My footsteps were relentless across the study, my gaze flicking to the key on the desk each time I passed it. I had been trying for a good twenty minutes to wrap my head around what had happened. Things like that didn’t happen to me. Perhaps I had caught some sort of sickness while in the rainforest and it was messing with my head?
I pressed my hand to my forehead. No fever. Besides, I’d had all required vaccinations. Getting sick was unlikely.
Dropping my gaze to the broken glass on the floor, I tried to come up with the excuse that I had perhaps drank too much, but that feeble reasoning didn’t take root. After only a sip or two, my mind was completely lucid.
Stopping my constant pacing across the floor, I crossed my arms and stared at the key. A prickling sensation shivered through me, some instinct deep within telling me something was wrong with the key. I had to drag up the heavy weight of logic that told me that was ridiculous. It was an object. Objects didn’t cause visions.
Still, as I stared at the key, I couldn’t help but sense there was something off about it. Impossibly, it seemed like I should know why it felt strange.
My stomach growled loudly, wanting something to fill it besides a writhing mass of nerves. I grimaced and rubbed at my tired eyes. Despite the exhaustion from my return trip home, I needed to get to the grocery store.
I started out of the study but paused in the doorway. Glancing back over my shoulder, I stared at the key. Surely it would be fine. Right?
I scoffed. Why wouldn’t it be fine? I highly doubted anyone would break into my house, let alone go for the key first thing. Nearly a minute went by before I crossed the room and snatched the key. Just in case.
Thankfully, there was a small grocery store not too far from my house. I would just pop in for something quick and easy to fix, then hurry back home.
The old man behind one of the registers who had worked there for years greeted me, and I gave him a wave before yanking a cart out of the line-up. A quick meal of pasta would be perfect.
I pushed the cart down the aisle, one of the wheels jiggling spastically, and kept an eye out for a nice sauce to go with the box of pasta I had already grabbed. My purse was slung over my shoulder, and I fought the urge to check on the key, again. I’d already looked at it twice. What did I think it was going to do, jump out?
I shook my head and turned back to the rows of assorted sauces. Finally deciding on a large jar of sauce that boasted the savory flavor of basil, garlic, and organic Roma tomatoes, I took it from the shelf.
The jar slipped from my hand and hit the speckled vinyl tile of the floor with an unmistakable crack. I groaned, already seeing the sauce leaking out from the jar, and squatted down. Picking it up, my eyebrows scrunched together. The sauce dripping from the cracked jar was much darker and thicker. The pace of the drips quickened, and I realized—as I stared at the growing puddle on the floor—it was losing much more sauce than it should, given the size of the jar.
A metallic scent filled my nostrils as the warm, red liquid ran over my hand.
Warm?
I brought it up closer to my nose and inhaled.
“Ugh.” I dropped the jar, and it shattered. Blood. There was no mistaking it. Why would there be blood in it?
I wiped my blood-slicked hand on my jeans until I realized what I was doing. Now there was a dark spot on my jeans. My throat tightened as the stain grew, spreading up my thigh and down over my knee.
“What?” I wiped at it with my other hand, as if I could stop it, but the blood just kept spreading, this time up my other hand.
I shook my hand, trying to get to my feet and losing my balance. My right hand went to the floor to brace myself, and I gasped as the floor gave beneath it. I lurched away from the puddle of crimson.
“Ma’am?”
The elderly man from behind the register was standing in front of me. He held out a hand, a smile on his face. Didn’t he see the blood? It was still on my hands, my clothes, the floor. The toes of his shoes were in the puddle. I held up a hand, and he grabbed it.
Before he could pull me up, the smile faded from his face. At first, he squinted at me, then dropped his gaze to our grasp. His eyes widened, and he let out a cry as slick and dripping blood crawled up his hand.
He tried to wipe it off, but it was no use. His forearm turned red, then his elbow. When the blood started to stain his sleeve, he screamed, tugging at his shirt then pawing at his chest.
It felt as if someone had dumped a bucket of ice-cold water over me. I was frozen even as he turned his wild, tear-filled eyes toward me.
“What did you do?” he shrieked, still yanking at his shirt. The blood was drifting up his neck now. His knees hit the floor so we were eye-level. “What did you do?”
The man before me being overtaken in blood was terrifying to behold, but what frightened me more was the alien sense of satisfaction that ran through me.
Suddenly, the man’s eyes went calm. “Ma’am.” The words didn’t come from his mouth. They came from somewhere else. “Ma’am.”
