The Locksmith

It’s midnight, and I’ve locked myself out of my house.
I take a pen-knife out of my pocket, cut my palms, and rub my hands together while reciting the chant of The Locksmith.
From the shadows, a robed figure emerges, reaching into a large burlap sack.
His pale hand pokes from the sleeve of his robe, a shiny key in its fingers.
The Locksmith nods and unlocks the door.
“Thank you,” I say, reaching for my wallet.
The Locksmith shakes his head, holds my wrist, and his tongue licks my bloody palm.
“Delicious,” it croaks, and returns to the shadows.