The Key

By Zimbell House Publishing

The Key-A collection of short stories.
These nine tales will lead you on adventures that may open a legacy... or dark and sinister truths you’d rather not know. It could lead to an inheritance or a
curse... you’ll just have to read on to find out.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Zimbell House Publishing
• Release date: Mar 28, 2017
• ISBN: 9781945967139

Zimbell House Publishing

Zimbell House Publishing is an independent publishing company that wishes to partner with new voices to help them become Quality Authors.Our goal is to partner with our authors to help publish & promote quality work that readers will want to read again and again, and refer to their friends.

Book preview

The Key

A Collection of

Short Stories

A Zimbell House Anthology

Distributed by Smashwords

This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real locales are used fictitiously. All characters appearing in this work are the product of the individual author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the written permission of the publisher.

For permission requests, write to the publisher at the address below:

Attention: Permissions Coordinator

Zimbell House Publishing, LLC

PO Box 1172

Union Lake, Michigan  48387

Email to: [e-mail]

© 2016 Zimbell House Publishing, LLC

Published in the United States by

Zimbell House Publishing, LLC

http://www.ZimbellHousePublishing.com

Distributed by Smashwords

All Rights Reserved

Print ISBN: 9781942818724

Digital ISBN: 9781945967139

Library of Congress Control Number: 2016904828

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3

Acknowledgements

Zimbell House Publishing would like to thank all those contributors that submitted to our anthology. We chose nine unique voices that best captured the tone of this volume.

Contents

In The Attic by C.E. Stokes

Legacy Children by Jenean McBrearty

The Apothecary's Tale by Sammi Cox

The Chair by J. Lee Strickland

The Key by Wendy Steele

The Key to Your Heart by Mike Evis

The Road Home by Ana Night

Time’s Forgotten Moment by Rekha Ambardar

Unlocking the Truth by DJ Tyrer

Contributors

Additional Anthologies

A Note from the Publisher

In The Attic

C.E. Stokes

Grandma Petrakis's house in upstate New York stank of stale cookies and moth balls. Gray and rainy days happened more than the sunny ones Sibyl left behind in Nevada. Narrow hallways kept sunlight from penetrating too deep into the interior. Even at noon on any given summer day, Sibyl relied on the electric lights to brighten the rooms. The old wiring hummed and drowned out the birds chirping in the woods behind the house.

In the smelly house surrounded by nothing but dense, dark woods, Sibyl struggled to fill the long hours.

No friends. No television. And Wi-Fi?  Grandma probably never heard of it. Day after day with nothing to fill the time but musty books. Her fingers brushed the spines of the histories lining the shelf. She paused over the volume of Greek mythology. This one was better than the majority which droned on about centuries-old events.

Pulling it off the shelf, she flopped onto her stomach on the faded couch. Sibyl skipped past Prometheus to get to Pandora defying the gods. She rested her cheek on her arm and reread the story. Old stories weren't as good as TV, but at least they passed the time.

The stories of forgotten gods and goddesses didn't distract her for long. Her attention kept wandering toward the window where the slightest edge of the mailbox was visible. Maybe the mail had arrived. Maybe today there'd be a letter from Dad. But day after day of disappointment kept her from rushing out to check the box. She slammed the book shut and headed to the kitchen for a something to eat. Anything to distract her from the thoughts of a letter that probably wasn't there.

Sibyl opened the fridge. Nothing but apples and pre-sliced veggies. Memories of her and Dad at an ice cream parlor did nothing to make the healthy snacks appealing. She wrinkled her nose and scowled at the carrot sticks. It's hard to slam a fridge door, but Sibyl gave it her best shot. Her eyes landed on the picture of her dad in his uniform nestled between two fruit-shaped magnets. She rested her forehead against the cool metal. Tears burned in her eyes.

At the squeal of the back door opening, Sibyl lifted her head and wiped at her eyes.

Grandma shuffled in with a basket filled with produce from the garden. The strainer and its contents went into the sink. Water washed over the veggies while she picked up a small brush to scrub them.

Are you hungry again?  I swear, it's been so long since there's been a growing child in the house, I'd forgotten how much they eat, Grandma smiled over her shoulder. Yellow teeth stood out against the pink lipstick. Wrinkles creased her cheeks to accommodate her smile.

Nah. Thought about it, but I'm gonna go read some more.  Sibyl started out of the kitchen.

