The Turn of the Golden Key

My heart thudded as I tapped open the email and checked the address against the numbers on the elegant brownstone building before me. This was it. Knocking on this door was going to be the stupidest or most brilliant thing I’d ever done.

Mom would be furious if she knew I’d come to a mysterious address in Chelsea alone, but the email that had popped into my inbox last week was exactly what I had been manifesting. All those full moon rituals and journaling had finally paid off. Graduation was two weeks away, and a place to live had presented itself to me. I skimmed the email again, hardly believing my luck.

Subject: Tenant Wanted: Emerging Professional in Publishing

Dear Rachel,

Congratulations! You’ve been selected to apply for housing with one of our esteemed program mentors. Our sources have identified you as a person of unique potential, and we believe you hold the key to advancing the future of the publishing industry.

Our advisor is looking for a motivated and talented professional to mentor at their residence in New York City. Only a chosen few have been sent this email.

By clicking the link above, you agree to keep all information about the Golden Key’s Publishing Mentorship Program strictly confidential. Failure to comply may result in forfeiture of your ability to take part in the program.

Sincerely,

The Golden Key Board of Directors

I would have flagged it as spam had it not come from the department’s list-serv. Our professors must have vetted the opportunity. I shot a quick thank you to the universe, and marched up the steps, stowing my phone in my back pocket and brushing my sweaty palms on my shorts. My underarms were just as damp, but I threw on the matching seersucker blazer and knocked on the carved door.

An elderly woman with silver hair and colorful, loose-fitting clothes answered. “You must be Rachel.”

“Hi, are you Mrs. Bowland?”

“Yes, dear, come on in.”

I stepped into the bright foyer, which smelled of lilacs, savoring the cool air that washed over me.

“Your application impressed me. I do hope you’ll take the room,” said the woman as she led me into a sunny parlor.

“I’m sure I’ll love it.”

She smiled, her green eyes creasing at the corners. “Questions before I show it to you?”

Of course, I’d come prepared. I flipped open my spiral-bound notebook, and didn’t miss Mrs. Bowland’s nod of approval as I began. “How long have you worked in the publishing industry? What is your role?”

“I’m retired now, but I’ve still got my connections. I was with Herschel’s for thirty years. I’ll be able to set you up with their summer internship program if you decide to stay.”

I wanted to cry with happiness. Where was the catch here? I asked her a few more questions about her career and experience as a mentor.

“You’ll be my third mentee. Which brings me to the unfortunate portion of the interview.”

My stomach clenched, bracing for disappointment.

“Katelyn, my last girl, had an accident. Her belongings are still in the room, but they’ll be taken care of this week.”

My hand flew to my mouth. “Is she okay?”

Mrs. Bowland’s face grew grim, carving deep lines into her face. “She died.”

“That’s terrible. I’m so sorry.”

“She was a bright girl. I hope this sad news doesn’t deter you from seeing the room?” Mrs. Bowland clasped her age-spotted hands in front of her and leaned towards me.

The hair on the back of my neck prickled, and my throat tightened. Was it bad luck to take a dead girl’s place? Terrible things happened all the time, but I was a little wary of using someone else's misfortune, their death, to my benefit. But I saw little harm in just looking at the room. Everything else seemed perfect. “I’d still like to see it.”

The woman’s face smoothed. “Right this way.”

I followed her upstairs, noting the yellowing wallpaper the further we climbed. Mrs. Bowland paused in front of the second door on the left, reaching into her pocket for a small key. There was a click, and she stood back to let me in.

My stomach dipped as I took in the room. It was an uncanny coincidence, how much my tastes matched the previous inhabitant’s. Fairy lights hung on the ceiling, one of those vintage-style typewriter keyboards sat on the desk, and there were oil paintings in ornate gold frames on the wall. It looked like my vision board of my dream office come to life. My hands tingled as my pulse quickened.

“This might seem odd, but her mother insisted that I throw everything away. She’s grieving terribly. I would hate for any of it to go to waste, so if there’s anything you like, let me know.”

