The Cursed Key

by Miranda Brock

  Suddenly, the man’s eyes went calm. “Ma’am.” The words didn’t come from his mouth. They came from somewhere else. “Ma’am.”

  I blinked. The fluorescent lights above me seemed brighter, and the floor beneath me more stable. The elderly man stood in front of me, a smile on his face, but his eyebrows drawn together.

  He reached a hand out toward me. “Ma’am, are you all right?”

  Retreating back a step, I bumped into something. The cart. A gallon of milk and a box of pasta sat inside. I glanced at the jar of sauce in my hand, then at the floor. There was no sauce on the tiles, no blood. The jar was in my hand, unbroken.

  “Yeah.” My voice was tight with the panic and confusion I was trying to shove down. I cleared my throat, nodding. “Yes, I’m fine, thank you. Just thinking of something.”

  The man didn’t seem convinced as he walked away. I waited until he was out of sight, then swapped the jar for a different kind of sauce and headed quickly toward the check-out.

  The cashier kept up a string of chatter I barely paid attention to, something about a new club in New Haven that was all the rage. I remembered to smile and say thank you, barely, before I grabbed my receipt and hurried to my car.

  When I returned home, I didn’t even bother to return my car to the garage. I snatched my groceries with one hand and climbed out of the car, slammed the door shut, and went inside.

  That strange sensation, a foreign weight, clung to me as I locked the door behind me. I set the bags on the counter and reached into my purse. Grabbing the key, I tossed it none-too-gently beside the bag holding the milk.

  “There’s something wrong with you,” I told it.

  Closing my eyes, I rubbed my temples, trying to massage away the throbbing there. The idea of the situation being ridiculous had passed. As much as I wanted to brush it away, something wasn’t right. My mind whirled as I tried to grasp at an explanation, but I couldn’t find anything solid and logical to hold on to.

  My stomach would have to wait. I put the milk in the fridge, more exhausted—mentally and physically—than I was before. The bed upstairs was calling my name, and I suddenly wanted nothing more than to crawl beneath my blanket. I was three steps away before I was fighting with myself over the key. Reasoning tried to persuade me that it would be safe down in the kitchen, but I still couldn’t make myself leave the kitchen without it.

  I was able to forget the ancient relic in my hand for a few moments when I opened my bedroom door. It was always a welcome sight after a big trip, but this time, a soft wave of relief washed over me.

  I rarely did anything in my room except sleep, so the space was mostly taken up by a large four poster bed. The paisley-patterned duvet in gray and cream had been a gift to myself after a dig in Italy one summer.

  I placed the key on the top of a dresser, which just so happened to be as far from my bed as possible, and shucked off my clothes. Digging through the drawers, I found a pair of pajama pants and a soft tee.

  A sigh that felt as if it were drawn from the soles of my feet drifted past my lips as I shimmied farther under the blankets. My head sank into my pillow, and I cast a final glance at the key. A good night’s sleep. That’s all I needed.

  When I woke, a cold sweat had my shirt clinging to my skin. The pale yellow sliver of light slicing through the crack in the curtains and slanting across the covers told me it was early morning.

  I groaned, stretching my arms and arching my back. I was exhausted. Both the heaviness of my eyelids and snippets of consciousness through the night told me my rest had been fitful, though I couldn’t exactly recall why.

  I wiggled out of my covers and grabbed the key before making my way downstairs. The floor was cold on my bare feet as I walked into the kitchen. Rummaging through the cabinets, I discovered a box of cereal. I gave it a shake before pulling a bowl down and pouring myself a hefty portion. Leaning against the counter, I shoveled spoonfuls of the slightly stale cereal into my mouth as the coffee pot gurgled behind me.

  Barking dogs. I recalled that from last night. My neighbor’s dogs had been having fits at all hours. Usually the pair of goldendoodles were mild-mannered, but for some reason, they had been hollering relentlessly. Perhaps that’s why I hadn’t slept well. After an additional half bowl of cereal, I tossed the dish into the sink and headed upstairs to change.

