‘Anne, could you come help me with my suitcase?’

Anne turned, picked up Rebecca’s suitcase and hauled it up the porch stairs, ignoring the unstoppable torrent of words that she had been spilling since they had gotten in the car four hours ago. It was easy. Anne had certainly had plenty of time to practice during the past three years. She couldn’t quite understand how Rebecca kept it up. It wasn’t as if she was imparting any information. Except, of course, when she slipped in a nuclear bomb of a fact. Like, perhaps, that not only were they moving from Chicago to a different state, but to quite possibly the smallest town in that state. Pursing her lips, Anne waited for her aunt to fish her keys out of her pocket.

‘Anne, I need to go up to the hospital to check on your grandmother. I may end up spending the night. But you’ve to this house before, you won’t be too lost, will you?’ Rebecca gave her a worried smile and unlocked the door.

‘No, Aunt Rebecca, I’ll be fine.’ That was the one reason Anne hadn’t barricaded herself in her room at their old apartment; her Gran was here. While she hated the thought of leaving Chicago, she wasn’t about to keep Rebecca from seeing Gran again.

‘Oh, good. There’s a television in the basement room, the first door next to the stairs. There should be food in the fridge, goodness knows Mother’s friends will probably have filled it to over-flowing. I don’t think the internet is hooked up yet, but you won’t miss that too much.’ She turned away, then paused for a moment, an odd look on her face. Then she slowly turned back and said, ‘Anne, I almost forgot. As soon as you’ve cleaned up, put some iron out on the stairs to the second floor. It help keep the ghosts away.’ With that, she whirled about, clattered down the stairs and ran to the car.

Anne gaped as she watched Rebecca get into the car and back out. When she was driving away, Anne finally managed to shout after her. ‘Keeps the ghosts away?’

Knowing she wouldn’t get an answer, Anne rolled her eyes and hauled both suitcases into the house. Rebecca was obviously cracking up even more now that they were back in the town she’d grown up in. Closing the door behind her, Anne took the opportunity to glance around. She had to admit, the house was pretty, in a Victorian, let’s-cover-every-surface-with-another-wood sort of way. But it was nothing on Chicago. She sighed, bored almost to tears after only a minute and a half. She didn’t know anyone here, Rebecca had taken the car, the library was closed, and the most excitement in the whole town was during the weekly bowling meet, which wasn’t for another four days. She grimaced at that thought; that she had even considered that option for the slightest moment showed exactly how desperate she was for entertainment.

Well, perhaps she could explore the house. She had never been to the top floor before - she’d hardly ever spent any time anywhere but the basement in previous visits. She set the suitcases down and headed through the dining room - the house actually had a dining room - and up the stairs. It was almost completely white up here. White ceilings, white walls, white trim, white carpeting… Hadn’t Gran ever heard of color? And chilly, as well, especially by the door next to the stairs. How on earth could the upper floor of a house without air-conditioning be so cold, even in May? An week ago, she would have welcomed it, but now it was just another thing to complain about. Grumbling, she rubbed her arms and headed towards the coldest area first. Best to get it done first, and quickly, so she could warm up sooner.

The coldest area turn out to be the room right next to the stairs. It had a ceiling that sloped at a forty-five degree angle down to the floor, about ten feet away. Glancing around, Anne noticed a small door tucked away next to the corner on the far wall. It was only about five feet high, so she’d have to duck to enter it, but who cared. Maybe there’d be some old books in there.

Anne hunched over and opened the door. Even with it open, the closet was amazingly dark. She felt around inside it for a moment, whacking her hand against an unseen clothes rack before she found the light switch. The aging light bulb flickered for a second before it came to a dim, buzzing life. To her surprise, it illuminated yet another door, covered in cracked and peeling paint, so small she would have to crawl through it. She knelt down and tried the handle.

