The Cursed Key

by Miranda Brock

  I opened my mouth, on the verge of telling him what I had found: not only the ruins, but the key, as well. It was an amazing discovery, one that could be a stellar breakthrough in my career.

  The words didn’t come, though. As much as I wanted to show him that I had managed to win this round, I couldn’t bring myself to do it.

  “I got lost.”

  Dave’s answering scoff confirmation that my excuse was pathetic. Anyone in this field of work knew better than to wander off into the dense rainforest and get lost.

  Dave shook his head and turned around to head back to the dig site. Even the guides seemed mildly annoyed.

  “You look like you need to lie down,” Kelby said.

  I shook my head. “Perhaps, but I’ll settle for more water.”

  Sarah handed me her canteen again, and I gave her a grateful smile before we started back toward the dig site.

  I should tell my team about my find. Logically, I knew I should. But with each step, the urge to protect the artifact like a secret grew stronger.

  I would remain silent about the ruins and what I had found there. The key, a weight in my pocket, was a heavy secret I would keep to myself. At least for now.

  At the slight itch between my shoulder blades, I rolled my shoulders . I couldn’t help but feel there were eyes watching me, as if the trees and rocks and ruins knew what I had stolen. As if the rainforest wanted it back.

  For the first time in my life, I was eager to leave a dig behind.

  Chapter 4

  My fingers drummed incessantly on the steering wheel of my Subaru Outback. I’d left the city of New Haven behind and was edging my way to where the houses grew farther apart.

  My arrival back in the States brought me no relief. It was as if the rain-slick, twisting vines of the Amazon had coiled about my feet and were determined to pull me back. Even as I pulled onto my street, I couldn’t shove out the persistent anxiety that shadowed me.

  The only other person living on this street gave me an enthusiastic wave as I neared. Her steps closer to the road told me she wanted to talk, but I gave a quick, friendly wave and passed by. I couldn’t even be bothered to worry about being rude, eager as I was to be home.

  My eyes fell on the small Victorian home at the end of the tree-lined street with a swirl of nostalgia. How many times as a child had I looked upon the window-lined turret and felt as if I lived in a castle? I had chased imaginary dragons across the worn, maple floors countless times, always the knight and never the princess.

  The ox-eye window above the wide covered porch watched me as I pulled up the leaf-littered driveway. Hidden in the back, so as not to mar the beauty and character of the house from the street view, was the garage. I jabbed my finger onto the button overhead and sighed as the door inched slowly upward. There was barely enough room to squeeze in next to the 1951 Bristol 401 that hadn’t been budged since Dad’s passing five years earlier.

  I opened my door, careful not to hit the neighboring car. If I scratched the light green paint on the Bristol, I was certain I’d be able to hear my father’s berating, even from the grave.

  After popping the trunk, I dragged out the large suitcase and flung my bag over my shoulder. The air outside was as crisp as the yellow and red leaves beneath my feet. It seemed even cooler after the heavy heat of the rainforest, and I quickened my steps toward the back door.

  How could it be one season in one part of the world, and a completely different season somewhere else?

  Science, that’s how. But no matter how many times I traveled, I found it hard to adjust to the weather differences.

  Keys in hand, I flicked through them until I found the thick bronze house key. I twisted it into the lock and turned the doorknob to no avail. I tried again.

  “Oh, come on.” I growled at the lock. The original lock had been replaced long ago, though throughout the interior, the doors still held their skeleton keyholes. I never had trouble with those.

  Finally, after a lot of jiggling and a slight kick, the door opened, and I reminded myself for the hundredth time that I needed a new lock. I shoved the door shut behind me and leaned against it.

  I waited for the welcoming ease that never ceased to settle over me after a long trip, but it didn’t come. Despite being exhausted from my travels, I couldn’t shake the urge to move. I dragged my suitcase across the floor, flicking lights on as I went, peering into the lingering shadows.

  Growing up, I had friends tell me this place was haunted. But even when I was four years old and my father and I had moved here, I hadn’t been afraid that first night.

