On her first night in her new home, after a lavish dessert of strawberry cheesecake and cream, her new husband handed her a clinking set of keys across the dining room table.
“You can go anywhere in the house,” her husband told her, “except the basement.”
He showed her the key to the basement. It was midnight blue.
“Why? Is the basement where you keep the bodies?” she asked, with half a smile.
He didn’t smile back. “Do you promise me?”
She studied him carefully, feeling the weight of the basement key in her hand.
There were many keys to the house - hefty ornate keys for their front and back doors, a pretty gold one for their bedroom, a dozen little silver and brass ones for any other lock in the house that she might come across. Windows and cabinets and the like.
The basement key was almost insubstantial against her palm. Negligible. The sort of key that was easily lost, that looked like it might belong to a doll house more than a proper estate.
She couldn’t read his expression.
“You can’t tell me what’s in there?”
“I will know if you open the door,” he said, “and everything that we are will end.”
She laughed again, uncertainly, because the words were surely absurd and certainly not like him. He could have simply told her it was dangerous and so best avoided, or not given her the key to the basement in the first place. She doubted she would have given it all that much thought among all the other rooms.
Yet, his words instead piqued curiosity.
Once again, he did not smile. He stared at her solemnly, with a hint of something haunted that she had only caught flickers of during their courtship.
The laughter died in her throat.
He had been like something from a fairy tale from the moment they met; Prince Charming to pluck her out of the ashes of her drab life, even if she knew he had been married before. Everyone knew. Just as none of them had expected him to pick her. She had no experience in the running of manor houses, and no especially outstanding beauty nor fortune of her own to make up for that fault. In short, she was nothing like his first wife.
But, she had made him laugh, and she had liked him. God, how she had liked him – and liked him still – with such blushing ferocity that it almost made her dizzy.
Her new home was enormous, and beautiful, and filled with the kind of impossible luxuries that she had never even dared to dream of having. It was filled with him. She was nothing, and nobody, and he had given her the keys to be something and somebody else. Someone better. What was one small forbidden key against all that?
She knew the preciousness of privacy. Sometimes a secret could be the only thing that was really yours.
“Okay.” She bit her lip, and started to unhook the key from the ring. “Would you like it back, then? Just to be sure.”
He recoiled as if she’d drawn a knife on him and shook his head.
“Keep it,” he rasped. “Keep it safe. Keep it locked. Let it be forgotten.”
But from that moment on, though, she never really forgot about the blue key for a moment.
***
The library was probably her favourite room in her new home. It was astonishing to be able to have an actual personal library, stocked from soft-carpet and gleaming hardwood floor to cavernous ceiling with walls upon walls of books of every kind. The orphanage had maybe three books, worn and ancient, each crumbling a little more with every reading.
There were lots of stories in her husband’s books about girls with keys, girls with curiosity, heroes with something they were not supposed to look at under the pain of death or something worse.
Psyche with Eros, who was told without explanation not to look upon her perfect and mysterious host, for there could be no love without trust.
Orpheus, forbidden to glance back at his love, lest he lose her for good.
Pandora, with her strange once unopened box of evils and hope, told it was hers.
Eve, with her curiosity, with her knowledge, lured into plucking that shining forbidden fruit.
Bluebeard too, of course, with his many murdered wives, all told not to seek out their bloody predecessors behind his secret door, because – why?
Because it was a game of female obedience? Because it gave a predator an excuse to do what he did best, when he knew from the first instance that his victims would have to know? He chose them, after all. And why did they look, those wives, against all warning?
Because the uncertainty was unbearable? Because it was their home too? Because they loved the man they married and wanted to know everything there was to know of him? Maybe they wanted to save him. It was never cruelty.
The two of them were happy, her husband and her, as blissful as newlyweds were want to be.
In the evenings they would cuddle before the roaring fires, night caressing the windows, and he would read aloud from his favourite passages or play music. In the days he would work, or leave on some business or other, and she would wander the labyrinthian corridors alone and explore the many treasures tucked away behind his many locked doors.
The library could have lasted her years, but she found a room with a ceiling made of magnifying glass by which to observe the stars, a swimming pool built into the rock beneath the entrance hall, a lush garden bursting with colour that she could tend to in the sunshine.