The door stuck for a moment, but after a couple of tugs, the ancient hinges groaned and gave way. Carefully, she peered through. It was almost pitch black after a few feet, but she could just see a vague outline of a box. Again Anne hesitated. She most definitely did not want to get tetanus because she scraped herself on a rusty nail - but now her curiosity was piqued. She couldn’t quite shake off the feeling that if she left to get a flashlight, the box wouldn’t be there anymore. The whole thing felt like a hundred different stories she’d read. Special doors, be they secret, hidden, forbidden, or forgotten, always led to other worlds or magical discoveries.

Finally, she shrugged, and pulled the door further open. After all, what was the point of exploring big old Victorian houses if you didn’t check out the weird parts? She crawled through the door, tentatively feeling her way forward. Almost immediately, she had to muffle a shriek. She had nearly put her hand through a jagged hole in the floor. After a moment or so spent calming down, she started feeling her way around it. Every foot or so, her questing hands discovered another hole, or a spot far to soft to be safe. Very, very carefully, inched her way between the holes and rotten wood. She breathed a long sigh of relief as she reached the box. She pulled it towards her, backed up, maneuvered around, and finally pushed the box out ahead of her, trying to get both herself and it through the tiny door with minimal damage. Once she was in the closet again, she turned, shut the other door securely behind her, and breathed a sigh of relief. She’d gotten out without falling in any of the holes.

After letting her heart rate settle for a minute or two, she turned and examined the box in the flickering light of the bare bulb. It was a large, wooden jewelry box, covered in carved eight-point stars, with a brittle string wrapped around it, and looked as though it had sat in the attic space for decades. It was kept shut by a small padlock that had the same eight point star graven on its front as was carved on the box. It seemed, if anything, even older than the box. She frowned as she noticed the last. Without the key, it was going to be near impossible to open the box without picking the lock, and she had no idea how to do that. But if the key was anywhere, it was probably back on the other side of the door, and there was no way she was going back in there. She’d have to go get a flashlight to look for it.

With a sigh, she got to her feet and picked the box up. As she did, the elderly string around the box broke, and something fell to the ground at her feet. Looking down, Anne saw a small key. She blinked, picked up the key, and shook her head at her own stupidity as she ducked her way out of the closet and into the room beyond. She wondered for a moment why she hadn’t paid any attention to the string before it broke, but decided that it was because an old piece of string is nowhere near as interesting as an ancient jewelry box and even older padlock.

Forgetting completely about exploring the rest of the house, she left the room and headed down the stairs. Briefly, she remembered Rebecca’s request. Rolling her eyes again, Anne headed to the kitchen. How could iron keep away ghosts? But after she opened the box, she’d do as Rebecca had asked, to put Rebecca’s mind at ease.

Upon entering the kitchen, Anne placed the box and key on the table, then sat down next to them. She was slightly nervous about opening it. She could think of so many things that might be in there. Jewels, love letters, the last will and testament of a forgotten millionaire, bones… She shook her head and laughed at her own ridiculous imagination. There might be jewelry inside, for after all it seemed to be a jewelry box, but bones or lost wills were just her over-active imagination. Picking up the key, she very carefully opened the padlock. With a rusty clank, it fell open. She took it off the box, set it aside, and took a deep breath. Whatever was in the box, she was about to find out about it.

Very tense, she lifted the lid. She blinked at the contents, before relaxing and laughing. Regardless of what her subconscious had expected, the box held only what she had known it most likely held; a small diary and a locket. Anne lifted out the locket to examine it more closely. It was tarnished silver, oval in shape, with the same star pattern engraved on its front as was on the padlock and the box. She tried to open it, but it rebuffed any entry. The clasp, however, did work, so she put the locket on before turning to examine the diary. It had a deep red leather cover, with chipped silver gilding on the cover in the shape of that same eight-pointed star.

Charmed, she opened the little book, careful not to damage the ancient pages. On the first page, in faded, flowing hand-writing were the words This Journal is the Personal Property of Juliana Alicia Verity Laurent. As of this writing, the Date is February First, 1893. I am fifteen years of age.

