What does that mean? Meat?
The paper of the journal stayed silent for the next two hours, and finally I was too exhausted to stare at it any longer. I considered carrying the notebook with me to bed, but something recoiled at the idea. This was all too strange, and while I was still largely preoccupied by the wonder and mystery of it all, I couldn’t help but feel a growing sense of unease too. I didn’t know what I was dealing with, not really. What if it was dangerous? What if I…
My eyes snapped open and I could see sunlight coming in through my bedroom windows. I’d slept past eleven, even though I’m usually awake before nine. Even then I felt like I could have slept on, and probably would have if not for the cold bit of metal digging against my cheek. Lifting my head, I looked groggily back down at my pillow.
It was a key.
A small, brass key like you sometimes saw on lockboxes or rolltop desks. Sitting up quickly, I looked around the room for other signs of an intruder, but I didn’t see any. Just this tiny key that had somehow been slipped onto my pillow like a bizarre tooth fairy. I picked it up gingerly, as though I thought it might shock or bite me if I didn’t handle it with care. Turning it over in my hand, I saw no markings or labels, and it didn’t seem remarkable in any way. Just three jagged teeth, defined by the valleys of planed metal that separated them into tiny, isolated islands of brass.
I blinked and realized I’d been just staring at the key for some time. What was wrong with me? I looked at the clock and saw it was nearly noon now. I had work to get done, and then there was that weird dinner invitation from Abrams if I decided to actually go. The idea of begging off was very tempting, but something in me resisted the idea. Aside from not wanting to be rude or alienate a landlord that could toss me out at a moment’s notice, I also wondered if I could find out more about the man that had lived there before me. She certainly seemed to think a lot of him, and if she’d gone through all his stuff, maybe she knew something about his work.
Still, the idea of being in that house with her made me uncomfortable. I glanced down at the key nestled in my palm. Just like all this was.
I put the key on my nightstand and wiped my hand on my shorts absently as I wandered into the living room. My excitement at checking the notebook was tainted by fear and uncertainty now, but I still made myself look before getting ready to go out. When I flipped open the cover, my eyes found the last word written in faded grey letters, still unchanged from the night before.
Meat.
“It’s an old, family recipe, though I have jazzed up the ingredients over time.” Mrs. Abrams shot me a sly look. “Maybe if you’re good to me, I’ll teach it to you.”
I shifted uncomfortably on the floral sofa she’d led me to when I arrived a few minutes earlier as I gave a small laugh. “Oh, I’m no cook. But it does smell good.”
She smiled at me, the red lipstick on her lips crawling up toward eyes that seemed to sparkle with a light I hadn’t noticed before. “You’d be surprised what you can learn if you put your mind to it.” Tipping me a wink, she gestured toward the kitchen. “I’ve still got to finish up in there, so you just sit here and relax.” She put her hand on her hip, smoothing out the black velvet of the dress she was wearing. “And if you think of anything you want, you just let me know.”
I nodded and tried to keep my expression neutral as she left the room. What the fuck? Was she fucking flirting with me? I was used to the amiable attention that I sometimes got from older women, but this? She was made up more than I’d ever seen, and while she didn’t really look younger than her seventyish years, there was a weird energy to her now that gave everything a different feel than just an old woman looking to mother a young tenant.
Shaking my head, I glanced toward the kitchen where I could hear her opening what sounded like an oven. I was being stupid, right? Or even if I wasn’t misreading things, wasn’t it a bit sexist of me to be so grossed out about it? I mean, if it was an older man being a little flirty with a younger woman, would I think it was so weird? And it wasn’t like she’d done anything out-of-the-way, at least not yet. I just needed to chill the fuck out and…
That’s when my eyes landed on the rolltop desk sitting in the far corner of the living room.
I froze, as though I was being caught in the act of…well, something, just by seeing the piece of furniture. It looked almost identical to the image that had come to mind when I’d found the key that morning. It was bound to be a coincidence, like one of those instances of fake déjà vu that your mind convinces you is real, but once I saw the desk, I found it hard to keep my gaze from wandering back to it.
