The Keyhole Tune

On the 14th of August, at 1:15 in the afternoon, I was home alone, a fact I had grown accustomed to since my husband, Daniel, had started his residency at the hospital, and my mother had taken a shift at the diner. Our house was a small, two-bedroom cottage on the edge of a pine forest, a place we had rented for its isolation and charm. The front door opened into a narrow entryway; directly ahead, a hallway led to the bedrooms, and to the right, a small living room with a bay window that overlooked the gravel driveway. I had made myself a grilled cheese sandwich, the only thing I could stomach in the heat, and settled onto the worn floral sofa, flipping through the channels until I landed on a rerun of a medical drama. The fan whirred in the corner, but it did little to cut the oppressive humidity that clung to the air like a wet blanket.

I was lost in the show, my sandwich halfway to my mouth, when I heard a faint jingle from the front door. It was the unmistakable sound of keys, metal against metal, followed by the distinctive turn of a lock. My heart skipped a beat, but I glanced at the clock on the mantle: 1:15. Daniel’s shift ended at 4, and he always called if he was early. My mother was not due back until six. Still, I told myself, maybe Daniel had a change of plans. I set the sandwich down and listened. The jingle stopped, but then I heard the soft creak of the screen door as it was pulled open. That was odd; the screen door only creaked like that if you pulled it from the outside, and it usually slammed shut with a bang if not held.

I called out, ‘Daniel? Is that you?’ But there was no answer. The entryway was visible from my spot, so I craned my neck to see if someone was there, but the angle was wrong; the door was to my left, out of sight. I felt the hairs on the back of my neck prickle, and I told myself to be reasonable. The neighbors had a habit of mixing up our houses, though they usually knocked. Perhaps it was a delivery, and I hadn’t heard the doorbell over the TV. I muted the television and listened. The house was silent, save for the hum of the refrigerator and the occasional buzz of a fly. I waited, expecting a knock or a call, but nothing came. I thought I heard a soft scrape, like something dragged across the porch floor, but it was faint, and the wind rattled the window.

My unease grew, and I decided to check the door. I pushed myself up from the couch, my bare feet cold on the hardwood, and walked to the entrance. The front door was closed, but the brass knob was slightly turned, as if someone had just let go. The screen door was shut but not latched, swinging gently in the breeze. I peered through the small square window in the door, but the porch was empty. The gravel driveway was bare, and the forest beyond was still. I must have imagined it, I thought, or maybe the wind did something. But then I noticed a small object on the mat: a key, but not mine. It was an old-fashioned skeleton key, black iron, with a tarnished bow. I hadn’t seen it before. I felt a chill run down my spine, and I picked it up. It was cold, and the metal felt greasy, like it had been handled recently.

I locked the door, a habit I usually only did at night, and went back to the living room, the key clamped in my hand. I tried to shake off the feeling, but the key was a tangible wrongness. I examined it under the light; its teeth were strangely shaped, like tiny jagged fangs. I thought about hanging it on the hook by the door, but something told me to keep it close. I placed it on the coffee table, next to my sandwich, and tried to watch TV, but my attention kept drifting to the key. I replayed the moment in my mind: the jingle, the turn, the creak. It could have been a ghost, my mind whispered, but I dismissed it. I texted Daniel, ‘Did you come home early?’ He replied, ‘No, I’m stuck at the hospital. Why?’ I replied, ‘No reason. Heard a noise. Paranoia.’ He sent a smiley and said, ‘Lock the door. See you at 4.’

But the unease lingered. I decided to take a nap, hoping to reset, but as I lay in the bedroom, I heard a faint, rhythmic sound, like a soft humming. It was coming from the living room, where I had left the key. I rose and padded back, and the humming stopped. The key lay on the table, still and cold. I picked it up, and a pulse of warmth ran through my fingers. I felt an irrational urge to put the key in the front door and turn it, to see if it would fit. I resisted, but the thought was nagging. I placed the key in my pocket, and the humming resumed, but this time it was clearer: a low, mournful tune, like a lullaby played on a flute. It seemed to come from the key itself, and I realized it was in a minor key, sad and ancient.

I felt a strange compulsion to follow the tune, to walk to the bedroom, and I did, my feet moving as if of their own accord. In the bedroom, the closet door was slightly ajar, something I hadn’t noticed before. The tune seemed to emanate from within. I pulled the door open, and there, on the floor of the closet, was an old music box, its lid open. The box was made of dark wood, inlaid with mother-of-pearl grotesques, and a tiny brass key was inserted into its side. The music box was playing the same tune, but it was winding down, the notes slowing, and as it stopped, I saw that the key in my pocket was identical to the one in the box.

The room felt colder. I knelt and looked at the music box. I had never seen it before. Daniel and I had rented this house furnished, but I had gone through every drawer and closet, and this was not there. The box seemed to pulse, as if it were alive. I reached for the key in the box, and as my fingers touched it, I felt a jolt, and the room spun. I stumbled back, and the key fell from my pocket, clattering on the wood floor. The noise echoed, and the music box snapped shut with a click, silent. I stared at the closed box, my heart pounding. Then, from outside, I heard the unmistakable sound of a car on the gravel. I looked out the window: Daniel’s car, pulling in. He was home early, at 2:00. I ran to the front door, opening it before he could use his key, and I blurted out, ‘You won’t believe what I found.’ But as I led him to the bedroom, the closet was empty, the music box gone. Daniel looked at me with concern. ‘There was nothing there,’ he said. I felt the key in my pocket, still there, and I knew I hadn’t imagined it.

That night, I couldn’t sleep. The key was under my pillow, and I could feel its weight, like a reminder. And at 1:15 in the morning, exactly twelve hours after the first incident, I heard the jingle of keys at the front door, followed by the turn of the lock. I sat up, breathless, and reached for the key. It was cold, and in the dim light, it seemed to gleam with a faint dark luster. I walked to the door, my feet silent, and pressed my ear to the wood. I heard the screen door creak open, and then a whisper, too soft to make out words, but it was definitely a voice. I flicked on the porch light, but when I looked through the peephole, the porch was empty. The screen door was open, swinging. And on the mat lay another key. Not the one from my pocket, but a twin, black and oily. I didn’t pick it up. I locked the door and backed away, but the feeling of being watched was overwhelming. The tune hummed in my head, the lullaby, and I knew it was a song of summoning. I don’t know what will happen next, but I know the first key was just an invitation. And now, every time I hear a key in the lock, I wonder if it’s Daniel, or something wearing his key.