Why did I have a new dream about him? Michele wondered. She had grown so accustomed to the same vision of him as a reflection in the mirror that it was unbelievable to experience him as real and solid. But he isn’t real or solid, she reminded herself. He’s just my imagination in overdrive.
The next afternoon, the Windsor handyman, Nolan, brought up the boxes of Michele’s belongings that had been shipped from California. She spent most of the day unpacking, trying to arrange her things so that this elaborate new bedroom would feel somewhat like hers. After organizing her clothes, she came across a box labeled with her mom’s name. Michele hesitated.
Ms. Richards had brought her the box shortly before Michele left for New York, explaining that it contained jewelry and keepsakes Marion had kept in her safe at the bank. Michele had yet to open the box. The truth was that she was afraid to open it. For some reason, the idea of it made her mom’s death feel that much more real. But after eyeing the box warily for a few moments, Michele took a deep breath and finally opened the lid.
Inside were three small jewelry boxes. The first two bore the logos of Van Cleef & Arpels and Tiffany & Co., while the third was unlabeled. Michele stared at the boxes in surprise. Her mom had never told her about these jewels. Michele figured they must be Windsor heirlooms, as Marion had never been able to shop at places like Tiffany’s.
Michele opened the Van Cleef & Arpels box first. At the sight of the butterfly necklace from Marion’s portrait, tears welled up in her eyes. She hugged the necklace close to her, as if Marion’s presence could be found somewhere within it.
She opened the Tiffany box next and found a magnificent white gold necklace woven with diamonds. “Whoa,” Michele murmured. She had never seen such fancy jewelry up close before.
Michele opened the unlabeled box last. And her heart nearly stopped at what she found inside.
Nestled in the box was a gold skeleton key that looked centuries old. A key shaped like a cross with a circular bow at the top. And carved into the key’s bow was the image of a sundial.
It was the key from her dream.
Michele felt her head spinning, felt chills running up and down her spine. “This can’t be happening,” she whispered to herself, her throat thick with shock. “It’s not real.”
She gingerly picked up the key—and felt it twitch, ever so slightly, in the palm of her hand. Michele yelped, dropping the key in horror. But once on the floor, the key was perfectly still.
How did Mom get this? Michele wondered desperately. Why did it appear in my dreams?
Michele noticed a folded piece of paper peeking out from the bottom of the box, and she quickly grabbed it and began to read.
September 1993
Dear Marion,
Enclosed is the key Henry left in my office. I know he wanted you to have it. Perhaps this will explain things. Don’t hesitate to contact me if you need anything.
All my best,
Alfred Woolsey
Alfred Woolsey—my dad’s old boss. The realization nearly knocked the wind out of Michele. This key had belonged to her father? This somehow seemed even more unbelievable than the very existence of the key from her dream. She had never in her life felt any sort of connection to her absentee dad, but now they shared something. She was suddenly reminded of the one time, when she was a young girl, that she had asked her mom if she was anything like her father. Marion had paused a long while before answering.
“Yes,” she had finally said softly. “I can’t put my finger on it, but there is something … something a little different about both of you.”
Michele refocused on Alfred’s note, wondering what on earth the eccentric old man had thought the key would explain. She hurried to her laptop to search for the professor on Google. Maybe she could find his phone number and ask him about it. But when the first link popped up on her computer screen, Michele’s heart sank. It was to his obituary from a Los Angeles newspaper, dated eight years earlier. So much for getting answers, she thought glumly.
Michele remembered, with a pang of regret, that she had never even mentioned the key when telling her mom about her recurring dream; she had always just focused on the gorgeous stranger. But if only I had given Mom all the details—then she would have told me she had the key, Michele thought dizzyingly.
She nervously reached down to pick up the key, bracing herself for the creepy twitching. But the key remained still, and she placed it on her bureau. As she stared at it, she wondered if her mom had ever found out what it was—or if she had lived the rest of her life as perplexed by the key as Michele was now.
