The Locked Room

Every night his parents would disappear behind that door and it would seal with a click. George sent to bed.

For years, that flew. When George tried the handle, he was swiftly returned to his room, nary a glimpse of what was behind the door. Always the strangest, most unsettling sounds, though.

More than once he thought he heard screaming, like his mother was in trouble. But the next morning, nothing was amiss. Sometimes loud crashes, sometimes laughter, sometimes like there were animals with them.

But finally, George had tracked down the key. He had located it the day before and gone in while his parents were out. The room was empty, save for a small couch against one wall. Devoid of anything else. So he knew whatever happened, happened only when they were there.

He stood outside the door, hearing the sounds, and carefully slid the key into the lock. He turned it and it made a tiny click as the mechanism released. He pushed it forward and stepped through.

There, on the other side, were his parents, huddled together on the couch. They were awash in an unnatural light, their eyes blank as they stared forward. Hanging, revealed from a portal above, was the source of their hypnosis, a glowing god that kept their gaze transfixed. George was mortified, outraged.

“I knew we had a TV,” he muttered as his parents scrambled for the remote.


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