Locked

I live in a small town in the northeasternmost part of Arkansas. My family and I live on what we call “the Compound.” It’s a 300-acre stretch of land—woods, water, and silence—shared by my family, both of my aunts’ families, my grandparents, and my great-grandmother. Seven adults. Seven kids. All of us tucked into one clearing like we belonged there.

The clearing itself is about nine acres—four houses arranged in a loose circle around a small, still pond. Gravel paths connect everything, winding like veins between the homes. Beyond that, the trees take over. Thick. Close. Watching.

My great-grandmother didn’t live in the clearing.

She lived deep in the woods.

Far enough that the sounds of the Compound didn’t reach her. Far enough that when you stood outside her house, all you heard was wind moving through leaves… and whatever else lived out there.

When I was younger, I used to run to her place almost every day. I didn’t think much of the distance back then. She was my gal. We’d spend hours cooking, cleaning, tending to her animals. It always felt warmer there, like her house held onto something the woods couldn’t touch.

But she never let me stay late.

Every time the sun started dipping, she’d get tense. Not panicked—just… firm. She’d rush me out the door, pressing me to get back before dark. I always assumed it was the snakes. They liked the trail, especially in the evenings. That made sense to me.

At least, it did back then.

I usually made it home around seven, later than she wanted. I’d drag my feet on the trail, kicking rocks, breaking sticks, listening to the woods shift around me. I never felt alone.

A couple months before she passed, I went to visit her again. Same routine—same warmth. We talked, cleaned, cooked. Time slipped by without either of us noticing.

By the time I looked outside, the sky was already bleeding into dusk.

I remember the way her expression changed.

Not fear.

Something quieter than that.

She shook her head once, slowly, and walked to the door. I heard the deadbolt slide into place with a heavy click.

“You’re staying tonight,” she said.

Ten-year-old me was thrilled.

That night felt different from the start. The woods pressed closer to the house, like the darkness had weight to it. But inside, we kept things light—board games, laughter, building a messy pillow fort in the living room.

Around eleven, she handed me a blanket and a pillow and told me to get some sleep.

I lay down on the couch, staring up at the ceiling.

By midnight, the house was completely still.

No hum of electricity. No distant voices. Just silence—thick and suffocating, the kind that makes your ears strain for something, anything, to break it.

That’s when I heard it.

A soft crunch.

I didn’t move at first. Just listened.

Crunch… crunch…

Leaves.

Slow. Heavy. Not scattered like an animal darting through. Measured.

I sat up.

Maybe it was the pig, I told myself. It wandered sometimes.

Crunch… crunch… crunch.

Closer.

I swallowed and lay back down, pulling the blanket up a little higher.

Then—

Creeeak.

The porch steps.

I froze.

Another step.

Creeeak.

My chest tightened. The sound wasn’t quick. Whatever was out there wasn’t in a hurry.

It was coming up.

One step at a time.

Creeeak… creak…

I held my breath, staring at the door across the room. The deadbolt. I remembered hearing it lock.

The steps stopped.

For a moment, there was nothing.

Then—

Tap… tap… tap.

Soft. Careful. Like something testing the door.

I didn’t blink.

Tap… tap…

The sound dragged slightly the third time. Not a knock. Not really. More like… fingers. Or something trying to be fingers.

My heart was pounding so loud I was sure it could hear it.

I reached slowly for the lamp beside me, my hand trembling, and flicked it on.

Light flooded the room.

The tapping stopped instantly.

Silence crashed back in—harder than before.

Then, from just beyond the door—

A sudden burst of movement.

Leaves scattering. Something rushing off the porch, fast now, careless, crashing through the woods like it had been caught.

I didn’t move.

Didn’t breathe.

I just sat there, staring at the door, waiting.

Half-expecting the handle to turn…

It’s been years since that night.

Long enough that I’d convinced myself it wasn’t real. Just a kid’s imagination stretched too far in the dark.

I hadn’t even thought about it in a long time.

Until today.

I went back to her house.

I told myself it was for the memories.

The trail was barely there anymore, swallowed by weeds and low-hanging branches. The woods felt thicker now. Quieter. Like they were holding their breath.

Her house looked smaller than I remembered.

Overgrown. Vines crawling up the walls, windows clouded with dust and time. The door hung slightly off its hinges, the handle broken clean off.

But inside—

It was… clean.

Not fresh. Not lived in.

But untouched.

Dust coated everything evenly, undisturbed. No footprints. No signs of animals. Just stillness. Like the house had been waiting.

I walked through it slowly, my chest tight, fingers brushing along surfaces that hadn’t felt human touch in years.

Eventually, I sat down on the couch.

The same couch.

I don’t remember closing my eyes.

But I must have.

When I woke up, I was drenched in sweat.

The room was dark.

Completely dark.

My heart was already racing, like my body remembered something my mind didn’t.

I fumbled for my phone and turned it on.

12:00 AM.

Exactly.

The light from the screen barely reached the walls.

Everything else was swallowed in shadow.

And then—

Tap… tap… tap.