Later that day, Michele was brought back to reality by Amanda’s voice echoing through her cell phone.
“Girl, how are you? We miss you so much already!” Amanda cried.
“I miss you guys too,” Michele replied as she curled up on the couch in her sitting room. “What are you doing today?”
“Jen’s having a party. It’s probably going to be lame, but Kris and I promised we’d go.”
“Oh.” Michele swallowed hard as she thought of how Kristen and Amanda would be doing everything together from now on—without her.
“But anyway,” Amanda said hurriedly, as if sensing Michele’s discomfort. “What are your grandparents like?”
“I haven’t seen too much of them, to be honest. We had a pretty awkward dinner last night and I’ve kept to myself since then. They’re … I don’t know. What you’d expect, I guess.” Suddenly, an intercom in the room buzzed. “Hold on a sec.”
Annaleigh’s voice came through the tinny speaker. “Michele? Your grandmother is with one of your new classmates in her parlor. She wants to introduce the two of you.”
Michele groaned inwardly. Why hadn’t Dorothy told her ahead of time?
“Okay. I’ll be right down,” Michele answered. She turned to her cell. “Mandy, I have to call you back. Apparently I have a guest.”
“Okay. Try to hang in there,” Amanda said. “Love you.”
“Love you too.” Michele hung up reluctantly and glanced in the mirror. She had barely slept since Marion’s death, and it was taking its toll on her appearance. She thought briefly of freshening up for her visitor as she surveyed her uncombed hair and bloodshot eyes, but she couldn’t summon the energy. It felt like a long time since she’d cared about such things.
Downstairs in the parlor, Michele found Dorothy sitting in her regal armchair, facing a petite girl on the couch with long strawberry blond hair and green eyes. The girl was dressed in a buttoned-up black vintage tuxedo vest and skinny jeans tucked into black platform boots. An older blond woman stood behind Dorothy’s chair, a pencil behind her ear, as she flipped through a notepad.
“Hi,” Michele greeted them.
“Michele.” Dorothy smiled. “This is my secretary, Inez Hart, and her daughter, Caissie.”
Inez hurried forward and held out her hand. “It’s so nice to meet you, Ms. Windsor. And please accept our family’s condolences on your loss.”
“Thank you. Please call me Michele.”
Caissie gave her a smile. “Hey.”
“Hi.” Michele took a seat on the couch next to her.
“I asked Inez to bring Caissie with her to work today, since she’s also a junior at Berkshire,” Dorothy continued. “I thought it would be nice for you to have a friend when you start school on Monday.”
At those words, Inez shot Caissie a stern look, as if to say, Don’t let me down here! Caissie looked at the floor, clearly embarrassed.
“Thanks. That would be great,” Michele said, trying to muster up some enthusiasm.
“Why don’t you show Caissie your room?” Dorothy suggested.
“Okay,” Michele agreed. Caissie followed her out of the parlor and they headed up the stairs silently, as Michele wondered why this felt so uncomfortable. When they reached the third floor, Michele led her into the sitting room. Caissie looked around.
“You don’t have a bed?” she asked in surprise.
&n
bsp; “Oh, that’s in my other room,” Michele replied. Caissie’s eyebrows rose, and Michele flushed, aware of how ridiculously ostentatious this all must seem.
“Sit down,” Michele offered. The two girls sat in armchairs opposite each other. “So, what part of the city do you live in?”
“I live with my dad right next door, in one of the apartments that used to be the old Walker Mansion. Probably the closest I’ll ever come to living in a place like this,” Caissie said with a laugh.
“The Walker Mansion? The same Walkers that were enemies of the Windsors?” Michele asked, casting around for some subject to talk about. “Pretty weird that they’d live next door to each other.”
“Yeah.” Caissie chuckled.
“So, what’s our school like?”
