The Key in the Cistern

It was the autumn of my eleventh year, and the world had shrunk to the narrow compass of our flat above the betting shop on Corporation Street. My mother, Doreen, had taken a night cleaning job at the hospital, and I, Liam, had been entrusted with a key to our door, a weighty brass thing that felt like a lie in my pocket. The flat always smelled of cabbage and bleach, and the walls were thin enough to hear Mr. Kaczka snoring through the floorboards. I was alone most evenings, as I was that night, sitting at the kitchen table with a plate of cold beans and toast, watching the rain streak the window like tears.

That night, the dream came—the one I still can’t shake. I was in the swimming pool of the new comprehensive school, the one where I’d soon be enrolled. But the pool was vast, a cathedral of green tile, and the water was thick and heavy like syrup. I was at the deep end, the ‘DANGER: NO DIVING’ sign fading on the wall, and my key—my precious, new key—slipped from my fingers. It spiraled down, catching the light, and I dove after it. The water grew darker, colder, and the bottom fell away into a black chasm. I could hear a voice, not in my ears but inside my skull, whispering, ‘Let it sink.’ I woke with a gasp, my heart pounding, and the echo of that whisper stayed with me.

The next day, I walked home from school, the key clutched in my fist, and I couldn’t shake the feeling that I was being watched. The street was empty, but the windows of the other flats seemed like eyes. When I reached our building, I fumbled with the lock, and as I turned the key, I heard a faint scratch from inside. I opened the door, and the flat was silent. But something was off. The fridge was humming louder than usual, and the clock on the wall had stopped at 3:14. I shrugged it off and made myself a cup of tea.

A week passed, and the dreams worsened. Each night, I was back in that pool, but now the key wasn’t just lost—it was stuck in the drain at the bottom, and I couldn’t reach it. In the dream, I saw a hand, pale and bloated, emerge from the blackness and snatch it away. I woke each morning with the taste of chlorine in my mouth. I told my mother nothing, of course, because what would I say? She was already exhausted, already frayed.

Then came the Tuesday. I came home to find the flat’s front door slightly ajar. My heart lurched. I pushed it open, and the hallway was dark. The light in the kitchen was on, casting a sickly yellow glow. I called out, ‘Mam?’ but there was no answer. I crept forward, my key now in my hand like a weapon. In the kitchen, the tap was dripping, and the window was open, letting in a chill wind that tasted of rain. On the table, in the center, was a small, dry puddle of water, and in its midst, a single brass key—not mine, but similar. I picked it up, and it was warm, sticky. I dropped it with a clatter.

That night, I didn’t sleep. I sat in my room, the lights on, and I heard noises—dripping, scratching, the soft shuffle of wet feet on linoleum. I convinced myself it was the pipes, the old building settling. But then I heard a voice, thin as a thread, singing a lullaby I didn’t recognize. It came from the bathroom. I approached, my hand on the door knob, and it was ice cold. I opened it a crack, and the room was empty, but the bathroom cabinet was open, and the mirror was fogged as if someone had just taken a hot shower. But there was no steam, no warmth. Just damp.

The next morning, I found my key, the real one, lying on the bathroom floor, covered in a fine grit that looked like sand. That’s when I started to lose myself to the obsession. I skipped school, spending hours staring at the bathroom drain, at the cistern, at the plumbing. I began to take apart the toilet, the sink, anything. My mother came home one evening to find me on my knees, the pipes exposed, my hands raw with scouring powder. She screamed, ‘What are you doing?’ and I saw the fear in her eyes. I tried to explain, but the words wouldn’t come. I just pointed at the drain and said, ‘It’s in there.’

On the third Sunday, I woke to a dream so vivid it was like a memory. I was in the swimming pool again, but now I was a man, my body grown, and I was floating face down, the water still. The key was in my mouth, cold and metallic. I inhaled, and it went down my throat. I woke choking, spitting out nothing but bile. I stumbled to the bathroom, and I could hear the gurgle of the toilet, the pipes groaning. I looked into the bowl, and there, in the water, was the key—my key, but the teeth were rusted, the bow twisted into a crude shape like a human ear. I reached in, and the water was freezing, and I felt a hand wrap around my wrist from the pipes below.

I pulled back, but the hand held firm. I screamed, and the door burst open. My mother stood there, her face pale, and behind her, Mr. Kaczka, the neighbor, who had heard the noise. They saw me, my arm submerged up to the elbow, thrashing. Mr. Kaczka grabbed my shoulder and yanked, and with a sickening pop, I came free, my hand empty. There was a red mark around my wrist like a bracelet of bruises.

They took me to the doctor, who said it was stress, anxiety, the upheaval of my parents’ divorce. I was given sleeping pills, and slowly, the dreams faded. I stopped going into the bathroom unless absolutely necessary. I never spoke of it. But to this day, when I turn on a tap, I hear a faint sound, like a key scraping against porcelain. And sometimes, when I’m in a swimming pool, I feel a pull at the deep end, a whisper: ‘Let it sink.’ I’ve never told anyone the full truth—that on the night of the red mark, when Mr. Kaczka pulled me free, I saw in the water, for just a second, the face of a little girl, her hair floating like seaweed, and she was smiling, and she was holding my key.