Keeper Of The Keys

My Great-Uncle Graham had more keys than anyone I ever knew.

Mum said it was because he used to be a prison guard in a maximum security prison. She said that was why he always locked one door before opening another one even at home and years after his retirement.

I hated visiting him, but mum said it was our duty as he was alone. He had never had children and his wife left him years ago. Probably because she couldn’t stand him locking all the doors - who’d want to feel like a prisoner in their own home.

Mum must have instilled a sense of duty in me, too, because when she passed away, I continued visiting Great-Uncle Graham until his death.

I guess that was why Great-Uncle Graham left me his house when he died.

“When were you last here?” Malcolm, my partner who I dragged along for the ride, asks me as we pull into the drive of my Great-Uncle’s house.

“About five years ago. I’ve not been back since he went to the care home. This house doesn’t exactly hold fond memories for me.”

“Why’s that?”

“Because I used to hate it how we all had to be in the same room and wait for him to unlock doors for us.”

I switch off the engine and get out of the car. The house looms dark and bears signs of neglect. Even in the bright sunshine it gives me the familiar creeps.

“Seriously?”

“Yep, he always kept all the doors in his house locked. We couldn’t even go to the toilet without him having to lock and unlock doors for you. Luckily, we never stayed that long. Quick courtesy calls mum used to call them. I think she hated the visits as much as I did.”

“It’s a massive house.” Malcolm follows me up the stone steps where I pull out the set of keys I have inherited out of my handbag and start unlocking the locks and bolts that secure the front door.

“Ten bedrooms. Not that I ever saw any of them. We only ever sat in the livingroom on our visits.”

I undo the last lock and push open the heavy door. The darkness and five years’ worth of stale air welcomes us in.

“I know he’ll turn in his grave, but the first thing I’ll do is to unbolt all the ground-floor windows and let some air in.”

Half an hour later I have unbolted all the windows and fresh summer air is blowing through the ground floor. The light and fresh air flooding highlight the layers of dust and the state of disrepair the place is in.

I shudder and can’t wait to get out of here.

“Let’s get a move on. I don’t want to stay here any longer than we have to.”

I’m putting the house on market and hiring a clearance company to empty it out. I wouldn’t even be here had Malcom not been so keen to see the place.

He convinced me to pay one last visit to the house and check if there were any personal items I wanted to take before the men arrived to clear everything out.

I very much doubted we’d find anything of interest, but in the end agreed.

“Where do you want to start?” Malcom asks and I shrug.

Having never been beyond the livingroom and the bathroom, I don’t know what the rest of the house holds.

I grip his hand for comfort and allow him to lead me along the corridor and into a room at the end.

I unlock the door and the hinges squeak in protest as I push it open. More stale rushes towards us and I hasten to open the windows in here, too.

A large dark wood chest sits in front of the windows. Floor to ceiling bookshelves line two of the walls. I check through the drawers of the desk while Malcolm inspects the books.

“Your Great-Uncle had a specific taste in books. He has books about criminal law from several decades.” He pulls out a thick volume and opens it. “Some of these are really old and could be valuable.”

Meanwhile, I’m finding nothing of interest in the drawers. Just piles of old papers and bills. Malcolm comes over as I empty the contents of the last drawer on the desk and rifle through the papers. Nothing here either. I begin to pile it all back in the drawer, when Malcolm stops me.

“Wait. What’s that?” He picks up a black notebook and examines it in his hands.

“It’s just an old notebook, throw it back in the drawer. I’ll get the clearance company to get rid of everything in one go.”

But he doesn’t. Instead, he takes it over to the window and starts reading. I throw the rest of the papers back in the drawer and put it back in its place.

“Hey, come here. You need to see what he has written in this notebook.”

There’s a note to his words that arouses my curiosity, and I go over to Malcolm by the window. He passes the notebook to me.

I read the scrawled notes and my brow furrows.

Each page has a name and details of a crime. All of them suspected murderers.

“What the hell is this?” I look at Malcom, but I read the same questions in his eyes. “Do you think this is a record of the criminals in his prison?”

“I don’t think so. If you look at the cell numbers, there are only nine of them. A prison has way more than that. Also, the dates, they are after you told me your Great-Uncle retired.”

Malcolm is right. But if they are not a record from his prison, what are they. A horrific thought raises its head as a cold hand travels across my spine. Surely not. I try to quell the idea before it’s fully born, but it persists.

It keeps pushing me to share it with Malcolm.

“This sounds crazy, but nine is the number of spare bedrooms in this house.”

His hand, which I hold for strength is as clammy and cold as mine when we leave the office and head upstairs where the bedrooms are.

The old stairs creak in protest, and we leave footprints in the layers of dust.

My nails dig into Malcolm's hand when we reach the first door and see it bares the number one. There are numbers on the other doors as well, except for one, his bedroom. Each door has a heavy bolt and a padlock.

My hands shake and the jingle of the keys echoes in the corridor as I search for the right keys. Fear fills me as Malcolm removes the padlock and pushes the door open. I expect the worst, but the room is empty except for a narrow bed, a basin and a small table.

Each door we open reveals the same. Nine identical rooms, just like in prison.

We return downstairs as the cell-like rooms upstairs disturb me. Malcolm returns to inspecting the notebook.

“What do you think these letters mean before the dates?” He points to a set of four letters before the second date on each page: EXEC.

My stomach churns as I connect the dots. The names, the rooms like prison cells, the dates.

“The basement,” I whisper, and Malcolm nods.

More bolts and locks to undo to open the basement door. The way down is cool and the stone walls glisten with damp. Moss decorates the various cracks and spiders scuttle back into the shadows.

There is no floor in the basement, just earth, compacted and dry. We spot the row of wooden crosses by the back wall at the same time.

I can’t take it anymore, I rush upstairs and out where I’m violently sick.

“We have to call the police.” Malcolm has followed me out and strokes my back.

I’m not in a state to talk, so he makes the phone call. We sit in the car while we wait for the police. I will not step back inside that house again.

A couple of hours later, the detectives arrive. I guess there is no rush as this is a cold case. They disappear into the basement, and when they return, they confirm my fears.

Great-Uncle had become both the jailer and the executioner.

There is a reward. The family of one of the men executed by Great-Uncle had promised a cash reward for anyone with information.

Suddenly I find myself in possession of $20,000. But I want nothing to do with the money. It is blood money, tainted with the unwrongful suffering of the men Great-Uncle deemed guilty.

I give it all away. Wash my hands from it.

It will be a lot harder to wash my memory clear of what Great-Uncle, the keeper of the keys, the jailer and the executioner, did.