Be Careful What You Wish For

It's been seven days since the package arrived. I was gone for the first 5 days, on vacation. However, I checked in on it daily, via the security camera, as it sat there on the front porch, waiting. Day one, was a brief check of my front porch security camera when I quickly skimmed through my many messages as they swarmed into my inbox upon connecting to Wi-Fi in Heathrow. I assumed that I had ordered something and forgotten about it, as has happened countless time before. I went about my day, settling into my hotel, with just a passing concern that I hoped no one would swipe it while I was gone. Since I wasn't expecting any packages, and knew no one in my new neighborhood, I hadn't asked anyone to pick up my mail for me.

My new house has a mail slot that drops the regular sized mail into the house, where it's collected into a nice, wicker basket that I grabbed on my last Target run. Since I travel a lot for work, the mail slot was a big selling point for me. I appreciated the ability it offered me to let the mail pile up inside without bringing attention to the passers by that I wasn't home. No one had lived in my house for awhile, prior to my recent move, so I hoped the package, so prominently placed on my front doormat, wouldn't cause any interest and my neighbors would walk by and ignore the house as usual. It was an old house and registered as an historic site by the city. The previous owners had renovated it to contemporary standards, so I was able to purchase it without having to put any money aside for upgrades. I loved it. It was mine and just mine.

On day two, I slept in, which was glorious. I hadn't had a chance to really sleep-in, in ages. The heavy blankets and the blackout curtains did wonders for my sleep and it was almost noon before I cracked open my eye to check the time. I pulled out my phone, started scrolling through my notifications and decided to make sure the package was still there. It was. I rewound the footage a bit to see who dropped it off.

If it was UPS, or the mailman I could pretty easily track it back to it's origin if I felt compelled to. But it wasn't either of those. I had to rewind and watch it multiple times to make sure my eyes weren't playing tricks on me.

It had been dropped off by a drone, of all things.

I had heard of Amazon researching these types of deliveries, so I decided to check my account for an outstanding order. Maybe my address was part of a pilot delivery test to check if drones could be trusted to deliver to any destination. I couldn't remember ordering anything, but it's happened before, that I've ordered something on impulse, after a long, frustrating day at work. No, all the orders in my list had been delivered. This was something else. Happy, and groggy from a good sleep, I decided to not give it another thought and enjoy my day. I was in London, it was sunny, and I had tickets to a private behind-the-scenes tour of the British Museum followed by high tea at the Ritz. This was my vacation, and I was going to do everything I wanted to. The last visit to London had not been on my own terms and this trip would wipe that memory clear and leave me with a fresh start to a new life.

Day three I didn't check on the package until after the afternoon matinee of Les Miserables in the West End. I was enjoying a pint at the pub on the corner of the street where I was staying, and the thought of the package popped into my head again. I looked at the live feed and the package was still there, though it had collected some leaves on the top from a windstorm overnight. I noticed that there didn't seem to be an address sticker or any writing on the top. I zoomed in as close as I could, and the package appeared to be blank. Just a plain brown box. Maybe the address was on the bottom. That would be odd, but then again, it had been delivered by a drone, so I couldn't imagine the drone would feel the need to lay it down with the label on top. As I ordered a second pint, I wondered if the package was some sort of gift. Maybe an eccentric new neighbor had dropped off a welcome gift via drone. I hope they didn't think I was rude for not bringing it in. By then they would have guessed I wasn't home and that made me a little nervous.

It couldn't be a gift from anyone I knew. I hadn't shared my address with anyone yet. I wasn't ready to be found.

Day four I was startled awake, early in the morning, from a nightmare. I had been dreaming of giant drones dropping giant boxes into people's houses full of all sorts of scary things that were chasing me through the streets of London. I laughed at how much this drone delivery of a mystery box was affecting me, even in my sleep. I pulled out my phone and checked again, to see the package still on my doorstep waiting patiently for my return. I snuggled back into my heavy blanket and slept-in again, before enjoying my last full day in London, hitting all the sites and catching a show at Shakespeare's Globe.

Day five I spent my time at the airport, before boarding, looking up any drone delivery projects or research going on in my area. I spent a long time watching my live-feed. I saw a stray cat walk across the porch and lay next to the box for a little while before being scared away by the mailman. He walked right past the package and dropped the mail in the slot as usual. I wondered what he thought of the box. Was this odd to him, to see a box with no address sitting in the center of a doorway? Probably not.

