Chapter 6: The Futility of Locks

Chapter 6: The Futility of Locks

Macy’s whispered words, "You see it now," echoed in the hollow spaces of Leo's mind long after she and the others had vanished into the night. They weren't just words; they were a key, unlocking a door in his perception that he could never again close. The world was thin. The mundane reality of the "Perk Up" coffee shop was just a flimsy stage curtain, and he had been given a terrifying glimpse of the machinery operating behind it.

Denial was a luxury he could no longer afford. Fear, raw and undiluted, was his new fuel.

The next day, he moved through his shift in a state of hyper-vigilance. Every chime of the door bell sent a jolt of adrenaline through his system. Every customer who lingered a moment too long at the counter became a potential omen. He was a soldier in enemy territory, and the ticking clock on the wall was the countdown to an inevitable nightly ambush.

But soldiers don't just wait to be ambushed. They fortify their position.

As the afternoon light began to fade, a plan, born of desperation and terror, took root in his mind. It was simple. Primitive. He was going to lock them out.

His shift was supposed to end at 9:00 PM, the moment he flipped the sign and locked the door. But their ritual began before that. They started arriving at 8:58 PM. So he would change the timeline. He would break the script. He would lock the door at 8:55 PM.

The idea felt solid, tangible. A lock was a physical thing. A deadbolt was a declaration of ownership, a statement of control. It was a piece of metal that obeyed the laws of physics, a concept he clung to with the fierce grip of a drowning man. These… things, whatever they were, had to enter through the door. If the door was locked, they could not enter. It was simple logic. It had to work.

At 8:45 PM, his last customer, a nursing student reeking of antiseptic and exhaustion, paid for her triple-shot latte and left. The shop was empty. The silence that fell was thick with anticipation. Leo’s heart hammered against his ribs, a frantic drumbeat against the steady, ominous tick of the clock.

He didn’t wait. He moved with a feverish energy, wiping down the counters, emptying the trash, performing his closing duties at a frantic pace. His eyes kept flicking between the front door and the clock. 8:52. 8:53.

At 8:54 PM, he walked to the front door. His hand was trembling as he reached for the open sign. It was still early. The street outside was still alive with the evening's last gasps—the headlights of passing cars, the distant wail of a siren. It was a world that was still real, still sane. He was about to sever his connection to it.

He flipped the sign. The word CLOSED faced the street, a shield against the encroaching night. He twisted the lock on the handle, hearing the satisfying thud of the bolt sliding into place. For good measure, he turned the deadbolt. The heavy, grinding sound was the most beautiful thing he had ever heard. A prayer cast in brass and steel. He even slid the tarnished brass security chain into its groove. Triple-locked. Impenetrable.

He pressed his forehead against the cool glass of the door, peering out into the street. No gaunt man in a brown trench coat. No wild-haired woman. No hollow-eyed teenager. Nothing.

A giddy, breathless laugh escaped his lips. It was a raw, ragged sound, bordering on a sob. He’d done it. He’d won. He had changed the rules of the game.

He backed away from the door, a triumphant grin stretching his face. The shop, his shop, was a fortress. The silence was no longer menacing; it was peaceful. For the first time in over a week, he felt a flicker of hope. Maybe that was all it took. A simple act of defiance.

He turned his back on the door, his victory warming him from the inside out. He had a few minutes before the dreaded 9:03 PM deadline. To celebrate, to reinforce this feeling of normalcy, he decided to do one last, beautifully mundane task. He would give the espresso machine its final polish for the night.

He grabbed a soft, clean cloth and a bottle of stainless-steel polish. He began to wipe down the gleaming chrome, the familiar motion soothing. The hiss of the polish, the scent of lemon and chemicals, the satisfying squeak of the cloth—it was the liturgy of his real life, the one he was fighting to reclaim.

He was so focused on the task, so wrapped in his momentary triumph, that he didn't notice the change at first. It was subtle. A slight drop in the ambient temperature, the kind that makes the hairs on your arms stand up. Then a scent, faint at first, but unmistakable. The cloying, damp smell of old flowers and wet earth, cutting through the chemical sharpness of the polish.

Leo’s hand froze mid-wipe.

His blood turned to ice water in his veins. The triumphant grin on his face melted away, replaced by a mask of slack-jawed horror. He didn’t want to turn around. Every instinct, every cell in his body screamed at him to stay facing the espresso machine, to pretend he hadn't smelled it, to pretend he hadn't felt that sudden, familiar chill.

But he had to know.

Slowly, his movements stiff and robotic, he turned.

His eyes went first to the booth. The booth by the window.

And the hope in his chest didn't just die. It was brutally murdered.

They were there.

Pendleton sat in his usual spot, his gaunt frame wrapped in the heavy brown coat, his mournful eyes staring out the window at a street he couldn’t possibly see. In his hands, he cradled a black ceramic mug. A delicate ribbon of steam rose from its surface.

Opposite him, the boy sat hunched in his hoodie, his head bowed. He was already staring into his own small paper cup, which was full of steaming hot water.

And standing near the condiment bar, her back to him, her fingers hovering near the sugar packets, was Macy.

Leo’s mind fractured. It simply refused to accept the data his eyes were feeding it. The door. The door was locked. He had locked it. He had slid the chain. He had turned the deadbolt. No one had come in. He would have heard the bell. He would have heard the locks breaking.

His gaze snapped to the front door. The chain was still in place. The deadbolt was still thrown. The sign still read CLOSED.

He looked back at the booth, at the impossible, silent congregation that had manifested from thin air. His eyes fixated on the steaming mug in Pendleton’s hands. An Americano. He hadn’t made it. The espresso machine he was just wiping down was cold. The portafilter was clean and empty. Yet there it was, a fresh, hot cup of coffee that could not possibly exist.

The truth crashed down on him with the force of a physical collapse. He staggered back, his legs weak, his hand flying to his mouth to stifle a choked, desperate sound.

The locks hadn't failed. They had simply been irrelevant.

He had thought of his shop as a fortress, but he had been wrong. This place wasn’t a fortress. It was a stage. And the actors didn't need a door to make their entrance. Physical barriers, the rules of his world, meant nothing to them. They didn't break the rules; they operated on a plane of existence where his rules were a child's game.

His act of defiance had been a pathetic, futile gesture. He hadn't locked them out.

He looked at the sealed door, then at the silent figures who had materialized within its walls. He hadn't locked them out at all.

He had just locked himself in with them.

The clock on the wall ticked to 9:02 PM. The dread returned, a hundred times stronger than before, because now it was laced with the cold, bitter poison of utter helplessness.