There were servants to take care of the day-to-day running of the building, and so he did not seem to desire any particular purpose of her except to be his wife. Except for her to live in his home, in their home, and enjoy his easy company and the gifts he gave her. She found ways to keep busy. To contribute.
Thus, it took her many months to walk down towards the basement, to first look upon the door that she was not allowed to open. Spring had turned to the first icy breaths of winter.
The door was painted the same midnight blue as the key, and immaculate in condition. The lock was tiny. A dark slither, a crack, in something otherwise quite lovely.
She pressed her hand against the door and the wood was warm compared to the cool, slightly stale, underground air that filled her chest.
She dropped a hand into her pocket, fingers closing unerringly around the blue key. She tried not to touch it, not to think about it, but she had come to know it instantly by shape and feel alone. It was simply so odd to have a key so small. She had half expected the door would be in miniature too.
How could he possibly know, if she opened it? In some tales it was magic. The key would betray her. He would know by seeing it. But her husband did not want to look upon the key, he had never even mentioned it once after their first dinner.
What then was in the basement? Something so terrible that she could no longer love him? Or perhaps it was empty. Perhaps it was structurally unsound. Perhaps it was simply a test on if she would allow him that one thing that was his and his only.
She leaned down, and pressed her eye to the keyhole with a hammering heart. She didn’t know what she expected to see inside, exactly – a skeleton, or some ghoul staring back at her, or some hidden vault even. There was only darkness. Nothing to see. She straightened again, unsure if the painful feeling in her lungs was breathless relief or airless disappointment.
She walked back up the stairs.
She turned over the pages of stories in the library, and turned the key over and over in her palm, and wondered which of those many tales she was in.
***
“I think,” she said one night, as they lay in bed. “That it bothers me more that you will not tell me, than anything that could possibly be in the basement.”
He stiffened on the mattress next to her.
“Is there something I could do,” she rolled onto her side to face him, “so that you would know you could trust me with the truth?”
His expression was half-hidden in the dim light, his body made unfamiliar by slashes of moonshine slicing through the curtains. His blue eyes were open, staring up, away from her.
“You promised me that you would not dwell on the door.”
“No.” She reached out, tracing her fingers gently along the curve of his jaw, coaxing him to meet her searching gaze. “I promised I wouldn’t open it. There’s a difference.”
He snorted, but tipped his head towards her hand, planting a kiss to her knuckles.
“Can you at least narrow down the possibilities?” She pressed into the silence, because kisses were sweet but they were not an answer. “Is it something I shouldn’t see? That you don’t want me to see? Something that – I don’t know – can’t be let out? Are you the secret guardian of a nightmare world?” She attempted another smile, but it wobbled shaky. “Just give me something, and I’ll leave it alone. I just want to know. I need to know. Whatever it is – whatever it could possibly be – you don’t have to carry it alone. We’re supposed to be a team. That’s what marriage is.”
“Is my word not enough for you?” He sounded tired. “Is everything I have given you not enough?”
She scrunched up her nose at him. “You’d be happily blind, if it were you?”
“Ignorance can be bliss.”
“If you wanted me ignorant, why tell me about the key in the first place? You know me.”
They’d met on account of her curiosity, of her straying to places that she wasn’t supposed to be. He’d been visiting the library of one of the great colleges, reserved for great men like him, and she’d snuck in aching for a glimpse of the world.
Her husband said nothing.
“When you first gave me the key…” She swallowed. “You looked scared.” Her fingers, which had often brushed his in the library stacks once upon a time, grazed his pulse. It was racing. “I would fight monsters for you. Even if you’re the monster.”
As the silence stretched, she thought he might say nothing again, until the silence had grown so large that they might never reach each other across the abyss of it.
“I love you,” he said. His voice cracked. He caught her hand, entwining their fingers together, and squeezed. “Goodnight.”
The seconds ticked by into minutes, into she didn’t know how long.
“Is it a curse?” she whispered, into the dark. “If you’re not allowed or able to tell me, squeeze my hand twice.”
