In an abandoned parking lot, there lies The Shack. A flickering “Key-It Lite” sign cuts through dense fog, facing streetside. On the back, a rusty key-sized hole. The windowless walls are grimy with decades of graffiti.
Headlights. A tween boy scampers from the passenger door to the station to copy the family house key, his newly earned responsibility.
The hut spurs to life, tracing then cutting out the duplicate. Grinding, whirring, screaming. The boy creeps back.
Sudden silence. A soft whine. Then the key. His fingers grasp the notches, picking at a grizzly piece of skin caught between the groves.
Headlights. A tween boy scampers from the passenger door to the station to copy the family house key, his newly earned responsibility.
The hut spurs to life, tracing then cutting out the duplicate. Grinding, whirring, screaming. The boy creeps back.
Sudden silence. A soft whine. Then the key. His fingers grasp the notches, picking at a grizzly piece of skin caught between the groves.
