Chapter 5 - THE LOCKED DOOR AND THE RISING SMOKE
Dinner was a masterclass in psychological torture disguised as polite family conversation. Every comment was a poisoned dart wrapped in velvet ribbon. "Your hair looks a bit dry, Caitlyn," my mother remarked while slicing her roasted beef. "Are you not using the hydrating shampoo I recommended years ago? Professional standards matter in the real world." Jessica chimed in with a sharp giggle, adjusting her diamond-encrusted tennis bracelet. "She works in graphic design, Mom. They probably wear pajamas to the office. Standards went out the window years ago." I sat quietly, keeping my breathing even, reminding myself of the forty-five-minute rule. Twenty minutes down. Twenty-five to go. I hadn't touched my food—a plate of seared salmon that looked suspiciously greasy around the edges—and I kept my glass of water safely untouched beside my napkin. Something felt wrong. The air in the dining room felt heavy, almost thick, carrying a faint, unmistakable scent that tickled the back of my throat with an oily sharpness.
At 6:35 PM, I pushed my chair back from the table and stood up. "Thank you for dinner, but I have an early morning meeting tomorrow. I need to head home." My mother didn't look up from her plate. She calmly dabbed her mouth with her linen napkin, folded it, and placed it neatly beside her wine glass. "Before you go, Caitlyn, there's something upstairs in your old bedroom that I think you should see. A little keepsake box I found while cleaning out the guest closet." I frowned, my internal alarm bells screaming at maximum volume. "No, thank you. I have to go." Jessica stood up abruptly, moving with a sudden, unnatural speed that blocked the only clear exit toward the front hallway. "Oh, stop being so dramatic, Caitlyn. It'll take two minutes. Unless you're still afraid of your old room?" The challenge in her voice was unmistakable—a deliberate poke at my childhood vulnerabilities designed to make me prove my courage.
Against every instinct screaming in my gut, I turned and walked toward the stairs, thinking I could just grab whatever nonsense they had laid out and storm out the front door. I climbed the familiar carpeted steps, the wood groaning beneath my heels in the exact same spots it always had. I walked down the second-floor hallway, pushing open the door to my old bedroom—the room with the Pottery Barn bedding and the heavy floral drapes. The room was dark, save for the pale amber light filtering in through the closed window. I stepped inside, expecting to see a cardboard box on the twin bed. Instead, the door slammed shut behind me with a heavy, definitive thud. I whirled around, lunging for the brass doorknob, and twisted it hard. It spun loosely in my hand.
May you like
Click.
The deadbolt had slid home from the outside. "Mom! Jessica! Open the door!" I shouted, rattling the heavy wooden knob with all my weight. From the hallway, a sound drifted through the crack beneath the door—a sound that froze the blood in my veins. It wasn't panic. It wasn't nervous laughter or the sound of someone regretting a family feud. It was the relaxed, casual laugh you hear from someone watching a bad reality show on Bravo while sitting on a comfortable sofa folding laundry. Jessica’s voice rang out through the wood, bright and musical and utterly devoid of human soul. "Let her burn," my sister said. And then, the heavy smell of accelerant hit the air—a thick, chemical wave of gasoline and burning plastic that clawed down my throat, making me cough violently as a thin, dark line of gray smoke began to snake its way under the door.