“Oh my god.” His voice was muffled, then, as he pulled a pillow over his face and wrenched free of her. “It’s two in the morning, darling. Go to sleep.”
***
She watched the door diligently for about a month. She didn’t think her husband had some poor creature locked up in the basement, but if he did then one would assume that either he would have to visit, or have the servants visit, in order to provide his victim some form of sustenance.
Nobody visited the basement door except her. There could not be anything living on the other side.
At least, not unless there was some other second secret door and tunnel system, hidden somewhere on the grounds. She didn’t see anyone vanish to one of those either, though. Would she, if it wasn’t on the grounds? How large a conspiracy could a little blue key possibly hold?
Would it count as ‘opening the door’ if she made a hole in the wall next to the door?
She remembered her husband, in the college library the first time they met, spying the collection of ghost stories she’d been straining to reach. He’d grabbed it off the top shelf for her, easily, a glimmer of amusement curling his lips.
“I never really got these stories,” he’d mused. “If it were me, I would simply not have gone into the haunted house in the first place. Or, one look at a ghost and – no, no thank you. Goodbye! Have a nice life.”
She’d gaped at him.
He’d shrugged at her, and handed her the book. “But I can see that you’re a braver soul than me,” he said. “Sneaking into a place like this uninvited.”
She’d accepted the volume, clutching it protectively to her chest.
“Well,” she’d managed. “People like you are already invited everywhere, aren’t they? So you don’t have to be brave.”
He’d startled into a laugh.
She’d wondered if he would expose her to security, wondered if she should have denied it, wondered how he’d seen through her so swiftly and –
“Don’t worry.” He’d already been turning away, with a last lingering glance at her. “I can keep a secret.”
She’d only learned later who he was, and that it had been a month since his wife had died.
How, exactly, had his first wife died? The papers had said ‘tragic accident’, but there had been no witnesses. He didn’t talk about it, or about her.
No. She was being ridiculous. Maybe she had only imagined the flicker of terror on her husband’s face, the way he had flinched from the key, the rough urgency in his voice. Whatever it was, whatever it could possibly be, was not worth sacrificing what they had. There were other rooms; a dozen of them!
She buried the damn key in the garden. Out of sight, out of mind. Better that than completely losing her mind over something that probably had a completely rational explanation. Love was a leap of faith.
She woke up the next morning to find the blue key back on the key ring, still covered with a fine sprinkling of dirt.
***
Her least favourite stories in the library were the ones about fate.
Maybe some people found such notions encouraging, comforting even in their reassurance that all of the suffering in the world was for a reason and that people could have some incredible purpose laid out for them. She’d always found the idea to be like quicksand beneath her feet, sucking her down down down trapped.
For, if it was fate, there could be no real escape. No chance. No hope.
She kept returning to the story of Bluebeard, tracing variations and retelling with the blue teeth of her blue key.
Maybe, if she was Bluebeard’s final wife, she would open the door and ultimately inherit a grand fortune, and recover from the trauma of falling in love with someone who wasn’t what they said they were.
What if she was only the second wife though, or the metaphorical third? What if her fate was to be some dead thing written only to add background colour to someone else’s happy ending?
It was all well and good of her husband to claim he would never go into a haunted house, but such declarations only really worked if one knew they were in a horror story instead of something else.
“Do you think, maybe,” she asked her husband as winter turned back to spring, “that we could go away somewhere?”
They strolled through the gardens, his arm wrapped protectively around her frail shoulders. Ever since the key incident she had found it difficult to sleep, to eat, to not find herself worrying about the door like worrying a hangnail until she tore off bloodied scraps of her own skin.
The house, which had once seemed so large to her, had turned into something suffocating. She had no friends in the area, and however far she went along the grounds in the lonely hours of her husband’s working, the door would always be there for her and the key would always be in her pocket. The questions, the creeping doubts, would buzz in her brain like flies swarming a corpse.
“Go away?” He seemed surprised. “Is there something else that you need?”
She had tried simply hiding the key, then stayed up all night staring at the key ring laying on her bedside to try and catch the culprit who’d dug it up from beneath the roses. One of the servants must have brought the damn thing back, right? Perhaps, the housekeeper? She got the impression that the severe woman had never really approved of her, never liked her. She was not as impressive and perfect a candidate as his first wife had been.
