She’s standing there like a complete fool. The key clutched in her hand so hard that her knuckles are turning white. It’s a big key. Heavy. And cold. So cold it feels like it’s sucking the life out of the hand that is holding it. She’s standing there in front of the door, frozen. She has been standing there for a while now. What is she thinking about? Does she know? Does she suspect? Is that why she’s hesitating?

Her face is impossible to read. She looks younger than the others, the ones before. They all stood here, sooner or later, making that decision. And all of them made the same one. Was it even a choice?

She’s pretty, just like the ones before her. Her hair so dark it’s almost black, eyes deep and shining. She has passed this door many times in the several weeks since the wedding day, never paying it much attention. That was strange. All the others did. They would look at the door, try the handle, ask him about it. The door is difficult to miss. Tall, made of dark cedar wood with wrought iron beams. Solid. Menacing. How strange she didn’t pay attention to it before now, but then again, she has been strange ever since she arrived. Quiet. Careful.

The others used to walk the halls full of excitement and joy. They giggled and stared with wide eyes at the riches and luxury covering every surface of the castle. They looked at him with just the same eyes. All of them young, beautiful, naive and stupid. There is no faulting them for it. Everyone fell for him. He could be oh-so charming when he wanted to. Mysterious, elegant, refined, with a hint of danger under the surface. They all found it exciting. And they all paid for it. One after the other, meeting the same fate, their blood sealing the fate of the next one.

Now it is happening again. Number seven is standing in front of the door, holding the key. She is looking at it, not moving, hesitating. Does she think she has any control over her destiny? They all opened the door in the end. The curiosity is like hunger. Like an itch that can’t be scratched. For how can you live with a man who has a secret as big as this door? You can’t. And you won’t. She won’t. Because curiosity killed the wife. Wait, no. Not curiosity. He did. He will. Again and again.

She’s opening the door! Of course, how could she not?

She walks in, taking in the scene bathed in blood and candlelight. She looks at the six silhouettes hanging on the walls, at the blood pooling black on the stone floor. She lifts her candle to look at each body, one by one. Why is she not screaming? Not gasping, fainting, running? Her face is hard, brows furrowed. She looks down at the key in her hand. It has started to bleed. Bright red droplets dripping from its black heart onto the stone floor. The tell-tale key, his accomplice. Run, you stupid girl! It’s now or never.

Then she looks straight at me. Nobody has looked at me ever since I died. How can she see me? She points at number six and I can’t believe my ears. Her sister? She tells me she came to avenge her. To avenge us all. To put a stop to this. I feel tears rolling down my cheeks.

How could she wait so long, living with him for all those weeks, if she knew? She points to the room and tells me she needed to be sure. I wonder when her family might get here. Brothers? Or father maybe? We hear footsteps. She shakes her head and pulls out a knife from under her white dress. Nobody? Of course, they didn’t believe her. They never do.

She stands facing the door, holding the knife with confidence, but my dead heart is beating fast with fear. The familiar footsteps are getting closer, I hold my breath. Then she turns her head to me. “You are the first one, aren’t you?” she asks and I nod. “Why did he kill you?” “I don’t know,” I say. She nods as if she expected the answer and returns her eyes to the door.

(The image is Key by Edna C. Rex, with small modifications :) )