Total pages in book: 103
Estimated words: 97032 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 485(@200wpm)___ 388(@250wpm)___ 323(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 97032 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 485(@200wpm)___ 388(@250wpm)___ 323(@300wpm)
I made sure to have my phone on me in case I came across any more bodies.
Stepping into the Willow Lake Historical Society Museum, I couldn’t help but feel a slight chill, the kind that whispers of long-forgotten stories and secrets. The building surely had endless stories to tell, having started life as the Mercantile back when Willow Lake wasn’t even a budding dot on the map. Now, it was a museum dedicated to preserving the town’s history. Unfortunately, it wasn’t doing a very good job at it since dust and cobwebs occupied the space rather than visitors.
The door creaked shut behind me, and I stood for a moment, letting my eyes adjust to the dim light filtering through the tall windows that cried out for a washing. The place smelled of aged wood, a mix of history and mildew, with a faint undercurrent of lemon polish that had clearly seen better days. Dust motes floated lazily in the air, swirling as I moved farther inside.
The museum was a mix of displays and remnants from a simpler time. Wooden shelves lined the walls, holding everything from old kitchen tools to jars of mysterious powders and dried herbs. Framed photographs hung slightly askew, showcasing stiff-faced settlers and the town’s early years. A mannequin in an outdated prairie dress and bonnet stood in one corner, looking eerily lifelike in the shadows. The place definitely needed updating and Amy was going to go crazy with ideas when she got here.
I pulled the skeleton key out of my pocket and wondered if it would fit a lock here and reveal secrets. Maybe it opened a chest or drawer now forgotten in a dusty corner. I wasn’t sure, but I was determined to find out.
Starting with the closest cabinet, I began my search. The key didn’t fit the ornate lock though I gave it an extra jiggle just in case. The glass case holding what appeared to be personal items of the town’s residents—combs, pocket watches, cloth dolls, and such—was padlocked, but the skeleton key didn’t match that either.
As I moved from one display to another, the weight of history seemed to settle around me. Each object told a story: an old ledger with faded ink entries, a child’s worn leather shoes, and a map of the original town layout, framed and hanging on the wall. It was fascinating, in its own way, even if it wasn’t helping me solve the mystery of the key.
I finally paused in front of a small wooden chest under one of the windows. If anything screamed “hidden treasure,” it was this chest. But once again, the key didn’t fit.
After trying a few more spots and coming up empty-handed, I stood in the middle of the room, the skeleton key dangling uselessly in my hand and feeling the weight of failure.
I turned quickly hearing a knock on the door, realizing I had locked it behind me to make sure I didn’t get any unwanted visitors.
“It’s me,” Amy called out after rapping on the door again.
I hurried to let her in and locked the door after her.
Amy did something I had failed to do. She hit the switch on the wall and flooded the room with light.
“This place really needs updating, but the possibilities are endless,” Amy said, grabbing her phone from her purse and snapping photos.
I could almost see the list formulating in her head, growing by leaps and bounds.
“Find anything to fit that key?” she asked.
“Nothing,” I said clearly disappointed until I spotted the wood door that I hadn’t spotted though I would have if I had turned the light on. But it almost felt sacrilegious to do so as if electricity was out of place here.
The door was too modern, as was the lock, but no key was necessary since it opened easily. It looked to be a storage room with space for a small office since an old desk sat against one wall. An enclosed curving staircase in the corner led up to the second floor and what would have been the living space of whoever ran the Mercantile.
Amy peeked up the curving stairs while I went to open the door on the opposite wall. A cavern of darkness greeted me along with a pungent odor that told me the door hadn’t been opened in a while.
“Don’t dare tell me that you’re thinking of going down there,” Amy said, coming up behind me.
“A quick look,” I said and grabbed my phone out of my pocket and turned on the flashlight.
The steps were stone and the cobwebs heavy.
“I’m not going down there,” Amy said with fear and a worry that she didn’t believe her own words. “The last time we went in an old basement a crazy guy with a knife came after us.”
“Did I not save us?” I asked proudly.