The old, rusted compass on the mantelpiece had pointed south for as long as anyone could remember, regardless of which way it was turned. Julian always thought it was broken, a charming piece of junk salvaged from an estate sale, until the storm rolled in last Tuesday. As the first crack of thunder rattled the floorboards, the needle began to spin wildly before snapping firmly toward the east, pointing directly at the locked basement door. A faint, rhythmic humming started to reverberate through the floorboards, matching the beat of his own racing heart. He reached into his pocket, his fingers wrapping around the cold iron key he’d promised himself he would never use.