She had seen nothing, but when she fell finally into an exhausted slumber, the key had been waiting for her.
“I just thought it might be nice for us both to get away for a while,” she said. “A holiday. You’ve been so busy with your work.”
She had tried burning the key. It did not burn.
“There is a lot to do,” he said. “This is a large estate. It takes – management, a lot of care.”
“Perhaps I could help you?”
“It is not your burden, darling.”
“But it’s yours? A burden?”
The key, whatever it was, had to be of some supernatural origin. Of that she was increasingly certain. Well, the ghosts were in the house, so to speak, and he wasn’t leaving! He wouldn’t look at her, his attention fastened on the first snowdrops shoving their heads from beneath the hard earth.
“Tell me,” she said. “Or come away with me, please.”
He glanced at her, then.
She reached into her pocket and held up the blue key.
He turned away, quickening his pace as if he couldn’t wait to get away from it too.
“Where,” he said the next morning, “would you like to go, love?”
At the sea side, she tossed the key into the water when he wasn’t looking. If it was the servants, if there was any chance that something in the house was messing with her, with them, then even its evil reach could surely not reach beyond the borders of the property?
It was better for a while, after that. They were both lighter on holiday, away from his family home, with all of its history and responsibility.
The house on their return, waiting for them as it always was and would be, felt new and full of possibility again. They kept laughing over their first dinner back and fell asleep still high on love and freedom and everything they were supposed to be.
The next morning, impossibly, the blue key was on the key ring again.
She started to cry.
“I’m sorry,” her husband said. The colour had leached, stricken, from his handsome face. He looked older. Exhausted, too. His eyes were dark. “I wish—” He fell silent. He reached out to her, and she recoiled. “I’m sorry.”
“You wish what?” It came out whip sharp.
He said nothing.
She shook her head, the laugh on her breath not really a laugh at all. Of course, he would still not tell her.
“If you don’t tell me,” she said, “everything that we are will end. You understand that, don’t you?” She fumbled the key off the ring and hurled it onto the sheets between them. It sat there, so disgustingly innocuous looking, a glint of blue among the white. “This isn’t fair. This is – sick. Take it back.”
“I know.” He folded his arms, less great man, more frightened child hugging himself. He stared down the key like an old enemy. “I know.”
“Or,” she said. A plea edged into her tone. “We could leave. For good. Let this house, let that door, be forgotten. That’s what you want, isn’t it?”
He shook his head, less ‘no’ and more ‘I can’t’ and more ‘I’m sorry’.
She squared her shoulders, even as his slumped. “Tell me, at least, if I should go. You love me, right? If there was something rotten in that basement, you would want to protect me from it, wouldn’t you?”
“You can go,” he said. “If that’s what you want. That’s always been your choice.”
She stared at him.
He looked haunted, hunted, and he had known all along that the key would always end up back on the ring, hadn’t he? That was why he hadn’t simply taken it off when he first gave them to her. She would have thought he didn’t trust her if he’d never given her the keys to her own home at all too, wouldn’t she?
She debated leaving him. She debated walking out the house and – what?
He looked so broken.
She sighed, the defiant fury sluicing off her shoulders too. She rounded the bed and craned up on her toes to kiss the lost furrow of his forehead.
“Just ignore it,” he said, clutching her hands. “Just ignore the door, and we can be happy.”
“Darling,” she said. “You don’t seem happy here.”
She kissed his lips, like packing up a suitcase, and snatched the blue key back up off the sheets.
Then she went down to the basement and opened the door.
It’s an old tradition that during a leap year women could propose to men. This was usually depicted as old or ugly women trapping men, but some art focused more on the role reversal and could be quite cute.
I have a soft spot in my heart for the last one because it plays on the idea of “undesirable” people, a tall masculine woman and a shy effeminate man, finding each other but instead of mocking them depicts it as sweet that she could finally ask him because he was too shy and insecure to ask her.
Can we talk about how that was the perfect cross-cultural example? I was like "oh this sounds so pleasant, how is it-" then Pumped Up Kicks came on and i was like "oh. Oh yeah okay."
