The Latchkey – Part V
[Editor’s note: This incomplete draft was discovered in Andy Brooke’s WordPress dashboard on 14th November 2024. He hasn’t responded to emails or phone calls since 11th November. His flat was found locked from the inside. This is published exactly as found. – MB]
I’ve been sitting at my desk for three hours now, working on the fifth Latchkey story. It’s become a proper series—people seem to respond to it. Something about a creature that doesn’t want to hurt you, just wants to take your home, clearly resonates. I’ve had messages from readers saying they check their doors twice now before bed. That’s the kind of reaction every horror writer wants.
The story’s coming together nicely. I’m writing about a writer this time, which feels a bit self-indulgent, but the meta angle works. Someone who keeps writing about the Latchkey, documenting it, almost summoning it through the act of—
Sorry. Lost my train of thought there. Where was I?
Right. The story. I’ve got maybe another five hundred words to go. Should finish it tonight, get it posted tomorrow. Monday’s my usual day for The Latchkey pieces. Keeps things consistent for readers.
My coffee’s gone cold. I don’t remember making coffee, actually. There’s a full mug beside my laptop, stone cold, a film forming on top. I must have made it earlier and forgotten. That happens when you’re deep in the writing zone. Hours can pass without you noticing.
The door to my study is open. Just a crack. I could have sworn I closed it when I sat down. I always close it—stops the cat wandering in and walking across the keyboard. But she’s at my sister’s this weekend, isn’t she? Yes. Definitely. I dropped her off yesterday.
So why did I close the door?
I’m staring at that gap now, that wedge of darkness in the hallway beyond. The landing light’s off. I don’t remember turning it off. I like it on when I’m working late. It’s comforting, that bit of light seeping under the door.
But the door’s open now anyway, so it doesn’t matter.
I should probably close it properly. Get up, walk over, pull it shut. But I’ve been sitting here for three hours and my legs have gone a bit numb. I’ll do it in a minute. After I finish this section.
The Latchkey stories have a particular rhythm to them, I’ve found. You start with something ordinary—a closed door, a locked house, the everyday rituals of home. Then you introduce the wrongness. Small things at first. Items moved. Doors ajar. Time slipping.
Time slipping.
I’ve been sitting here for three hours, I said. But when I look at the clock now, it’s showing 11:47pm. I started writing at 7:30pm. That’s more than four hours. Nearly four and a half.
Where did the extra time go?
My document shows 847 words. I’m a fairly quick writer—maybe 500 words an hour when I’m flowing. So four and a half hours should be… more than this. Should be over two thousand words.
I must have deleted some. Started over. That happens sometimes.
Except I don’t remember deleting anything.
There’s a smell in the room. Faint. Like old soot, or tarnished metal. It’s familiar somehow, though I can’t place it. I’ve been burning that new candle—the one my sister gave me—but this doesn’t smell like pine and cinnamon. This smells like old houses. Like the inside of locked cupboards that haven’t been opened in decades.
The gap in the door looks wider now.
I’m being ridiculous. It’s just the power of suggestion. I’ve been writing horror for three hours (four and a half hours) and my brain’s playing tricks. That’s what horror does—it makes you see patterns in shadows, hear footsteps in creaking floorboards. It’s all just your mind filling in gaps with the worst possible explanations.
But I can see something in the hallway now. Small and dark, visible through the gap. It’s very still. Child-sized, perhaps. Just standing there.
It’s just the coat stand. Has to be. The coat stand with my winter jacket on it, and the shadows making it look like something else. Something with a round head and narrow shoulders.
I should look properly. Turn my head. Confirm it’s just the coat stand.
But I don’t want to look away from my screen. Something about looking away feels dangerous. As long as I keep typing, keep documenting this, I’m still in control. I’m still the writer, not the subject. The observer, not the observed.
There’s a sound now. A faint clicking, rhythmic and patient. Like fingernails on wood. Or keys rattling together.
My hands are still moving across the keyboard. That’s good. That’s normal. Writers write. That’s what we do. We document. We record. We bear witness.
I haven’t moved my eyes from the screen in… I don’t know how long. The words are appearing, one after another, and I’m reading them as they form. That’s me typing. Those are my words. My thoughts.
But my hands feel strange. Cold. And the clicking sound is getting closer, and the smell of old soot is stronger now, and the door is definitely wider than it was, and there’s something standing just behind my chair now, I can feel it, something small and stiff with fingers too long and a smile that never changes, and I should stop typing, I should turn around, I should run, but I can’t seem to stop, my fingers keep moving, keep documenting, because that’s what writers do, we write, we record, we bear witness, even when we know we shouldn’t, even when every instinct screams to stop, to flee, to—
There’s a brass key on my desk. Tarnished. Old-fashioned. I’ve never seen it before.
It’s warm.
Behind me, something settles into the armchair in the corner. The one I never sit in. I hear the creak of porcelain shifting, that faint rattle that might be keys.
I’m still typing. I can’t stop typing. The words are the only thing keeping me here, keeping me real, keeping me from becoming just another story about the Latchk
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