  I wasn’t usually a stickler for routine, but my morning run was always a must. It got the mental juices flowing and made me feel more prepared for the day.

  The key that I hadn’t been able to leave behind bounced against my chest as I jogged through the park bordering my property. I pulled in a deep breath, enjoying the slight chill that filled my lungs. It was a beautiful day, the sun brightening the fall leaves in a myriad of oranges, yellows, and reds. I tried to focus on this as I ran, on the gorgeous trees, the sunlight, and the crisp air of my favorite season.

  It was no use. I couldn’t run from the strange sensation chasing after me. It was as if someone was watching me, and no matter how many times I glanced over my shoulder to assure myself that wasn’t the case, I couldn’t shake the feeling of pursuit.

  As I rounded a turn that would lead me back toward my house, leaves rustled behind me. My feet faltered as I turned, half-jogging backward and gaze scanning over every leaf and twig.

  Nothing there now, but there was no mistaking there had been.

  Pivoting back, I picked up the pace. Home was only a couple of minutes away. I was nearing the end of those two minutes when sirens pierced the air. They grew louder as I ran. I broke from the edge of the wooded park and stumbled to a stop. The ground trembled beneath my feet, and I realized there was a mingling of screams amid the wailing of the emergency vehicles flashing into my view.

  My neighbors were in the street, stumbling onto the pavement with blood staining their hands and running down their faces. Smoke billowed upward in the distance, drifting across the blue sky and blocking out the sun. I caught the scent of charred wood and what I horribly thought was the sulfurous odor of burnt hair.

  Heart pumping a rapid beat, I tried to make sense of the chaos. Where had all of the people come from? There were more than just my neighbors screaming and crying in the street and the yards. What had happened?

  I forgot about the feeling of pursuit as I ran farther toward the confusion and yells. The earth shook again beneath my feet, but somehow, I remained steady.

  My neighbor’s house was on fire. Broken bricks and splintered wood scattered across the manicured lawn. More buildings in the distance were being devoured by flames. The entire scene before me was nothing but blood, smoke, and screams.

  I had to do something. There had to be some way I could help.

  I reached a middle-aged man, his arm wrapped around the arm of his wife who was stumbling and dazed. He turned an accusing glare toward me, his face a mask of blood. “You did this.”

  My lips, as if on their own accord, tipped upward in a smile.

  I wanted to shake my head, but I couldn’t. I just stood there, smiling, a sense of satisfaction drowning out denial.

  The key hanging on my chest pulsed, the weight of the chain almost pulling me deeper into the havoc. The horror that had first taken over me was nearly gone now, and why should I feel horror, anyway?

  My gaze ran across the people, smiling at their fear and wailing. Why would I need more than this?

  “Why are you doing this?” My neighbor stood behind me, arms crossed, hugging her shaking frame. “You killed them. Why would you kill them?”

  Clenched tight in my hand was my knife, the blade red with blood. I lifted my stare to the yard behind her, a pair of small bodies lying on the grass.

  The pleasure of the death and destruction fell away as I squeezed my eyes shut. I pulled in deep breaths from my nostrils, fighting against the urge to overtake everyone and everything.

  This couldn’t be real. It wasn’t real.

  A cool breeze brushed against my cheek. Slowly, I opened my eyes
. Morning sunlight flooded my vision, swept across the grass, and warmed the crown of my head. It was quiet, save for the slight rustle of the leaves overhead. There was no smoke, no red and blue lights flashing, and no one screaming. My fingers were curled in a loose fist, as if the handle of my knife still filled my hand. Clenching the key around my neck, I hurried home.

  I dashed up to my study, pulled the necklace off, and tossed it to the table. I paced, shaking my head in an attempt to dispel the vision. I rolled my shoulders to try to push away the clinging weight that had settled onto me the moment I had first left for home with the relic as I braced my hands on the desk and studied the key.

  Knowledge had always been something that drove me. If I found something that didn’t make sense, I worked and studied it until I found clarity.