The air had taken on a thick, cobwebbed quality, and my thoughts were slow. I felt like I had fallen into a strange dream. I examined the dead girl’s bookshelf and vanity. She even had unopened boxes of the makeup that was currently sitting in my online shopping cart.

A peculiar fog-like blanket muffled the distant screaming in my mind. It was comforting, like a freshly baked cookie or a warm cup of tea. “I’ll keep almost everything,” I heard myself say.

Mrs. Bowland placed a pack of sticky notes in my hand. “Just tag what you want. I’ll be downstairs when you’re done.”

Had I even agreed to take the mentorship? The door shut behind me. I moved as if underwater, placing bright blue notes around the room. I sat down in the desk chair, wondering if I should tag it, too. My mind cleared as I found stillness, the fog lifting.

The whole situation was strange. But I looked at the facts before me, shoving away my doubt. I could jumpstart my career and have a beautiful place to live, all before graduation day. My friends were moaning about having to move back home while they searched for jobs. Well, that wouldn’t be me. I ran my hands over the desk. It was no particle board furniture, but solid, carved wood.

Maybe it was going a step too far to take a dead girl’s beautiful things, but what if this was the universe’s way of rewarding me for all the good I had ever done? I got straight A’s, helped my mom pay rent, and made sacrifices to be the most responsible person I could. I had even waited until I turned twenty-one to have my first beer, for god's sakes. It was high time that something this good came my way. I had earned it.

I slapped a blue sticky note on the chair.

Two weeks later, I was unpacking my things in my new room. My clothes hung in the closet and I’d added a few books to the shelf, but the room remained largely unchanged. I slid open the desk drawer, hands full of my favorite pens, and was unsurprised to find a few of the same brand already inside.

I winced, though, as I saw a note carved into the wood, damaging it. I turned on my phone’s flashlight and swept the contents of the drawer aside, squinting.

Don’t trust the turn of the golden key.

A chill skittered down my spine, freezing me in place.

Mrs. Bowland’s voice rang through the house, making me jump. “Rachel! Come down stairs, there’s someone I’d like you to meet.”

I glanced down at my attire, matching sweats, and hoped that the visitor wasn’t a future colleague. Smoothing my hair, I plastered on a smile and buried my unease.

The guest, a stout middle-aged man with a belly that strained against his shirt buttons, sipped from a martini glass in the parlor.

Mrs. Bowland beamed at me as she poured another drink. “Jennifer, this is Don. He’s an agent at Herschel’s.”

Jennifer?

I crossed the room and shook his hand. “Rachel London. So nice to meet you.”

“Oh, where’s my head? Sorry, dear. I promise I haven’t even started yet,” she said, shaking her glass in my direction. “Would you like one?”

It would be rude to refuse. “Sure. Thanks, Mrs. Bowland.”

“Marie is fine,” she replied, flapping her hand dismissively.

“Was Jennifer one of your mentees?”

“She was the first.”

“Did a fine job, too,” said Don. “Shame, really.”

My throat threatened to close. “What happened?” I clutched the fine stem of the glass in my hand, fingertips turning white.

“She left the business.” Marie perched in a wingback chair. “Don, who do you think Rachel would be a good fit for?”

Don narrowed his eyes at me over the rim of his glass, and I regretted not changing into something more professional. “What are your interests?”

I rattled off my preferred genres, and he nodded. “Sounds like Evelyn might be a good fit.”

The foreboding that had squeezed the air from my lungs evaporated. Evelyn Briar was one of New York’s leading agents. Several best-selling authors were her clients.

“That would be amazing,” I said, placing a hand over my heart.

“Perfect. Send a contract tomorrow, would you? We’ll get her started on Monday.”

“Welcome to Herschel’s, Ms. London,” said Don, toasting to me. “She’ll be glad to have a replacement for Katelyn.”

I sipped my martini, marveling at my good fortune as the alcohol burned down my throat. “What happened to her?” I asked.

“Murdered,” said Marie, frowning slightly.

“It’s always the boyfriend,” said Don.

“Never liked him,” added Marie.

“That’s awful.”