Her dark hair stuck to her sweaty neck. While picking the strands off her skin, Sibyl wondered if the old lady knew about air conditioning.

That's good, dear. Keep your brain sharp and you'll be the most popular girl in school.  Grandma turned back toward the sink.

Safe in knowing Grandma couldn't see her, Sibyl rolled her eyes. First day as a freshman at a strange, new school. People wouldn't care if I could recite the Iliad in its entirety.

Sibyl hesitated in the doorway. Her hand gripped the molding.

Did the mail come yet? Sibyl peeked over her shoulder to see Grandma's reaction.

The older woman tensed. She glanced over to meet Sibyl's eyes.

It did. Nothing today. But there's always hope for tomorrow.

Sibyl's stomach clenched up, making her glad she'd ignored the snacks.

Why hasn't he written?  What if something happened?  He could be hurt or... Sibyl bit her lip.

Your father's a good soldier. You have to keep that in mind. He's fine. Just not a lot of post offices in deserts.  Grandma squeezed Sibyl's shoulders with wet hands.

Mom was a good soldier, too. Sibyl's breathing sped up. Her jaw hurt from clenching it to keep it from trembling.

And her death was a tragedy. But your father will come home.

Whatever. I'm going upstairs.  She brushed the older woman's hands off. Ignoring the hurt in Grandma's eyes, Sibyl ducked into the narrow hallway. The steps creaked under her weight. She stomped up the stairs to vent some frustration. The long stretches between letters reminded Sibyl of the silence before her mother's death.

When she got to the room she was using, she stopped. The tiny room offered little to distract her from the dark thoughts. Her eyes drifted to the other two doors in the hall. One led to another bedroom, empty of anything to give it personality. At the end of the hall was another door. In her first days here, Sibyl had opened it to see a wooden staircase leading up to an attic. Maybe today would be a good day to investigate in hopes of finding something to take her mind off her father.

Even though the attic wasn't designated off-limits, Sibyl tiptoed toward the doorway. The knob twisted under her hand. Unlike the bathroom door, this one opened without a sound.

The sound of Grandma's singing reached her ears. Sibyl crept up the stairs taking care to stay close to the wall. Steps groaned under her weight. She paused, sucking in a breath and waited. No sounds of anyone coming up to check on her. Sibyl continued to the top of the stairs.

Sunlight filtered through a dirty window. At the far end of the open room, dust motes hung in the sunbeam. Tall stacks of boxes lined the walls. Sibyl dragged one of them close and opened the flaps. The fine dust flew off the soft cardboard and hit her in the nose. She rubbed her nose to get rid of the tickle.

The box contained faded greeting cards and photos of people she didn't recognize in old-timey clothes. Sibyl pushed it away with a disgusted snort and turned to an old wardrobe.

She jerked the doors open with a flourish. Dust poofed out and drifted to the floor. She sneezed several times in quick succession. Once the sneezing fit passed, she peered into the wardrobe. Coats and sweaters cramped the space. A few dresses hung at the end.

Grabbing one at random, she held the flapper dress up against her. The beads caught the light and sparkled. She shoved the dress back in place and closed the door. If nothing else up here held her interest, she'd come back to the old clothes.

Closing the door, Sibyl turned to see what else the attic contained. She moved past a tower of boxes to see what lay against the far wall. The boxes wobbled and toppled over. Sibyl yelped, jumping out of the way as magazines spilled across the floor. The stuffy air muffled any sound from outside the attic. Sibyl headed to the top of stairs. No footsteps. After several moments, Sibyl returned to the attic. The fallen boxes had spewed old magazines across the floor.

Her eyes landed on a wooden trunk jammed into the far corner. Pushing the fallen boxes out of her way, Sibyl cleared a path. She dropped to her knees on the slick black and white magazines. Her hands slid down the sides to the ornate bronze colored latches. She pressed them waiting for them to click.

Nothing happened. She tried again, pressing harder.

No clicks came from the latches. She tugged at the lid. It didn't budge. When nothing happened, she tried again, pressing harder than before. Her fingers ached from the pressing against the metal.

Seriously?  The most interesting thing in this place and it's locked?  Her hands fell from the trunk.

The sunlight that came through the window faded from yellow to red. It must be close to dinner time. And Grandma was big on eating together. Sibyl rose, stretching her arms above her head.