  The one exception sat on the worn surface of my massive desk.

  I should want to study it, to find out why it was causing these visions, because what else could it be?

  I also wanted to snatch it up and chuck it out the nearest window.

  My fist slammed into the desk, and a sharp scream flew from my mouth. A tingling sensation prickled across my skin as something burst from my hand, a flash of light and energy scattering across the wooden surface. Papers whirled briefly before drifting to the floor, books fell, and pens rolled.

  My attention was drawn to the ancient relic. An urge to take the key and go outside to bring to life the horrific scene already haunting my mind came over me. Power and destruction were calling my name. It would be easy with the key around my neck to bring the blood and screams to life.

  I shoved away from the desk, heart pounding. I lifted my hand in front of my face and could still feel the prickling remnants of energy that had burst from me. Even the aftershocks of that energy felt good. So dangerously good. And I knew what I had to do to feel more of it.

  I also knew I could never let that happen.

  I had to get rid of it.

  There was no longer any question in my mind. If I kept it, I would end up hurting people. I needed to get rid of it while there was still enough of me left to fight the urges. But what to do with it?

  The image of a shovel, of freshly turned dirt, came to me. I could dig a deep hole and bury it where no one would ever find it.

  I stared at the key. Taking it from that ancient, hidden place had been a mistake. I would return the relic to the earth, where it belonged.

  But as I reached to grab it, to take it to do just that, the key sparked violently, searing my skin.

  Chapter 6

  The key did not want me to bury it.

  The tang of dread lay thick on my tongue as that thought went through my mind over and over. I clutched my hand loosely against my chest, fingertips still burning. Eyes narrowing, I glared at the relic that had seared me. The fact that the key was fighting not to be buried only made me want to do so more.

  There was no doubt in my mind that if I kept the key, the visions would continue. The worsening of each vision was proof of that. Surely, once I was rid of it, the visions would cease along with the unusual sensation inside of me. It was an intrusion, that tingling feeling of energy on the verge of bursting from me any second, and it was one I wanted gone.

  I couldn’t logically explain what was happening to me, something that frustrated me greatly. All I knew was that if I put the relic back into the earth where it belonged, things would go back to normal.

  I hoped.

  I cast a glance out of the six-paned window on the far side of the room. The morning light filtering through the filmy white curtains was quickly warming from gray to a soft yellow. It was still early; if I hurried, I would be able to get the key in the ground without anyone noticing.

  I crossed the room to peer out of the aged glass. My neighbors didn’t seem to be out and about yet. I drummed my fingers against the windowsill. I could wait until the cover of darkness, I supposed, but that posed a problem: spending more time with the key.

  The haunted relic sitting on my desk looked innocent enough, but I didn’t want to take any chances. I would leave before I changed my mind. Or before the key changed it for me.

  After a quick dash to my room to grab my favorite bag—a well-worn khaki messenger tote—I returned to the study. I carefully coiled the relic in the original wrappings before bundling it tightly. Then, for good measure, I grabbed Chaucer, my ever-trusty knife, to take with me as well.

  I eased the back door shut behind me, finding the situation a little ridiculous as I walked softly to the small garden shed nestled beside the garage.

  The contents inside the dark building were covered in dust, spiderwebs clinging onto every corner. I had tried my hand at gardening after the unexpected passing of my father to get my mind off of my grief. Unlike my mother, I didn’t have the knack for it. The glorious rose bushes at the front of the house were the only evidence of her I’d seen in my life. My father had taken care of those roses religiously. I was wise enough to hire someone to tend the landscaping for me. I was much better at pulling things out of the earth, than guiding them to flourish inside of it.

  “Except for now,” I mumbled.

  I rifled through an array of gardening tools on the cluttered table. Finally, I found a wooden-handled trowel. It would take longer to dig a decent-sized hole with it, but if someone caught me walking into the woods with a shovel, it would definitely appear suspicious.

  I tried to wipe the dust from the trowel but only succeeded in smearing the grime around, so I gave up and stuck it inside my bag to join my knife and the key.

