Mom locked me home
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The heavy door slams shut behind you, metal bolts screeching into place. Your mother's trembling voice echoes through the rusted mail slot: "You'll thank me later." Dust motes swirl in the single shaft of light piercing the boarded-up windows, illuminating peeling wallpaper that crackles with decades of secrets. That dented tea kettle isn't just for brewing - twist the spout counterclockwise to reveal the hidden compartment. The grandfather clock's pendulum holds six notches corresponding to family birthdays scrawled beneath the closet's floorboards. Three porcelain dolls stare with mismatched eyes - left pupil positions spell out the attic combination in braille. Every object hums with dual purpose: fireplace tongs bend into lockpicks, grandmother's embroidery decodes into a map of weak floorboards. The grandfather clock chimes. Time's bleeding out. She didn't just lock you in - she locked the rest of the world out. What's coming at midnight that made this safer than freedom?
