thick. I couldn't carry you both."
"You carried your favorite toy," the boy replied quietly, tilting his head. "You left me under the floorboards so nobody would find out you locked me in the closet as a punishment before the fire started."
The memory hit Arthur with the force of a physical blow. The suffocating heat of the bedroom thirty years ago. The childish jealousy. The dark closet. The key turning in the lock just before the faulty wiring sparked behind the wallpaper. He hadn't forgotten the fire by accident; he had suppressed the murder.
"No," Arthur whimpered, tears finally breaking free. "It was an accident. I didn't mean for the house to burn."
"You locked the door, Arthur," the boy whispered, reaching out a cold, soot-stained hand to touch Arthur’s cheek. "And now, the house is locking it for you."
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Before the cold fingers could make contact, the cellar door behind Arthur swung open on its own, revealing not the hallway of his home, but a roaring wall of bright orange flames.
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