  Now, however, I couldn’t help but feel as if I were being watched. The house seemed larger and more quiet than it ever had before. As soon as I entered the living room, I abandoned my suitcase and flopped down on my massive blue couch. Determined to make myself relax, I sank into the thick cushion, toed off my shoes, and pulled my legs up. I couldn’t seem to get comfortable, though, and found myself shifting positions every couple of minutes.

  Finally, I gave up and stood. I rolled my shoulders against the persistent itch that had clung to me since the moment I had left those ancient, crumbling ruins in the Vale do Javari. It was as if someone were scraping fingernails down my back from inside my skin.

  I shook my head and glanced at the suitcase. The key was inside.

  Calling Elizabeth Andrews—head of the History department at Yale University and my employer—was usually the first thing I did after returning home. Instead, I headed toward the kitchen.

  Like many rooms in the house, the kitchen had been remodeled while keeping its original charm. Large, narrow windows let in the fading afternoon light. I opened the fridge and frowned at the bare shelves. I would need to go grocery shopping tomorrow.

  I reached into the re-stained oak cabinet above the sink and pulled out a glass. From the freezer, I grabbed an ice tray and shook a few ice cubes into the glass, then refilled the tray with water.

  After a few gulps, I carried the glass with me back to the living room and crouched beside the suitcase. Maybe I would feel better once I had everything unpacked.

  I unzipped the suitcase and let the lid flop open across the floor. I barely had time to get a handful of clothes into my hand before the sound of Bon Jovi’s Livin’ on a Prayer broke the silence in the house.

  I dropped my clothes back into the suitcase and dug around in my bag until I found my phone. A name flashed across the screen, and I shook my head. I should have known.

  “Hey, Elizabeth,” I said.

  “Hi, Olivia. I trust you made it back home all right?”

  “Yes, I just arrived.” I rummaged through the suitcase for something I could put away with one hand.

  “You returned earlier than I was expecting.” Disappointment and curiosity coated her voice. “I hear you had a bit of trouble?”

  My fingers landed on the old fabric still wrapped around the key. “Nothing I couldn’t handle.”

  “Didn’t find anything good, I take it?” Elizabeth’s tone was hopeful, and for good reason. Finding something priceless and remarkable would not only be good for the university, but for herself and me, as well.

  I pulled the cloth aside and picked up the key. “No,” I said. “Nothing noteworthy. I will type up my full report and send it to you by Monday.”

  “Nothing? Well, that’s a shame. Perhaps next time you will have better luck.”

  Elizabeth didn’t need to voice that if I were not successful soon, I would be getting the boot. My late father’s position as the best History professor Yale had seen would not hold sway forever. I needed to either give Elizabeth what she wanted, or try to find my own way.

  I thought of the key, unsure if the artifact would be worth exchanging for a step in the right direction.

  After a few more exchanges of pleasantries, a bit more than half-hearted on my end, I hung up and threw my phone toward the couch like a frisbee.

  I stared at the key in my palm, the fine chain spilli
ng and looping over my fingers, and wondered why I wasn’t telling anyone about it. Perhaps if I were able to learn more about it, and the relic’s possible value, I would finally disclose what I had unearthed in the rainforest.

  Maybe it was too late to come clean, though. After all, wouldn’t they question why I had kept it hidden?

  A slight tremor ran up my spine, and I rubbed the back of my neck against the odd sensation. The key felt heavier in my hand than something of its size should. I couldn’t shake the horrible feeling that perhaps bringing it with me had been a mistake.

  I clicked my tongue at my foolish thinking and got to my feet. It was just a key—an artifact from ancient times and nothing more.

  I headed back to the kitchen, tossed my water into the sink, and dropped a few fresh cubes into the glass. I pulled a bottle of bourbon, a penchant passed down from my father, out of the cabinet and poured myself a healthy portion. I carried the glass and the key as I made my way through the house to the study.