I blinked. The fluorescent lights above me seemed brighter, and the floor beneath me more stable. The elderly man stood in front of me, a smile on his face, but his eyebrows drawn together.
He reached a hand out toward me. “Ma’am, are you all right?”
Retreating back a step, I bumped into something. The cart. A gallon of milk and a box of pasta sat inside. I glanced at the jar of sauce in my hand, then at the floor. There was no sauce on the tiles, no blood. The jar was in my hand, unbroken.
“Yeah.” My voice was tight with the panic and confusion I was trying to shove down. I cleared my throat, nodding. “Yes, I’m fine, thank you. Just thinking of something.”
The man didn’t seem convinced as he walked away. I waited until he was out of sight, then swapped the jar for a different kind of sauce and headed quickly toward the check-out.
The cashier kept up a string of chatter I barely paid attention to, something about a new club in New Haven that was all the rage. I remembered to smile and say thank you, barely, before I grabbed my receipt and hurried to my car.
When I returned home, I didn’t even bother to return my car to the garage. I snatched my groceries with one hand and climbed out of the car, slammed the door shut, and went inside.
That strange sensation, a foreign weight, clung to me as I locked the door behind me. I set the bags on the counter and reached into my purse. Grabbing the key, I tossed it none-too-gently beside the bag holding the milk.
“There’s something wrong with you,” I told it.
Closing my eyes, I rubbed my temples, trying to massage away the throbbing there. The idea of the situation being ridiculous had passed. As much as I wanted to brush it away, something wasn’t right. My mind whirled as I tried to grasp at an explanation, but I couldn’t find anything solid and logical to hold on to.
My stomach would have to wait. I put the milk in the fridge, more exhausted—mentally and physically—than I was before. The bed upstairs was calling my name, and I suddenly wanted nothing more than to crawl beneath my blanket. I was three steps away before I was fighting with myself over the key. Reasoning tried to persuade me that it would be safe down in the kitchen, but I still couldn’t make myself leave the kitchen without it.
I was able to forget the ancient relic in my hand for a few moments when I opened my bedroom door. It was always a welcome sight after a big trip, but this time, a soft wave of relief washed over me.
I rarely did anything in my room except sleep, so the space was mostly taken up by a large four poster bed. The paisley-patterned duvet in gray and cream had been a gift to myself after a dig in Italy one summer.
I placed the key on the top of a dresser, which just so happened to be as far from my bed as possible, and shucked off my clothes. Digging through the drawers, I found a pair of pajama pants and a soft tee.
A sigh that felt as if it were drawn from the soles of my feet drifted past my lips as I shimmied farther under the blankets. My head sank into my pillow, and I cast a final glance at the key. A good night’s sleep. That’s all I needed.
When I woke, a cold sweat had my shirt clinging to my skin. The pale yellow sliver of light slicing through the crack in the curtains and slanting across the covers told me it was early morning.
I groaned, stretching my arms and arching my back. I was exhausted. Both the heaviness of my eyelids and snippets of consciousness through the night told me my rest had been fitful, though I couldn’t exactly recall why.
I wiggled out of my covers and grabbed the key before making my way downstairs. The floor was cold on my bare feet as I walked into the kitchen. Rummaging through the cabinets, I discovered a box of cereal. I gave it a shake before pulling a bowl down and pouring myself a hefty portion. Leaning against the counter, I shoveled spoonfuls of the slightly stale cereal into my mouth as the coffee pot gurgled behind me.
Barking dogs. I recalled that from last night. My neighbor’s dogs had been having fits at all hours. Usually the pair of goldendoodles were mild-mannered, but for some reason, they had been hollering relentlessly. Perhaps that’s why I hadn’t slept well. After an additional half bowl of cereal, I tossed the dish into the sink and headed upstairs to change.
I wasn’t usually a stickler for routine, but my morning run was always a must. It got the mental juices flowing and made me feel more prepared for the day.
The key that I hadn’t been able to leave behind bounced against my chest as I jogged through the park bordering my property. I pulled in a deep breath, enjoying the slight chill that filled my lungs. It was a beautiful day, the sun brightening the fall leaves in a myriad of oranges, yellows, and reds. I tried to focus on this as I ran, on the gorgeous trees, the sunlight, and the crisp air of my favorite season.
It was no use. I couldn’t run from the strange sensation chasing after me. It was as if someone was watching me, and no matter how many times I glanced over my shoulder to assure myself that wasn’t the case, I couldn’t shake the feeling of pursuit.
