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 spilling 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.