“Honestly? It kind of sucks. Practically everyone there is an entitled preppy.” Caissie made a face. “My best friend, Aaron, and I both got in on scholarship, and we’ll definitely have an edge when applying to colleges—but public school would have been way preferable socially.”
“Great,” Michele said dryly. “Now I’m even more excited about starting there.”
Caissie bit her lip, possibly regretting her bluntness. As Michele looked at the unfamiliar girl sitting in her room, she suddenly felt like she was watching the scene from outside her own body. None of this seemed real. The funeral, the mourning, and now this new life in New York all felt like scenes from a movie she was simply acting in. This couldn’t actually be her life. Michele imagined that her real body, her real self, was far from this mansion, back in California with her mom and her best friends, and life was blessedly normal. There had never been a car accident, and the biggest problem on Michele’s plate was still her breakup with Jason—which felt like a lifetime ago. Michele envisioned coming home that fateful day to find Marion waiting for her with an after-school snack, eager to hear about her day. Just like always …
Michele felt tears brimming in her eyes, and she stared at the carpet to hide them from Caissie. “Sorry to be a lame hostess. It’s just that my grandmother didn’t tell me you were coming over and I’m not feeling well today … I’m not really up for doing much.”
“I get it,” Caissie replied awkwardly. “I should get going anyway.”
Michele got up to walk Caissie to the door. “Well, it was nice meeting you,” she said, still looking away so Caissie wouldn’t see her tears.
“You too. Bye.” And with that, Caissie practically flew down the stairs.
Late that night, Michele was jolted awake by the sound of a terrible wail. She sat bolt upright just as a second sob sounded. Unable to sit there listening, Michele threw off the covers and jumped out of bed. She opened her bedroom door and stepped into the pitch-black hallway.
For a moment she shrank back. The darkness cast a frightening pall over the mansion, transforming it from the light palatial home of daytime into a creepy Hitchcockian setting. But as the wailing continued, Michele moved forward determinedly. She had to find out who was making this horrible noise.
Leaning against the walls and feeling her way across the third floor, she crept closer to the sound. And suddenly she realized that the sobs were coming from the master bedroom. It was her grandmother.
Michele stopped short, taken aback. And then she heard Dorothy moan in a hoarse voice, “We should have told her.…” Or was it “shouldn’t have told her”? Michele couldn’t quite make out the exact words. And did the “her” refer to Michele or Marion? Michele’s head spun with questions, but one fact was certain: the stoic, composed Dorothy she had met was a facade. It was clear that her grandmother wasn’t well at all.
Walter murmured something in his low voice that Michele couldn’t hear. She walked up to the master bedroom door, but when she reached it, she stood uncertainly in place. What could she do? Barge in and ask what was going on?
“No, Walter! It hurts when I look at her—it’s like there’s a ghost in the house,” Dorothy burst out.
Michele gasped and started to back away from the door. But just then, the door flew open. Walter stood staring at her in shock.
“What are you doing eavesdropping?” he snapped.
“I’m sorry—I didn’t mean to—I heard crying,” Michele babbled.
“Your grandmother is not herself right now,” Walter said in a softer tone. “She’s grieving for Marion. As we all are.”
Michele nodded, desperate to get away. “I’m going back to my room now—sorry.”
Without looking back, Michele turned and took off for her room, tears springing to her eyes. She suddenly felt afraid of her grandparents, and despite what they said to the contrary, she had a strong sense that she wasn’t really wanted here. One thing was for sure: Michele was determined to stay away from them as much as possible.
Michele lay on her stomach, her notebook propped up on her pillow, as she tried to write. She chewed anxiously on the end of her pencil, wondering if she had lost her talent along with her mom. She hadn’t been able to write one decent line since Marion had died.
Heavy rain pounded outside, and the gray sky lent an eerie hue to her bedroom. Michele shivered, pulling her robe more tightly around her shoulders. A glance at the mantel clock atop her fireplace showed that it was just after six-thirty. The next day was Monday, October eleventh—her first day at Berkshire High School. With that miserable thought, Michele flung her notepad and pen across the room, where they just missed her desk.