“In any case, Evelyn will be glad to have an intern again,” said Don, breaking through the somber mood, rescuing me from my conversational blunder.

After an hour, I made my excuses. Before I left, I remembered to mention the door. “Marie, I’m sorry, but the bedroom sticks every time it’s shut.”

“Oh, I forgot to give you this.” She reached into her pocket and held up an old-fashioned key with two bits. “The lock is so finicky. This will do the trick.”

I held out my hand, but she did not immediately place it in my palm.

“You’re sure you want it?”

There was a nagging pull in my gut that made me hesitate. I thought of the scratched message upstairs and felt their eyes on me. Suddenly it was too warm despite the air conditioning.

I forced a good-natured laugh. I was being ridiculous. This is why I didn’t drink. It made me paranoid. “Of course, I do.”

Marie dropped the key into my outstretched hand and smiled, flashing her slightly pointed teeth.

***

Within a month, every piece of my life fell into place. I loved my internship. The triumph of finding a story with potential was invigorating, and Evelyn had made several requests for more material from the authors I sent her way. There was talk of hiring me in the fall. Marie was kind, introducing me to many people. I had even been on a few dates with Don’s nephew. He’d set us up, and I’d gone just to be polite, but I’d had fun and asked to meet again.

If I could stop having nightmares, it would be perfect. I never remembered exactly what they were about, but I woke up covered in sweat and mouth tasting of copper every night. I’d had to buy more concealer to cover the dark circles that bloomed beneath my eyes.

The fluorescent lights in the office buzzed and flickered. From up here, the whole of New York lay spread out like a tempting charcuterie board. Stifling a yawn, I saw it was almost six o’clock. I jotted down a few to-do items in my notebook and hurriedly packed up my things. I had a meeting at seven with Marie and a few other agents in her parlor. She hosted a sort of social club with industry professionals each month.

I arrived at the house exactly on time. In the parlor, Marie entertained several people, Don and Evelyn among them. I left my bag in the entry and swept into the room, picking up a cocktail on my way. “Rachel, dear. Can you fetch more vodka from the cellar?” asked Marie.

I set down my glass, swallowing my disappointment at missing any of the gathering. “Sure. Be right back.”

The cellar was damp, dark, and felt much larger than it should have, illuminated only by a single lightbulb. I had to venture to the farthest corner for the alcohol. I grabbed a bottle, but smacked my shin into a box as I turned to go. In the same instant, the cellar door slammed shut, and the light went out.

Eyes watering from the pain, I reached out a hand before me and shuffled forward. Eventually, my toes hit the bottom step and I limped upwards, trying to calm my racing heart. The door wouldn’t open. I knocked, calling for Marie.

I could hear laughter and the music from a speaker drifting through the door. I knocked louder, then beat my palm against the door as the minutes crawled on. Surely they could hear me?

I took my phone out of my dress pocket and flicked the flashlight on, but swore when I saw I had no service and a dangerously low battery. There was a keyhole in the door. I scrambled for my room key, fitting it into the lock, but when I twisted, nothing happened. Fear, a wild and beastly thing, thrashed around in my chest.

Maybe there was a bulkhead door. I went back down the stairs, shining my dimming light into the corners of the basement. A wall of shelves caught my attention, drawing me inexplicably towards them.

The blood drained from my face as I took in the rows of little boxes, all labeled with names that I knew. Marie. Don. Evelyn. Jennifer. Katelyn.

Rachel.

My pulse pounded as I tucked the bottle of vodka under my arm and reached for the closest Katelyn box. I opened the lid and found a lock of hair nestled inside. The next box held tiny white crescent moons. Fingernails. Bile rose in my throat as I opened the next. I threw the box away, spilling bloodied teeth and dropping the bottle of vodka, smashing it on the floor. Cold liquor washed over my feet, soaking through my shoes. I backed away from the wall, hyperventilating as tears streamed down my face.

A scratching at the top of the stairs made me freeze. I heard the scrape of metal and the delicate snick of a key inside the lock as Marie called down, voice cold and brittle.

“Rachel, dear. It’s your turn.”