The Key Clip That Clicked

It was the autumn of 2011, and I had just returned from my evening seminar at the University of Arden Hills, in the sleepy town of Cedar Falls, Iowa. The clock on my car’s dashboard read 4:47 PM, which meant my mother was still at the volunteer center, and my younger brother wouldn’t be home from his after-school job until six. My father was on a business trip, so the old Victorian house on Maple Street was empty except for me.

I pulled into the gravel driveway, killed the engine, and sat for a moment listening to the tick of the cooling radiator. The house loomed before me, its wraparound porch cast in long shadows. I fumbled with my key ring—a bulky collection of house keys, car keys, and a small metal clip that held my spare house key—and stepped out. The air smelled of wet leaves and something faintly metallic, like old pennies. I climbed the porch steps, unlocked the heavy oak door, and stepped inside.

The foyer was tiled in black and white checkerboard, and the click of my boots echoed off the high ceiling. To my left, the living room was dim, the heavy drapes drawn. To my right, the dining room was equally shadowed, with a long mahogany table that had belonged to my great-grandmother. Beyond the foyer, a carpeted staircase led upstairs, and a long hallway stretched toward the back of the house, where the kitchen and den were.

I dropped my backpack by the coatrack and began emptying my pockets: a wallet, a notebook, pens, and a small pocketknife. I hung my keys on the brass hook by the mirror, but the clip was loose, and the keys clattered to the floor. I bent to pick them up, and as I did, I noticed a faint scratching sound coming from the hallway. I froze. It was rhythmic, like nails on wood, but heavier—like something dragging itself across the floor.

I straightened and listened. The scratching stopped. I laughed at myself, blaming the old house’s settling pipes. I hung the keys again, this time ensuring the clip clicked shut, and walked toward the back of the house to grab a snack from the kitchen.

As I passed the staircase, I glanced up. The second floor was dark, but at the far end of the upstairs hall, I thought I saw a shape—a tall, thin silhouette that seemed to sway. It was gone in an instant. I rubbed my eyes. I had been studying for hours; I was tired. I continued into the kitchen, opened the fridge, and pulled out a carton of milk.

That’s when I heard it again—the same scratching, but this time from inside the dining room. I set the milk down and walked back toward the foyer. The dining room door was ajar, though I was sure I’d left it closed. I pushed it open slowly. The curtains were moving, as if a draft had passed through, but all the windows were shut. Then I saw it: a small, rusted key lying on the floor, just in front of the table. It was not mine.

I picked it up. It was cold, almost icy. The key was old, with an ornate bow, and it looked like it belonged to a jewelry box or a safe. I turned it over and saw a tiny engraving on the stem: ‘In the dark, you will see.’ A chill ran down my spine. I dropped the key as if it burned, and it clattered on the floor. The scratching returned, louder now, and it seemed to come from everywhere—the walls, the ceiling, the floor beneath my feet.

Suddenly, the front door slammed shut. I ran to it, but the knob wouldn’t turn. I heard the sound of my key clip clicking, over and over, as if someone was flipping it open and shut. I turned around. The mirror by the coatrack reflected the hallway, and in it, I saw a figure—a gaunt man in a black suit, standing at the end of the hall, his hand raised. In his palm was a key clip, identical to mine, and he was clicking it open and shut, open and shut.

I backed away, but the floor seemed to tilt. The lights flickered. The man smiled, and his mouth opened too wide, revealing rows of needle-like teeth. He said, ‘You found my key. Now I can finish my work.’ He began to walk toward me, each step clicking with my key clip, and the scratching grew into a cacophony of nails, as if a hundred hands were crawling out of the walls.

I stumbled into the dining room, slammed the door, and locked it with the old brass latch. The scratching stopped. I stood there, panting, my heart hammering. Then I heard a soft click from the inside of the door—the latch turning—and the door began to open slowly. I fled through the kitchen, out the back door, and didn’t stop running until I reached the neighbor’s porch, where I collapsed, gasping for air.

I never went back to that house. I moved in with a friend, and my family followed soon after. But often, at night, I hear the sound of a key clip clicking, and I know that the man in the black suit is still waiting, holding my key, ready to finish what he started.