I couldn't check again until I landed on the morning of day six. I found myself extremely eager to see this box. As I sat in the back of the Uber, heading towards my new address, I wondered what it would look like in real life. All sorts of ideas were swirling around in my head as to the contents. Was it a kind philanthropist who dropped off packages full of millions of dollars on random doorsteps? I started imagining what I could do in my new life with millions of dollars. I could buy a new car. Or maybe I could pay it forward and pay off random strangers' debt. But if it was a box full of millions of dollars, should I report it to the police? Maybe I could wipe the footage from my security camera so that there would be no trace of the package ever being delivered. That way maybe I could keep it without ever being found out and just pay for things in cash. No, that wouldn't work. Someone must have flown the drone. Someone knew that they dropped a package there. Maybe it wasn't full of money. But, then what could it be?

I arrived at my house, and there was the package. It was sitting on the doorstep covered in leaves and a thin layer of dust with little cat prints across the top. I put down my luggage and picked it up to check the bottom for the address sticker. None. It was heavy and solid and didn't feel like wads of cash. I opened the door and placed the package down on the table in the entry before going back outside to collect my luggage. Once my luggage was inside I closed and locked the door and turned on the lights. I was practically shaking with anticipation but I decided to put my luggage away and come to the package later.

After a trip to the bathroom, starting a load of laundry and getting my luggage put away I found my way back to the package in the entry way and brought it into the dining room, where I placed it on the table. I felt that opening it would require some sort of ceremony so I got up and poured myself a nice glass of wine. But I still couldn't bring myself to open it yet. Instead, I walked over to the mail slot and hoisted up the basket full of mail and poured it out on the table next to the package. I spent a while sorting through my junk mail and opening the bills and actually important mail hidden in the pile. I opened what needed to be opened threw the wasted paper into the recycle bin in the kitchen. I had finished the glass of wine and felt extra tired. So, I went upstairs to nap, but ended up sleeping through the night.

Now it's been seven days since the package arrived. Before I even allowed myself to look at the package today, I took an exceptionally long shower. Then, after getting myself ready, I prepared some fresh coffee and a bagel and I am now sitting at my dining room table ready to open my package.

As I begin to rip the paper, I'm worried that I'm making a mountain out of a mole hill. What if I've built myself up and it's just an oversized furniture catalogue?! I quickly pull the brown paper off the box and lift the lid.

Inside is an intricately carved wooden box about the size of a chocolate sheet cake and the same dark brown. It's about three inches thick with a beautiful, brass, latch connecting the top and bottom. The carvings aren't anything extraordinary, but look quite old. There are roses and ivy, cherubs and hearts and all sorts of Baroque-like decorations carved masterfully into the hard wood. The wood smells rich and musty, like it's been hidden for a long time, and just recently exposed to fresh air. As I unlatch the top of the box from the bottom, my heart begins to race. I hold my breath, and I open the box.

Sitting on a purple, velvet pillow is a key. The key is a skeleton key made out of solid iron, similar to the ones they sold in the gift shop at the Tower of London. Tied onto the key with a very old ribbon is a note, written on a Alice in Wonderland-type label that simply reads, "Welcome home."

A shiver runs down my spine. This is not at all something that I had imagined. This is far more ominous. "Welcome home." The eery vibe of the whole situation is causing my logical mind to go back to my original thought and I consider to myself, "Maybe it is an eccentric neighbor playing some sort of prank on me."

I go to the large picture window and peer out, looking up and down my street. I had chosen this street based on it's beautiful historic charm, with mature trees creating a canopy over the pavement. Each house is meticulously kept and clearly loved as historic treasures from the city's past. There was no history attached to this house when I bought it, other than the year it was built, 1915. There are no local legends, as far as I've been told. My street is quiet and there's no movement besides the swaying of the trees shifting the color of their leaves from green to yellow and orange and red, in the crisp early autumn.

Since moving in, I had only seen a neighbor, here and there, walking their dogs and making no obvious signs of acknowledging my existence. They might have noticed smoke coming from the chimney on my first night, but there hadn't been time to make any kind of impression yet.

I go back to the table and pick up the key, along with my plate and coffee mug, and head back into the kitchen. Setting they key down, I rinse out my plate and fill up my mug with more coffee. Then, I pick the key back up and start walking through the house looking for a key hole.