She wondered, for what felt like the millionth time, how her mom could ever have imagined that Michele would fit in or be comfortable in this new world. How could she not even tell me she was naming her parents as my guardians in her will? Michele had never known Marion to keep secrets from her. Why now, when she had no way of uncovering the truth?
Michele lay on her bed, staring into space and trying to quiet her frantic mind. And that was when she saw it, something she hadn’t noticed before: a lock on the bottom drawer of her antique desk.
Curious, Michele got up and rattled the knob of the locked drawer. A thudding sounded inside, and Michele felt a flare of interest. Something heavy was locked in that drawer. What could it be?
Michele grabbed a couple of hairpins off her vanity table and stuck them inside the lock, wiggling them around, but to no avail. The lock stayed firm. Oh well, she thought with disappointment. Just as she was heading back to bed to continue her wallowing, she saw the key from her father twitch, ever so slightly, on her bureau—just as it had done the day before. But she had to be imagining it … right?
Michele sank back onto the bed, eyeing the key warily. Suddenly there it was again—the key twitching, moving from left to right. Michele yelped, scrambling back in terror. Am I going crazy? she thought fearfully. Isn’t this what happens when people lose their minds?
The key continued its strange movements, as if it were anxious to get Michele’s attention. Michele pinched herself as hard as she could and flinched from the pain. She definitely wasn’t dreaming.
Her gaze fell on the locked drawer. As she glanced back at the animated key, an idea flickered in her mind. It was crazy … but then, she had to try something to stop the key’s spasmodic movements.
Steeling herself, she walked over to the bureau. She squeezed her eyes shut as she reached for the key. It stopped moving and she picked it up. Barely able to exhale, Michele approached the desk. With a shaky hand, she tried to fit the key in the lock.
The key burst to life. Michele cried out in shock, stumbling backward, as the key didn’t fit into the lock but instead melded to it like a magnet, sparking and moving as if it contained a hidden battery.
The desk drawer swung open, the key falling forward into it. At first Michele was too afraid to look inside. What other bit of crazy witchcraft or voodoo could be waiting there for her? But her curiosity got the best of her, and she gingerly took a peek.
Lying flat in the drawer was an ancient-looking leather-bound journal. The skeleton key was pressed to it like a paperweig
ht. Michele’s heart raced. Had this journal belonged to one of her parents? Were they trying to communicate with her somehow? She quickly stuck the key into her pocket and opened the worn and dusty diary. But to her disappointment, the name “Clara” was engraved in calligraphy on the inside cover. Beside that was written the year—1910. Michele flipped open the diary to the first yellowed page.
10/10/10
Today began just like any other day, but it quickly turned into much the opposite.…
As Michele stared at the date, her jaw dropped. Today was also 10/10/10—October 10, 2010!
Just then, the gold mantel clock sounded a chime. And suddenly Michele had the inexplicable feeling that her hands were stuck to the diary pages. She tried to pry them off, but she couldn’t let go! What is this? she thought anxiously as she continued her attempts to yank her hands off the diary. Did the pages turn to glue over the past century or what?
In the most terrifying motion Michele had ever experienced, the diary seemed to pull her into its binding, and she found herself falling headfirst into an abyss of pages. She screamed at the top of her lungs, her stomach swooping sickeningly, as though she were on an upside-down roller coaster.
“Help!” she shrieked. “What’s happening to me?”
She was swimming now, in a sea of papers and ink, as the diary had somehow enlarged to a monstrous size, able to swallow her whole. Then the diary pages vanished, and Michele screamed again as her body involuntarily spun and swirled around her bedroom—a bedroom that seemed to change with every glance, strange-looking figures entering and disappearing at the speed of light. The room seemed to turn older and older as she spun, and without warning, the spinning stopped and everything was once again clear and in focus.
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