Feeling slightly uneasy about reading the journal of someone who was almost certainly dead, but too curious to stop, Anne kept reading. The diary told how Anne’s parents had moved the entire family from their small house in Boston to a much larger house, out in the middle of nowhere, and how the family had prospered. Towards the end, Juliana became a bit erratic, sometimes going weeks without making an entry. The final note explained why.

July Eighth, 1895

I am sorry I have been neglecting you, little book. But I was afraid I might say too much, and that someone would find you and discover my secret. I have been courting a young man these past five months, and we have eloped. I am now Lady Juliana Blackworth, wife of Lord Frederick Blackworth the Second. Now I am going to hide you away in the attic. I must hurry now, he’s calling me.

Anne flipped through the few remaining pages, checking to make sure there were no more entries. As she did so, a piece of paper fluttered down. Fearing that she’d injured the book, she picked up the paper, only to discover that it was an old, yellowed photograph, showing a teenaged girl of about 17 seated next to a handsome young man of about 20. She realized that the couple must have been Juliana and her lord Blackworth.

She sat there for a while, just rereading bits of the journal and gazing at the photograph. It was disconcerting to think that the person who had written those words was dead, that she no longer existed in this universe.

Suddenly, the grandfather clock in the corner started chiming, low and loud. Anne jumped, then laughed at herself. How ridiculous, to be scared by a clock! Shaking her head, she carefully replaced the journal in its box, along with the padlock and key, and placed the box on the counter. She needed to go and expose herself to her own millennium. Deciding to watch some television, she headed down the stairs and to the left, into the comfortable little room were she had always ended up spending most of her time during past visits. There was the familiar old chair; there was the elderly television; there were the slightly musty beanbags…

Settling herself in the chair, Anne flipped the television on, surfed channels for a bit until she found a show about Victorian ghosts. Finding it more interesting than she normally would, what with the journal and the necklace and whatnot, she started watching. About half way through, she slipped into a half-awake daze, and the ghost stories and the next show, a program on something called the thermo-magnetic effect, started blending together. Finally, she fell asleep.

Anne awoke to an infomercial that was trying to sell her a vacuum. She was in a tightly curled ball in her chair. Unsure of where she was, she blinked for a moment, then sat up. Where was she? Then she remembered - she was in Gran’s house, in the little basement room. Had she fallen asleep? Apparently. Anne scrubbed at her face, then looked around and shivered. How could such a familiar place seem so alien in the flickering of the television? Resolutely, she closed her eyes once more. She was comfortable here, and the beds upstairs were lumpy. She’d just sleep here, slightly freaky or not. But even as she did so, a buzzing filled the air. It sounded like the old incandescent bulb in the upstairs closet, magnified a hundred times. She curled up tighter, and tried to sink even deeper into the chair. The vacuum infomercial faded out into the hiss of static.

Anne screwed her eyes even more tightly shut and carefully got out of the chair, even as she was silently berating herself for the idiocy of her nervousness. But even if it was impossible that there was a malevolent cause for the noise and the television malfunctioning, she wanted to be able to run away if there was. Clenching her fists, she opened her eyes.

Anne screamed. The place had turned horrible. The shadows seemed to be writhing on the walls, itching to come to the third dimension, to become their own entities. Before her eyes, she saw Juliana’s face forming in the static of the television screen. It was only barely recognizable. No longer was it the face of a shy girl of about seventeen. No, it was now the face of a monster. Her lip was twisted in a snarl, making her look like a Halloween mask come to life. Anne backed away as far as she could, but ran into the cold concrete wall before she had taken three steps. She watched, terrified as the face slowly started pulling itself from the screen, coming ever closer.

‘So long I’ve waited,’ came Juliana’s voice, twisted and sibilant. ‘So long… But now I have what I need.’

Anne was unable to speak, petrified by her own terror. But in the back of her mind, a small, disconnected portion of her thought, I should have listened to Aunt Rebecca. I should have put out the iron.

The face grew ever closer, eyes filled with malicious, merciless greed. Juliana’s mouth was now toothless and empty, a gaping maw. Anne shuddered, and pressed herself closer to the concrete.