I've only had my things in the house for a month before my trip to England. They had been delivered and set up prior to my arrival, which was only a week before I left again on vacation. I wanted to enter my new place, fully furnished and feeling like home the first day I arrived. I spent months choosing each piece of furniture and working with my interior designer to make this house exactly the way I wanted it. No mention was made of a hidden door or key hole. But here I am, walking through the house, holding an old skeleton key and searching for an adventure.

I'm sure my neighbors had known someone was moving in, with all of the deliveries and painters and workmen coming in and out over the last few months. But, a neighbor would leave a number or name if they were leaving a welcoming gift. This message said, "Welcome Home," as if I had been away and returning to a place I considered home. This house isn't "home" yet. Though, that's my intention. I want to live here for a very long time and have a rich life in this beautiful space, filled with all the things I love and bring me joy. But I can't call somewhere "home" when I haven't been here for longer than a single week all in all.

I start upstairs, figuring I can methodically look from top to bottom, not missing anything. It might also allow me a lunch break midway, if I get to the kitchen without finding anything. I spend about an hour looking through each of the 3 bedrooms on the upper level. There were skeleton holes in each of the antique door handles that had been left on for decoration after the remodel, but nothing big enough for my skeleton key to fit in. I spend a second hour going back through the rooms soaking in the beauty of each, and admiring how exactly perfect each of them is and how excited I am to use them in my new life.

Heading back downstairs I grab my empty coffee mug and my water cup from my bedroom to drop off in the kitchen and check to make sure my key is still in my back pocket. After stopping in the kitchen and grabbing a cookie from the cookie jar, I search through the dining room and then head into the living room.

The living room is my favorite room. Another selling point, besides the mail slot, for me, was the built in bookshelves and the beautiful large, fireplace with room for a lovely painting above. Choosing the painting to hang and bring the whole room together took no time at all. Though my last trip to London had not been as lovely as this most recent time, I had acquired a beautiful landscape painting from a art gallery in Bath. It was the first item I put up in the living room and the rest of the space was designed around it. Every time I walk in the room, I feel happy.

This time, however, I feel anxious, as I look around for a hidden key hole. I find it. Right there, next to the fireplace. I had seen it before, but just thought it was another gas-key hole for the fire. But, now that I look at it, it is clearly a skeleton key hole. Funny that the workers didn't cover it up, or mention it to me. The key fits perfectly. I can't turn the key. I won't turn the key. I take a step back, hands shaking again, and decide instead, to turn on the fireplace. Sitting on the couch, facing the fire, I wrap myself up in my big fluffy throw blanket and watch the flames, as I consider my next move.

I've fallen asleep again. This jet lag is brutal. Now sweating from the heat of the blanket and the fireplace in an already heated home, I rid myself of my covers and stretch out my shoulders and back. The room is now only lit by the light of the fire and the moon is rising over the trees outside. I reach over and turn a lamp and look again, at the key in the keyhole.

I decide to just turn it. It's an old house. Nothing will happen. What am I even making such a big deal about, anyway? I take a breath, get up and walk over to the fireplace. I place my hand on the key and turn. Something clicks and the fire roars. Then darkness.

When I come to, I notice that I'm laying in wet grass, on a beautiful early morning under a pink tinted sky. I must be on a hillside, and can see other hills around me and a large farm house, like those I saw in England, near the top of the hill to my left. I'm very confused and can't quite remember how I managed to fall asleep in a field. I look down and I'm wearing an old farm dress, like those I used to see in period films from the 17th century. Confused, and dreamily, I make my way to the farm house. It looks strangely familiar, but I can't quite place it. As I approach, I smell food roasting in the kitchen and see smoke coming from the chimney indicating a warm cozy inside.

I knock on the large door with an iron door knocker that looks so very similar to the iron of my skeleton key. My skeleton key. As I hear footsteps coming to open the door, I suddenly remember that I had turned my skeleton key in the keyhole in my house. How did I get here? Panicking I turn around and look behind me. There is a strange outline of something gold and then what looks like a huge mirror the size of the sky looking out into what was my living room couch. My couch! My throw blanket! I look around again, in terror and realize.

I'm in the painting. How am I in the painting!?

The door opens, and an old man greets me with a warm smile, "Welcome home."