  A smile tugged at the corner of my lips as I walked into my favorite room. The floral-patterned wallpaper was broken by open shelves spilling with books. It always smelled like tobacco in this room, though it had to be merely a memory because no one had smoked in here for years. A few glass-fronted cabinets held many trinkets and artifacts, as did the Queen Anne end tables standing here and there. The room was stitched together with rich and intricate trim, and in the center was the jewel to the crown: a massive, cherry wood desk.

  It was already covered in a scatter of papers, a few books, and my computer. I pulled out the wheeled office chair (my father’s back-torturing and ancient chair was occupying a corner behind me) and sat. Several seconds were spent shuffling through the papers in search for a coaster before I gave up and pulled a small notepad closer. I took a drink, the bourbon warming my throat, and set the glass on the notepad.

  I twisted the key in my fingers. It was the strangest thing, because the more I stared at it, the more I felt as if I had seen the relic before. That was impossible, of course, unless I had seen a former article or the like about it before and couldn’t recall. I would need to begin the search, whether through books or the internet, to try to dredge up whatever information I could find about the key.

  Squinting at the key, for the first time I realized there were tiny markings on it, something I had missed in the dim lighting in the ruins. I brought it closer but couldn’t make out if they were man-made or if it was simply marred with age. As I twisted to go in search of a magnifying glass, my elbow struck the bourbon, and the glass fell to the wooden floor with a crash.

  “Well, crap,” I muttered.

  The chair slid back as I crouched to pick up the pieces of glass. My breath hissed in as my finger slid across a sharp edge. I brought my hand up, inspecting the drops of red beading on my skin. It didn’t seem too bad, I thought, but then the blood began to spread. It trickled down my finger, and then I realized my other fingers were reddening, too. Had I cut them, as well?

  My palm grew red and wet, blood quickly soaking my hand. I could do nothing but stare with a pinch of horror and fascination as the crimson spread.

  Reaching toward the bloody smears, I found my other hand coated in blood, the key still in my palm. Moans and wails sounded around me, as if this house truly were haunted. I spun around, eyes growing wide as the ceiling ripped away to reveal blue sky and the walls sank into the ground paved in wide stones.

  I glanced down and found the four-pointed star of the ruins I had fallen through intact. A dark red liquid lined the cracks of the pattern. It looked like blood.

  I didn’t want to look up, but I couldn’t help it. The rainforest surrounded the ruins, though they couldn’t accurately be called that now. The stones were not crumbling, and sturdy walls rose up. Bodies lay everywhere. Men, women, and—my gut clenched—children. Many were dead. Some still lay writhing and screaming, blood pumping through the fingers pressed to their wounds. Everywhere was blood and death and screams.

  Almost unbidden, I glanced back down. The key was hanging on the chain around my neck, golden and shining as if it had been newly made.

  There was something in my hand.

  My knife, I realized, and the blade was stained red to the handle.

  I stumbled back, my knees hitting something, and I fell.

  My office chair slid back as I landed, tilting backward, and I flung a hand out to the desk to save myself from falling to the floor. My ears were ringing with the ghosts of the screams.

  A shiver rocked through me as I blinked myself back to my study, my eyes focusing first on the papers with their messy scrawls, then across the dull cherry wood of the desk, and finally landing on my hand that was still clenching the key.

  I opened my fingers, no longer stained with blood. That itch between my shoulder blades grew stronger, and the horrible vision that had flashed through me burned in my mind as I stared at the ancient relic.

  That memory… That vision of murder…

  It had felt like my own.

  Chapter 5

  My footsteps were relentless across the study, my gaze flicking to the key on the desk each time I passed it. I had been trying for a good twenty minutes to wrap my head around what had happened. Things like that didn’t happen to me. Perhaps I had caught some sort of sickness while in the rainforest and it was messing with my head?

  I pressed my hand to my forehead. No fever. Besides, I’d had all required vaccinations. Getting sick was unlikely.

