Forked Up

The darkness of the Winstons' corridor presses in, the scent of old age thick in the air. Your heart hammers against your ribs, a frantic drumbeat against the silence. The key Anna gave you actually worked. Now you just need to grab a fork, snap a selfie, and get out.
You creep through the quiet house, past the sleeping cat and framed photos of strangers. The kitchen is spotless, almost unnervingly so. Finding the cutlery drawer feels like a minor victory. You grab a fork from the bottom, pull out your phone, and quickly take the required selfie.
Just as you’re swapping the real fork for a cheap replacement from your boot, a light clicks on in the dining room. You freeze, the fork still in your hand, staring at the guy standing in the archway. He screams.