‘This will be… Invigorating…’

The last things Anne noticed were a slight draft and the burning cold of Juliana’s breath.

Anne awoke on the cold, hard floor of her hide-away, the same vacuum sales-man on the television. Blinking, she carefully sat up. She could hardly believe she was alive, much less awake. Glancing around, she could hardly believe any of it had happened. Could this little basement room have looked so menacing? Could the shadows have jumped across the walls like they were alive?

She shook her head. She had obviously been dreaming. After falling asleep, she’d slipped out of her chair and onto the floor. Her brain, so recently inundated with ghost stories and ancient journals, had then interpreted the icy cold of the floor as the cold of a ghost’s breath. It was that simple.

Well, no matter what had happened, there was no way on the planet that she was staying down here any longer. It was just too spooky now. Getting up, Anne quickly left the room. She would sit in the kitchen with the lights on and play Solitaire all night if that was what it took to keep dreams like that out.

After a short detour to grab a pack of cards, Anne entered the kitchen. But before she sat down, she remembered Rebecca’s words about iron. Giving a wry grin, Anne set about putting the iron and steel pots and kettles all around the room. Finally, she stood back and examined her handiwork. There was a near solid band of iron surrounding the kitchen. If that wouldn’t keep the ghosts out, then nothing would. Shaking her head and smiling, she sat down at the table and dealt out a game of Solitaire.

Anne was dealing out the cards for yet another game of solitaire when she felt an draft behind her. She froze. With tonight’s luck, it was going to be another ghost. She very carefully turned around, and found her assumption correct. Blackworth the Second was standing behind her, with his head cocked.

‘Who, exactly, are you?’ he asked.

Anne, frozen in her seat, could do nothing other than blink at him. He sighed. ‘Never mind, I already know your name, Anne. Please stop staring at me like that. A person might think you’ve never seen a ghost before.’

‘I’ve only seen one ghost before, and she was…’ Anne trailed off, realizing that Blackworth would probably take offense at an insult to his wife.

He gave a slightly heavier sigh than he had previously, grief etching his face for a moment. ‘Poor Juliana. She doesn’t understand the politics of basic interaction with humans. She never did appreciate politics…’ He gave a quick smile at the memory. ‘She was so innocent. That was one of the reasons I loved her.’

Utterly charmed by his smile, Anne reached up from her place in the chair and attempted to stroke his cheek. But when she should have touched warm flesh, instead she touched gas so cold it burned. She gasped, yanked her hand back, and watched the blisters form. When she looked back up at him, just for half a second his face seemed horrible. But it changed so quickly into chagrin and remorse that she brushed it off as imagination.

‘I’m so sorry,’ he said, backing away slightly. ‘Ghosts aren’t the safest things to touch.’

‘I can see that,’ she said, transfixed by the sight of the blisters.

‘I thank you for doing so, though I advise you against doing so again. Heat is the source of my energy.’

‘So you.. Ate my heat?’ she asked, confused.

‘That’s the best analogy for what I did, yes. But I need more, if I want to survive.’ He moved closer. ‘Would you be willing to provide it?’

She froze, common sense cutting out. The only thing she could think was that he had just asked her if he could eat her, in essence. In an instant, she was out of her chair and backing away. ‘No.’

‘Come,’ he wheedled. ‘Just a little heat- at most you’d need to take a hot bath after.’

‘No!’ she repeated, moving so the table was between them.

He ignored the table completely, simply moving through it. ‘Ghosts can move through almost anything, don’t you remember?’ he said with a smirk.

She continued backing up until she was backed against the refrigerator.

He started to continue to come forward, but stopped before he moved three feet. His face was being distorted, like the image on a badly adjusted television. ‘Anne, come away from there. Can’t you feel the damage that’s being done?’

‘W-what damage?’ she stuttered, not moving. If he couldn’t come any closer to her because of the refrigerator, then no way was she leaving it.