  Dropping my gaze to the broken glass on the floor, I tried to come up with the excuse that I had perhaps drank too much, but that feeble reasoning didn’t take root. After only a sip or two, my mind was completely lucid.

  Stopping my constant pacing across the floor, I crossed my arms and stared at the key. A prickling sensation shivered through me, some instinct deep within telling me something was wrong with the key. I had to drag up the heavy weight of logic that told me that was ridiculous. It was an object. Objects didn’t cause visions.

  Still, as I stared at the key, I couldn’t help but sense there was something off about it. Impossibly, it seemed like I should know why it felt strange.

  My stomach growled loudly, wanting something to fill it besides a writhing mass of nerves. I grimaced and rubbed at my tired eyes. Despite the exhaustion from my return trip home, I needed to get to the grocery store.

  I started out of the study but paused in the doorway. Glancing back over my shoulder, I stared at the key. Surely it would be fine. Right?

  I scoffed. Why wouldn’t it be fine? I highly doubted anyone would break into my house, let alone go for the key first thing. Nearly a minute went by before I crossed the room and snatched the key. Just in case.

  Thankfully, there was a small grocery store not too far from my house. I would just pop in for something quick and easy to fix, then hurry back home.

  The old man behind one of the registers who had worked there for years greeted me, and I gave him a wave before yanking a cart out of the line-up. A quick meal of pasta would be perfect.

  I pushed the cart down the aisle, one of the wheels jiggling spastically, and kept an eye out for a nice sauce to go with the box of pasta I had already grabbed. My purse was slung over my shoulder, and I fought the urge to check on the key, again. I’d already looked at it twice. What did I think it was going to do, jump out?

  I shook my head and turned back to the rows of assorted sauces. Finally deciding on a large jar of sauce that boasted the savory flavor of basil, garlic, and organic Roma tomatoes, I took it from the shelf.

  The jar slipped from my hand and hit the speckled vinyl tile of the floor with an unmistakable crack. I groaned, already seeing the sauce leaking out from the jar, and squatted down. Picking it up, my eyebrows scrunched together. The sauce dripping from the cracked jar was much darker and thicker. The pace of the drips quickened, and I realized—as I stared at the growing puddle on the floor—it was losing much more sauce than it should, given the size of th
e jar.

  A metallic scent filled my nostrils as the warm, red liquid ran over my hand.

  Warm?

  I brought it up closer to my nose and inhaled.

  “Ugh.” I dropped the jar, and it shattered. Blood. There was no mistaking it. Why would there be blood in it?

  I wiped my blood-slicked hand on my jeans until I realized what I was doing. Now there was a dark spot on my jeans. My throat tightened as the stain grew, spreading up my thigh and down over my knee.

  “What?” I wiped at it with my other hand, as if I could stop it, but the blood just kept spreading, this time up my other hand.

  I shook my hand, trying to get to my feet and losing my balance. My right hand went to the floor to brace myself, and I gasped as the floor gave beneath it. I lurched away from the puddle of crimson.

  “Ma’am?”

  The elderly man from behind the register was standing in front of me. He held out a hand, a smile on his face. Didn’t he see the blood? It was still on my hands, my clothes, the floor. The toes of his shoes were in the puddle. I held up a hand, and he grabbed it.

  Before he could pull me up, the smile faded from his face. At first, he squinted at me, then dropped his gaze to our grasp. His eyes widened, and he let out a cry as slick and dripping blood crawled up his hand.

  He tried to wipe it off, but it was no use. His forearm turned red, then his elbow. When the blood started to stain his sleeve, he screamed, tugging at his shirt then pawing at his chest.

  It felt as if someone had dumped a bucket of ice-cold water over me. I was frozen even as he turned his wild, tear-filled eyes toward me.

  “What did you do?” he shrieked, still yanking at his shirt. The blood was drifting up his neck now. His knees hit the floor so we were eye-level. “What did you do?”

  The man before me being overtaken in blood was terrifying to behold, but what frightened me more was the alien sense of satisfaction that ran through me.