As I rounded a turn that would lead me back toward my house, leaves rustled behind me. My feet faltered as I turned, half-jogging backward and gaze scanning over every leaf and twig.
Nothing there now, but there was no mistaking there had been.
Pivoting back, I picked up the pace. Home was only a couple of minutes away. I was nearing the end of those two minutes when sirens pierced the air. They grew louder as I ran. I broke from the edge of the wooded park and stumbled to a stop. The ground trembled beneath my feet, and I realized there was a mingling of screams amid the wailing of the emergency vehicles flashing into my view.
My neighbors were in the street, stumbling onto the pavement with blood staining their hands and running down their faces. Smoke billowed upward in the distance, drifting across the blue sky and blocking out the sun. I caught the scent of charred wood and what I horribly thought was the sulfurous odor of burnt hair.
Heart pumping a rapid beat, I tried to make sense of the chaos. Where had all of the people come from? There were more than just my neighbors screaming and crying in the street and the yards. What had happened?
I forgot about the feeling of pursuit as I ran farther toward the confusion and yells. The earth shook again beneath my feet, but somehow, I remained steady.
My neighbor’s house was on fire. Broken bricks and splintered wood scattered across the manicured lawn. More buildings in the distance were being devoured by flames. The entire scene before me was nothing but blood, smoke, and screams.
I had to do something. There had to be some way I could help.
I reached a middle-aged man, his arm wrapped around the arm of his wife who was stumbling and dazed. He turned an accusing glare toward me, his face a mask of blood. “You did this.”
My lips, as if on their own accord, tipped upward in a smile.
I wanted to shake my head, but I couldn’t. I just stood there, smiling, a sense of satisfaction drowning out denial.
The key hanging on my chest pulsed, the weight of the chain almost pulling me deeper into the havoc. The horror that had first taken over me was nearly gone now, and why should I feel horror, anyway?
My gaze ran across the people, smiling at their fear and wailing. Why would I need more than this?
“Why are you doing this?” My neighbor stood behind me, arms crossed, hugging her shaking frame. “You killed them. Why would you kill them?”
Clenched tight in my hand was my knife, the blade red with blood. I lifted my stare to the yard behind her, a pair of small bodies lying on the grass.
The pleasure of the death and destruction fell away as I squeezed my eyes shut. I pulled in deep breaths from my nostrils, fighting against the urge to overtake everyone and everything.
This couldn’t be real. It wasn’t real.
A cool breeze brushed against my cheek. Slowly, I opened my eyes. Morning sunlight flooded my vision, swept across the grass, and warmed the crown of my head. It was quiet, save for the slight rustle of the leaves overhead. There was no smoke, no red and blue lights flashing, and no one screaming. My fingers were curled in a loose fist, as if the handle of my knife still filled my hand. Clenching the key around my neck, I hurried home.
I dashed up to my study, pulled the necklace off, and tossed it to the table. I paced, shaking my head in an attempt to dispel the vision. I rolled my shoulders to try to push away the clinging weight that had settled onto me the moment I had first left for home with the relic as I braced my hands on the desk and studied the key.
Knowledge had always been something that drove me. If I found something that didn’t make sense, I worked and studied it until I found clarity.
The one exception sat on the worn surface of my massive desk.
I should want to study it, to find out why it was causing these visions, because what else could it be?
I also wanted to snatch it up and chuck it out the nearest window.
My fist slammed into the desk, and a sharp scream flew from my mouth. A tingling sensation prickled across my skin as something burst from my hand, a flash of light and energy scattering across the wooden surface. Papers whirled briefly before drifting to the floor, books fell, and pens rolled.
My attention was drawn to the ancient relic. An urge to take the key and go outside to bring to life the horrific scene already haunting my mind came over me. Power and destruction were calling my name. It would be easy with the key around my neck to bring the blood and screams to life.
I shoved away from the desk, heart pounding. I lifted my hand in front of my face and could still feel the prickling remnants of energy that had burst from me. Even the aftershocks of that energy felt good. So dangerously good. And I knew what I had to do to feel more of it.
I also knew I could never let that happen.
I had to get rid of it.
There was no longer any question in my mind. If I kept it, I would end up hurting people. I needed to get rid of it while there was still enough of me left to fight the urges. But what to do with it?
The image of a shovel, of freshly turned dirt, came to me. I could dig a deep hole and bury it where no one would ever find it.
I stared at the key. Taking it from that ancient, hidden place had been a mistake. I would return the relic to the earth, where it belonged.
But as I reached to grab it, to take it to do just that, the key sparked violently, searing my skin.