  I made my way carefully around the back of the house on soft steps. I wasn’t exactly sure why I was being so sneaky—it wasn’t as if me going on a walk into the wooded park was anything unusual—but I couldn’t risk anyone seeing me hide the key. I had to protect it.

  Wait. I stopped at the edge of the trail. Protect it?

  Where had that thought come from? I didn’t want to protect the relic. I wanted to be rid of it.

  The new thought was well on its way to worming itself into my brain, though, and I found myself second-guessing. I couldn’t shake the growing feeling that what I was doing was wrong.

  My cheeks puffed out in a big sigh as my head swiveled between my house and the wooded trail. Then, like white-hot lightning, the memories of the horrible visions flashed in my mind, burning away any hesitation.

  No. I had to get rid of it.

  Now.

  The need trying to claw its way into me to keep the key only firmed my resolve. This relic had given me those visions, and it was clinging to me, whispering into my mind not to cast it away. I had to get rid of the visions...and that itching foreign energy shifting restlessly beneath my skin.

  I hurried into the forested park. It wasn’t until I was under the rustling canopy that I recalled the fact that, not long before, I had been certain I was being followed down this very path. Unease squirmed in my stomach as that sensation returned.

  I glanced over my shoulder but found no one. Scanning around me, I discovered no evidence of another person, either.

  I flipped open my bag, letting the flap wedge between the bag and my hip so I could quickly grab my knife if I needed to. Just in case. Whether I would be able to actually use it against someone was another matter, especially after the visions showed me what the blade would look like glistening in blood.

  With each step, my pulse quickened, hidden eyes on my heels. Once I was deep enough into the woods, I took a right and abandoned the trail. The park wasn’t massive—the other end of the trail came out at a town square with quaint shops—but it was large enough where I wouldn’t be seen if I was careful.

  I picked my way around the trees and over fallen branches, still attempting to be stealthy, until I found a spot that satisfied me. The brush was denser there, mostly young trees and briars. It definitely was not a place where someone would take an idle stroll. Besides, even if they did, they wouldn’t just start digging. Hopefully.

&nb
sp; I set my bag on the ground beside me as I got onto my knees. After another quick glance around to assure myself I was alone, I began pushing aside damp leaves and debris. I pulled out my knife, unsheathed it, and set it within reach. The trowel came next, and I got to work, thankful it was not yet far enough into fall for the ground to be stiff with cold.

  One scoop after another, I dug, glancing around with every addition to the small pile of dirt. Would the unseen eyes that had been following me leave after I buried the key?

  I sliced the trowel into the ground quicker, eager to get the relic out of my life. I wasn’t sure how big to make the hole. How deep did one need to dig into the earth to bury a cursed key forever?

  After fighting past roots and digging shoulder-deep, I figured it was good enough. I set the trowel down and drew the key from my bag. Though it was covered, I could almost feel the slender length of the key. Its weight almost seemed welcome in my hand.

  I shook my head against the thought of keeping it. The tendons popped in my wrist, and my palm tingled. It was almost as if my body was fighting to hold onto the key.

  My eyebrows pinched together as I worked my fingers loose one at a time. Tilting my hand over the hole was more of an effort than it should have been. The key dropped into the freshly dug earth, and I let out the breath I’d held trapped in my lungs.

  I grabbed the trowel and quickly started shoveling dirt over the key as the irrationality of my mind told me to snatch it back up. When finally I was finished, I patted the dirt down hard and pulled leaves and sticks back over the bare earth.

  “There. Back where you belong.” The words tasted like a lie on my tongue.

  I shoved the trowel and knife back into my bag and stood, brushing debris from the knees of my pants. Hairs rose on the back of my neck, and I peered through the trees, certain someone was still watching me.

  Perhaps if I walked away, the sensation would fade.

  As I left, I refused to look back toward the buried key, despite the urge to do so. Relief did not come to me as I thought it would. Instead, the more distance I gained between myself and the key, the more dread sank into my stomach.