‘The iron… Can’t you feel the twists?’ He was trying to come closer, but it wasn’t working. Every time he came with three feet, he started to fade out.

‘No, I can’t feel it…’ she said, confused. ‘What do you mean, twists?’

‘That metal… It is horrible. It twists everything. How can you feel anything when you’re so close?’ His voice was agonized.

Iron twisted him? She started thinking quickly. If simple iron hurt him, what would magnets do? She pulled one off the fridge and held it out at him. He nearly disappeared as it neared him. With a yell, he flew back, away from the her out-thrust arm.

Gaining confidence, she grabbed another magnet and started toward him. He continued backing away until he was against the ring of iron. For a moment she thought he’d disappear through it, like so many ghosts do in the movies. But no, he sunk less than an inch past it, before hissing and pulling away. Sure of herself now, she continued forward.

‘No, please!’ Blackworth begged. ‘I’ll never bother you again! You’ll never have to worry about me! This is killing me!’

‘I can’t trust you.’ Anne was hypnotized by the site of her hands moving towards him. ‘You’re a ghost. You’re supernatural. You’re Fey. Fey never tell the truth.’ She was repeating everything her aunt had ever told her. ‘Fey are all liars. You’re a liar. You’ll just break your word.’

Blackworth’s face grew ugly. ‘This won’t completely destroy me,’ he hissed, his face twisted. ‘I’ll always haunt you. You’ll never go a day without regretting this. You’ll never be rid of me!

Anne ignored him and continued forward, until he flickered out of existence. As he disappeared, there was a sudden chill behind her. Anne dropped the magnets and whirled around. Juliana was standing there, fury and grief on her face.

‘You killed him. You killed my husband. Now you die.’ Before Anne could think, let alone move, Juliana was behind her, choking her with the very necklace Anne had picked out of Juliana’s box. As darkness closed in on her, Anne realized that she was now going to become a part of one of the ghost stories she’d devoured, even as she scoffed at their impossibility. Apparently, the universe had a rather macabre sense of humor.

Rebecca sighed as she pulled in. She had really cried very little. She had been expecting this for a while now, and so she was ready to let her mother go. But still, it had hurt. Getting out, she wondered how she could tell Anne that her Gran had died. She knew that Anne had never been particularly close to her, but still. Rebecca heaved another sigh as she climbed the porch stairs and entered the house. She hoped that Anne had taken done as she asked, and put some iron at the steps to the second floor. She remembered her mother’s stories of the ghosts that lived in the house, and shuddered.

Something seemed amiss, Rebecca noticed. Anne almost always had music on, even in the wee hours of the morning. That nothing was playing was a almost definitely a bad sign. Rebecca hurried into the next room…

And screamed. Anne was sitting in a chair, leaning forward, unable to move any farther because her necklace was caught on the chair back. She looked dead. The funny thing, Rebecca remembered later, was how the cards were spread out in front of Anne. It almost looked as though Anne had tried to mesh a game of Solitaire with a fortune-telling. And the cards spelled doom…

Rebecca stumbled over and removed the chain from Anne’s neck. Her face was purple, but there was a slight pulse. Almost non-existent, but there. Almost crying with relief, Rebecca pulled out her phone and blindly dialed 911.

The ambulance was there in minutes, and they took Anne to the hospital immediately, where it was almost immediately announced that while she was alive, she would be severely brain-damaged for the rest of her life. The police detained Rebecca for questioning, asking her about the box, padlock and necklace, but it was a short formality only. There was very little doubt in everyone’s mind that this was simply a tragic accident. The box and its former contents were donated to a local museum. Anne spent the rest of her life in a local mental ward, where her aunt paid for her to receive only the best treatment. But she was known to fall into tremors whenever she left her rooms, and so in the end she was never brought out. No one ever found out why, though her care-takers speculated that it might be agoraphobia. It couldn’t be the hallway, which was really rather nice. In fact, right outside Anne’s door there was a very well-done oil painting of the son and daughter-in-law of the ward’s founder; Lord and Lady Frederick Blackworth the Second.