Sibyl clomped down the stairs and headed to the bathroom. She washed the dust off her hands. Opening the bathroom door, Sibyl yelped to find Grandma standing in the hall.

Goodness, dear. You almost gave me a heart attack, Grandma sucked air, her hands fluttered over her heart.

My bad, Sibyl reached out and squeezed Grandma's upper arm. The older woman reached up to pat her hand.

I've been thinking. It can't be easy living isolated from other young people. And I remember how active girl's your age are, so I thought I'd teach you to knit.  With a gleam in her eye, Grandma straightened up.

It was the most excitement Sibyl remembered the older woman showing. Although the prospect of learning to knit ranked a little higher than history books, it would give her something else to fill the days. Between that and figuring out how to get into the trunk, time would fly by until she heard from her dad.

Sounds great. Can we eat first?  Sibyl's stomach gurgled.

Growing girls. Come on, I made a nice pastitsio for dinner.  With a laugh, Grandma turned to the staircase.

Can't we have burgers or something normal?  The words slipped out before she could stop them.

Grandma's mirth faded. This is normal. What's more, it's your heritage. Embrace it.  Leaning on the handrail, the older woman led the way down the steps.

After dinner, Sibyl cleared the table while Grandma started the dishes. Picking up the last plate from the table, she glanced at the picture of her father. Where was he?    What kept him from letting me know he was okay?  She turned away and grabbed the dishtowel. The pair worked in silence until the last dish was dried and put away.

All right. Work is done. Let's have some fun, Grandma rubbed her hands together.

Sibyl trudged along behind her. Grandma headed to her bedroom and knelt on the floor. Arthritic fingers found the basket and dragged it to the center of the room. Pastel yarn threatened to spill out onto the floor. She reached in and rooted around. With a smile, she extracted two long needles. She extended them toward Sibyl.

Pick a pretty color. I bet you could make a scarf before school starts.  Reaching out to grasp the mattress, Grandma pulled herself up. She staggered a step and nudged the basket of yarn. Yarn tumbled out, trailing long strings across the carpet.

Among the knitting needles and string scattered on the carpet rested a large bronze key.

The same color metal as the locks on the trunk in the attic.

Sibyl licked her lips and reached for the key.

A wrinkled hand clapped down over the key before she could touch it. Sibyl let out a squeak and jerked her hand back.

Dark eyes met her own.

I'll keep that.  The key vanished into Grandma's pocket.

Oh, sorry. I wanted to know if I could use this color, Sibyl snatched up the nearest ball of yarn. She grimaced at the light green ball in her hand. The same shade of the mushy peas served with dinner.

Oh, the older woman's shoulders relaxed as the tension left them. That's a good color for you. Brings out your eyes.

Time slowed to a snail's crawl. Sibyl poked at the yarn, trying to get the loops right. Her fingers couldn't get the hang of working the needles and yarn.

During the lesson, Grandma kept patting her pocket. Each time, Sibyl twitched and yarn slid off the slick needles.

Why don't we call it a night?  You've got the basics down.  Grandma tucked her own knitting back into the basket.

That was fun.  Sibyl pressed a kiss to Grandma's wrinkled cheek. She bit the inside of her cheek as her eyes drifted toward the pocket containing the key. What secrets hid in the trunk?  Why keep the key stuffed in the bottom of a basket, rooms away from the locks it opened?  Sibyl needed to get it if only to figure out the trunk's secrets.

***

Ever since the knitting lesson, Sibyl found Grandma lurking around more than ever before. When she looked up from her book, Grandma was dusting in the corner. While poking at the pea green yarn, Grandma puttered around the edge of the room. Sibyl gritted her teeth and pretended not to notice. Meanwhile, the trunk waited upstairs, its presence a weight in her mind.

Days passed and Sibyl stole valuable minutes to search for the key. A few minutes when grandma was in the shower. A half hour while the older woman was in the garden. Her heart pounded against her ribs while she searched. She remained on constant alert for the sound of footsteps on the stairs.

Another day, another chance. Grandma picked up a broom and headed out to sweep the porch. Sweeping didn't take long and every second counted. Sibyl set the book aside and crept up the stairs toward Grandma's room. Next to the rocking chair sat the sewing basket. Trying not to spill the yarn, she rooted around the bottom of the basket.

No key.

Her eyes passed over the dark wood bed frame to land on the matching dresser. A jewelry box rested in