In quiet, peaceful lands a blackened hearth remains. It was there I saw them last, and there I locked them in. And still the door, charred like the hearth, stands locked. I have the key always on me. I thought we’d burn together when the flame crawled out of the stove, my demons and I. But I made it out. I locked the door. The old house burned.
Yet standing in a field, all covered in ash, the hearth and door—the door still frightens me, for I see it rattle in my dreams, see them twist and turn the handle.
I’ve come back to see, come back to this dreaded home, these peaceful lands where peace means silent fear and unspoken hate. I’ve come back to see the door. It stands alone in the field with the ash covered hearth.
They’re knocking on the other side, and I have the key; they’re trapped behind the door, and only I can set them free.
Tale Told 
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