Glancing in the direction of the kitchen, I heard the sound of metal clattering. If I was going to do more than look at it, now was my best chance. Odds were it was just full of old person crap, but if it would satisfy the buzzing curiosity in the base of my skull, at least I could re-focus my attention on fending off any awkward advances from Abrams while not pissing her off.
Standing up slowly, I casually meandered over toward that corner of the room, pretending to look at a picture of willows hanging on the wall and a small collection of porcelain figurines clustered in a display case next to the rolltop. Glancing around once last time, I focused my attention on the rolltop itself.
The ribbed lid was all the way down, and just below a small brass knob was a keyhole. One that looked the same size as the key I’d found. I felt my heart sink. I’d left it on my nightstand. Still, it wouldn’t hurt to try the lid. It was probably just a normal desk unrelated to anything, which meant it was probably unlo—
“Naughty boy.”
I jumped and spun around to see Mrs. Abrams just behind me. This close, I could smell flowery, too sweet perfume covering a deeper, sour smell. She smiled at me with yellowed teeth.
“I…I was just…”
She chuckled. “You were poking around. It’s okay. Curiosity killed the cat.” Her lips pursed into a smirk. “But satisfaction brought him back.” I took a step back and shuffled to the side as her eyes drifted down to the desk. “You won’t get into there, I’m afraid. Locked up tight to protect some of Albert’s papers.” Her eyes found mine again. “Delicate matters.”
Swallowing, I nodded. “Um, yeah. Sure. I…maybe I should just…”
Turning away, she beckoned for me to follow. “In any case, dinner’s ready. It’s time to eat.”
When I hesitated, she glanced back with a raised eyebrow. “Come on before the meat gets cold.”
The next hour was one of the most uncomfortable of my life. Abrams acted more normal at the dinner table, but I couldn’t shake feeling exposed—as though she was constantly weighing me in some way I didn’t understand. She did most of the talking, primarily asking me questions about where I was from and what I did for work, while occasionally pausing to ask if I was enjoying the food. I said yes, of course, though it wasn’t hard to be convincing.
The meal was actually very good—the roast had a tender spiciness that was offset by sauteed potatoes and steamed asparagus. It was the first homecooked meal I’d had in…well, years, and between its flavor and my nervousness, I’d cleaned my plate before I realized it.
Abrams offered me coffee in the living room, but the idea of settling back into that flower-print sofa with her sitting so close unnerved me. Making up the excuse that I had to get up early the next day, I thanked her for the delicious meal and started heading toward the door. My eyes stole a glance at the desk again as I walked through the living room—the significance of what she’d said was in there hadn’t been lost on me, and the desire to open it up and search for clues about Mulhaven only grew stronger as I got closer to escaping whatever weirdness Abrams might have planned.
She didn’t argue with my rushed farewell, smiling serenely as she stepped forward to give me a lingering peck on the cheek as I turned to say good-bye at the door. I smiled awkwardly at the gesture and told her good night again before turning and heading back across the road at something just short of a trot. My mind was racing—I wanted to get into that desk, but how? Did I really want to go back over there? Wouldn’t that just be encouraging her?
A few minutes later, as I was washing her ruby lipstick off my cheek and brushing my teeth, I started considering the idea of going back in there without being invited. Not to bother anything, of course. Just to see if I could open the desk, poke around in there, and then get back out.
The thing was, Abrams never seemed to leave her house. Not that I always paid a lot of attention, but I’d never noticed her car gone in the time I’d lived there. And if I wasn’t willing to go over there for another awkward dinner date, what other chance would I have?
Sighing with frustration, I went into the living room to check the journal before heading to bed. There was nothing new. Hell, maybe it was done. And would that be a bad thing? I wasn’t sure anymore.
After a moment’s consideration, I carried the notebook back into the bedroom with me. I still wasn’t sure I wanted it so close while I slept, but it did seem to write when I was close by. Maybe I’d wake up and it would give me some hint or clue as to what I should do or what was going on. If only I could see in that desk. If only she left the house or I had some way of knowing when it was safe to go have a…
I jumped slightly as I awoke to a familiar sound next to me.
Scritch scritch
Fumbling for the light, I grabbed up the notebook from the nightstand, knocking the small key to the floor in the process. Palms sweaty, I flipped open the cover to see two new words written on the lowest line.
---
Credits
Comments