The Wrong Keys

Ellie Newstrom lived in a house that was so old, even the dust looked tired. A reality channel could easily swoop in and make it part of its “This Past-Its-Prime House” series. The listing called it a “three-bedroom, two-closet home,” which Ellie thought was quirky in a cute way. Only later did she realize the closets were winning by default.

During the walk-through, she blurted out the question sitting on her tongue. “Where is the bathroom?”

Her realtor flashed a smile that came with its own theme music. “It’s part of the natural backyard experience.”

Ellie pictured snakes, raccoons and irritated squirrels.

He added, “Think of it as rustic spa therapy.”

She did not.

Despite the rustic charm of the backyard commode, Ellie tried to stay upbeat. With enough décor from her trips to southern Florida, she figured she could make even the hole look half full. She was determined to tame the place and make it fit for family holidays.

One night, after calling her fixer-upper “Down-and-out Abbey” for the fifth time, she sagged onto her thrift store sofa. She began listing the tasks she still had to conquer. One item stood out. She needed the key to the attic room she had spotted during her walk-through. It would be the perfect hiding spot for tools, old items, and anything she didn’t want company to see.

Sleep wouldn’t come unless she checked one last place. The privy. She grabbed her phone, slid into her Little Mermaid slippers, and stepped into the dark yard she already knew by heart.

Her flashlight hardly made a dent in the night. The wooden structure revealed itself by scent before sight. She pushed open the door with its crescent cutout. Within seconds, she spotted a small cluster of keys tucked into a notch between old timbers.

She stretched to reach them. Just one more inch.

They slipped. The ring jingled in a cheerful way wrong for the moment, then fell into the gloomy depths. Gone forever.

Ellie sighed and handled the business she had come out for. Nature had won.

By this time, Ellie began fighting fatigue. After all, the dining room table had already toured the room six or eight times before landing in a spot that offended her the least. “Fun shui,” she thought to herself and snickered.

Back inside, Ellie slid into her computer chair and opened her usual décor sites. She was half asleep, half fantasizing about Florida beaches, and entirely set on getting a new key. She searched for “skeleton key”.

Ellie, without realizing it, was on a page for “The Conch Republic,” a favored online shop for south coast style items. Ellie sought the answer by typing ‘skeleton key’ into the search bar. The website presented a festive webpage result that included many items, among them a human-sized, bony human form called a ‘key skeleton.’ However, the product thumbnail was tiny and was made even smaller by Ellie viewing through her half-open eyes.

A week later. a six-foot plastic skeleton arrived at her door. He wore a pirate hat, an eye patch, and held a fake rum bottle. A tag on his neck said, “The Keys Arrrrrr Florida.”

Ellie panicked and attempted to return the gaunt fellow, but the return fee cost more than the skeleton. Her error must have come from the frantic chores of getting her home ready for entertaining. Ellie found a place where Jolly Roger would not be found by her young nieces and nephews. Ellie knew the upstairs closet was still locked tighter than a chest full of Black Bart’s booty. Ellie instead stored Mr. Ribs behind some old jars and boxes where her nieces and nephews were not likely to spot him.

______________ . ______________

Spring came early. On a bright April morning, she felt a sudden urge to clean. She was mopping the oak plank floor when a dull thump came from the pantry followed by a garbled voice. “Visit the Keys. Feel the sunshine.”

Her pulse jumped. Then she remembered the little talking module she had noticed but ignored.

Fine. That explained it. Or did it.

She opened the pantry and froze.

The skeleton sat upright. He was wearing her “Add lime, solve problems” apron.

Ellie’s mind tried to offer logical explanations and failed spectacularly. Maybe the pantry floor was uneven. Maybe a gust of wind had blown through the closed window and somehow encouraged a six-foot plastic pirate to express himself sartorially. She imagined explaining this to her mother. Leave it to her to say something helpful like, “Well honey, that’s what you get for buying strange things online.” Her sister would ask if the skeleton was single. The thought did not help. Jimmy sat there in full apron glory. He looked as though he was ready to serve mojitos at a beach bar that had failed every inspection since 1983.

Ellie dropped her coffee. It splattered across the clean floor.

The voice chip crackled. “I’m Jimmy. You can call me Slim Jim.”

She found eight holiday tins inside the cluttered pantry, and she didn't remember ever owning them.

A queasy sense of déjà vu tugged at her. The last time she had discovered mystery holiday tins was during a post-Christmas clean-up at her old apartment. She’d found three dented Santa containers she was sure had materialized overnight. One rattled suspiciously. One smelled faintly of cinnamon and regret. The third held what might have once been fudge, or possibly a fossilized brownie with ambitions. Her mother had called it “a learning moment.” Ellie had called it “grounds for spiritual cleansing.” These new tins had the same unsettling energy.

Jimmy’s glitchy voice chirped, “Discover hidden treasures,” which sounded a lot like judgment.

She stepped back and looked around the pantry with new suspicion. The shelves seemed closer together than she remembered, as if the room had been quietly shrinking in her absence. A faint draft brushed her ankles, although nothing in the pantry should draft anything. She crouched, peering into the shadows under the lowest shelf. To find a tiny door marked “Do Not Enter Under Any Circumstances” would not have been surprising. The house had an existing personality, but this felt akin to personality with hobbies. Possibly mischief. Possibly vengeance. Maybe even both.

Ellie reached for a fresh mug, choosing the one with a dreamy beach sunset. She muttered about the locked upstairs closet again. Anything seemed better than dealing with the pantry’s growing mysteries.

As she walked away, the voice box sparked one more line from the darkness.

“You mop like my left femur.”

Ellie stopped, stared at the snowman tins and whispered, “Don’t you start.”