Playing House Is Over

The damp cave reeked of mildew. Its only light came from a rough clay jar, half as tall as a person, on the stone platform at its center.

Dark brown cracks covered the jar like scars gnawed by time. It stood in the middle of the platform.

One by one, the six of them dropped their childhood keepsakes into the jar.

"Begin," Bill said in a low voice, pulling a sulfur-coated fire starter from his pocket.

It was the open-flame keepsake they had found.

Bill struck the fire starter and tossed it into the jar. Bright yellow flames leaped up from the bottom, setting the keepsakes alight. The rising smoke did not sting their throats. Instead, it carried a strange scent like old book pages.

The six immediately joined hands in a circle and silently recited the incantation.

"Let the past be our guide, and fear our lock..."

The low chant spilled from their lips. Their voices trembled at first, then gradually grew steady and firm. At the center of their circle, the flames flickered in time with the words.

Suddenly, a soft hum came from the cave ceiling. A crack split the pitch-black rock overhead.

Then yellow light poured through the crack—the Deadlights. They gave off no warmth, only a bone-deep chill that cooled even the air near the ground.

Several translucent orbs drifted out within the light. Fragments of scenes shimmered inside them: laughing children, an alley on a rainy night, and a clown's painted face. The orbs floated slowly downward, as though drawn to the flames in the jar. One after another, they slipped through its mouth and vanished among the bright yellow tongues of fire.

"Quick! Put the lid on!" Mike snapped back to his senses and grabbed the clay lid from the stone platform with