The Keyhole at Coldwater Abbey

My friend Lena and I drove four hours from the coast to visit the ruins of Coldwater Abbey, a former monastery that had been abandoned since the 1800s. Lena’s boyfriend, Marcus, was obsessed with anything paranormal, and my ex, Daniel, had tagged along because he still liked spending time with our group. We arrived just before sunset, and the place was technically closed, but we decided to walk the perimeter anyway.

Coldwater Abbey was nothing like the sunny beaches we’d left behind. It perched on a cliff above a gray, churning sea, its stone walls stained with salt and moss. The wind howled through the broken windows, and the only sound besides that was the crunch of our footsteps on gravel. I had my camera out immediately, snapping shots of the crumbling arches and the ivy that clung to the walls like skeletal fingers.

Marcus, as usual, was determined to find a way in. He moved along the base of the building, peering into every crack and crevice, running his hands over the stones. Lena and Daniel hung back, discussing the history of the place, but I was focused on getting the perfect shot of the main tower against the orange sky. Then Marcus called out, ‘Hey, come look at this.’

He was crouched by a small, arched opening near the foundation, barely visible behind a thicket of thorns. ‘There’s a keyhole here,’ he said, brushing away dirt. ‘I can see inside. There’s like, a hallway or something.’ I walked over, curious, and knelt beside him. The keyhole was old iron, rusted and cold, but when I put my eye to it, I could see a dim corridor lined with doors. It felt strangely warm, like breath on my face.

Lena and Daniel joined us, and we took turns peering through the keyhole. Each of us saw something different. Lena described a courtyard with a fountain. Daniel saw a library with books still on the shelves. But when I looked again, I saw a figure standing at the end of the hall, too far to make out clearly. I blinked, and it was gone. I told the others, and Marcus got excited. ‘We have to get in,’ he said, but the door was sealed, and the keyhole was too small for a camera lens.

As the sun dipped below the horizon, a cold fog rolled in from the sea. The temperature dropped, and we all pulled our jackets tighter. Marcus went back to the keyhole, mumbling that he had to see more. I was about to call him away when he gasped and stumbled backward. ‘There’s a hand,’ he whispered. ‘On the other side. It reached through the keyhole.’ We laughed nervously, assuming he was joking, but his face was pale, and he wouldn’t look at the keyhole again.

We decided to head back to the car, but the path we’d taken seemed different now. The fog was so thick we could barely see the fence. We walked for what felt like an hour, passing the same broken statue of a saint three times. Lena gripped her phone, but the GPS was spinning, unable to locate us. Daniel, trying to keep calm, said we should just follow the cliff edge, but the sea below had gone silent, no waves, no wind.

Then we heard it: a sound like a key turning in a lock, deep and resonant, coming from the abbey. We turned, and through the fog, we could see a light flickering in the tower window. Marcus said, ‘That wasn’t there before.’ I raised my camera to zoom in, and through the lens, I saw a figure in the window, watching us. It wasn’t human. Its head was too long, and its arms hung too low.

We ran. We sprinted through the thorn bushes, not caring about scratches, until we burst through the gate and onto the road. Our car was there, waiting, and we piled in. Daniel started the engine, and we drove without looking back. But after a few miles, I realized I didn’t remember getting in the car. Neither did Lena. Marcus was shaking, and when we finally stopped at a gas station, he showed us why.

On his wrist was a mark, like a keyhole, burned into the skin. ‘It came through the keyhole,’ he said. ‘It touched me.’ We tried to call for help, but our phones were dead. When we looked at the map on the dashboard, we were nowhere near where we started. The road signs were wrong, unfamiliar. And in the rearview mirror, I saw a figure standing at the edge of the gas station light, its head too long, its arms hanging low.

We drove again, but the road kept looping. Every time we passed the same sign, the distance to Coldwater Abbey grew smaller. Finally, we came to a stop in front of the abbey gates. The keyhole glowed in the dark. The figure stood waiting. And I realized, as my hand reached for the door handle, that I had been the one driving all along.