Creepy - We Buried the Only Key with my Sister

Episode Date: September 28, 2020

Some door should remain closed...***Written by eternallyks***Check out our reward tiers at patreon.com/creepypod***You can also subscribe to us on YouTube:https://www.youtube.com/creepypod***Produced by Steve Blizin***Title music by Alex Aldea***Intro/Outro Narration by Joe Stofko Hosted on Acast. See acast.com/privacy for more information. Hosted by Simplecast, an AdsWizz company. See pcm.adswizz.com for information about our collection and use of personal data for advertising.

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These stories may contain graphic depictions of violence and explicit language. Listener discretion is advised. Creepy Presents We buried the only key with my sister. Written by Eternal Likes. I hadn't meant to kill my sister. It had been a joke. In life, she never used to listen to me anyway.

though as her older brother I felt I had the authority. But after she died, and in my childish misery and guilt, I'd invited her to come back home. And well, she did. There were only two of us. Our parents thought we were everything they'd wanted in a family, a boy and a girl. She came out a bit shyer than they wanted,

quiet and a bit odd. at least to me at that age. Well, we were perfect, side-by-side, and family portraits. Now there's only one of us. And we don't take family portraits anymore. It started when I found the key to her room. Our bedrooms were across the hall from each other on the second floor of the house. The doors had old-fashioned doorks locked with a key,

which we didn't have and which I hadn't seen before. And then one day I found a ring of unmarked keys in a junk drawer in the floor's side table. I went around trying them and everything until I'd matched every key to a door in the house, including our bedrooms. Nearly every key on the ring had a spare, but not all did. The key to my sister's room was one of them that had only one master key. That was when I'd gotten the idea. I pocketed the key to her room and left the rest in the drawer where I'd found them. I waited for the perfect opportunity that evening.

When she was in the living room with my parents staring at the TV, as she always did after dinner. I went upstairs on pretence to use the bathroom and quietly locked her bedroom door from the outside. Back downstairs, I acted innocent as we watched TV together. I loitered until my sister yawned, kissed our parents good night, and went upstairs. I waited on the coach, grinning with suspense. It was a good long moment before we heard her shriek. Then the sound of woodbanging. She streaked downstairs in tears asking for help with her door.

Father went up with her to see what was the matter. They both came downstairs again, her still in tears, and even confusion. It's locked, he said. Mother got up and retrieved the keys from his left. side table in the hall. All three of them went upstairs. I waited until they were gone to fall over myself laughing,

pretending to find something funny on TV. By the time I got sleepy and went upstairs, they were still in a huddle trying and retrying every key. Of course, none of them fit. Mother suggested my sister sleep in my room until they could call the locksmith

in the morning. I was annoyed at this and produced the key from my pocket, too tired, to care about the trouble I'd get into. It was just a joke, I said in my defense. After we'd gotten her door unlocked, mother made me return the key to the drawer,

saying the first chance she'd get, she'd get a duplicate to avoid the situation again. Naturally, she'd forgotten. That weekend, when our parents were out on an errand, leaving us alone at home, I'd gotten bored and done it again. My sister knew immediately who had done it. It was a Saturday afternoon, and it was the last time I would see her alive.

She flew into the kitchen, chasing me, demanding I open her door. I pretended to have swallowed the key, but this time she was in hysterics and fled the house in tears, as if she could run all the way to mommy and daddy in town. This wasn't the first time she'd done that. She always came right back home before she got to the end of the street. I waited for her to give up and return. But as the hour turned to two, and then three, I began to worry. I waited by the chair closest to the front door, and then the window.

At some point I'd gone out and walked her under our yard, and then the neighborhood, but saw no sign of her. I came home with my heart and my throat. I decided to keep waiting instead of calling my parents from the kitchen phone. 10 minutes more, I told myself. Then I would. At some point I must have fallen asleep. The next thing I knew, it was later than late. My parents were home, shaking me by the shoulders as if they wanted to kill me.

The first thing I noticed was that they too were in tears. My sister had run out into the road and gotten hit by a car. Our parents had just turned the corner on their way home when they saw the ring of people and the flashing lights. She had been found on the road two blocks away from home. Farther than I dared go on my own. When the ambulance took her away, the sirens were silent. There was no rush.

She was dead. My parents had come home to find out whether I was dead too. and I think at that point they wished I was the first chance I got. I left them crying and hugging each other in the living room. I went upstairs to a room and unlocked the door, and then just stood there staring at her empty bed. Her ballerina music box threw a weird shadow on the pillowcase from the moonlight outside her window. I carried the key in my pocket during her funeral.

My parents barely looked at me and I wouldn't blame her. them. They had hardly spoken to me in the days since her death except in harsh little commands to hurry up, get dressed, fix your tie, get in the car. I behaved like the perfect son they'd always wanted. But that did nothing to warm them up to me. Because of their avoidance of me, I managed to find myself alone at some point in the ceremony looking into the open casket of my dead sister, cold and pale, and dressed up in her ballerina

a costume. I felt the key burning in my pocket where I kept my hands pocketed and clenched. I brought out the key and went to pat her coal of marble hands, as if to say goodbye. I'm sorry. As I did, I tucked the key under her fingers folded together over her chest. Please come home, I whispered. I didn't cry then. Or after, Mother kept making it. her promises. She was too grieve to go through my sister's room and put things in order after the funeral. She promised to do it someday.

Just not now. Not now. She only went as far as to stand in the open doorway and glance in. The way I'd down the night my sister died. But invariably, Mother would break down in tears and leave, closing the door behind her. Sometimes she stood there until Father took her away. I didn't dare go near her. She repeated this painful ritual almost every day, and then every week.

She stopped after a couple of months of this. Things edged into a semblance of normalcy. My parents softened up toward me just enough to allow me to have friends over. I needed someone to talk to. My friend Keith came over after school one day, and I told him about how the previous night, I'd woken in bed hearing the faint sound of my sister's ballerina music box playing in her room across the hall.

It stopped as soon as I'd fully opened my eyes and sat up. I decided it was a dream, but the melody would not leave my mind all day at school, tune for Keefe, who had the inane idea that he knew the composer of the song. We fell into a debate about that. And to refresh his memory of the song and prove my point. We went up to her room to retrieve the music box, and the door was locked. We peered inside the keyhole and found that it was too dark for that time of day. Then I realized why.

There was a key blocking the hole. It had been locked from the inside. Keith saw no significance to this, since I'd been too struck dumb to say anything else to him. I'd been in no mood to entertain him after that, so he went home. I stayed downstairs in the living room, staring wide awake at the TV without watching it, waiting for my parents to come home. I could hardly restrain from calling my mother to hurry home from the grocery store or my father from work.

But when they did finally get home, I found I could hardly mention anything to them. I stayed quiet all through dinner until it was time for me to go upstairs to bed and want to go. But I didn't want to upset my parents further. I stopped outside my door and glanced at hers across the hall. Silent. I didn't dare try the knob again. It was a Saturday the next day, and I was off school. But I was woken early by my mother battering the door to my room.

I'd gotten my own key from the drawer unlocked my door the previous night, something I rarely did before then. When she'd gotten in, she demanded that I unlocked my sister's door that instant. that I had no right to. I interrupted and told her I had nothing to do with the door this time. Lies! She shrieked. You and your friends were fooling around in the house yesterday when I was not here.

I told her that was true, but we never did a thing to my sister's door, and that was the truth. She wouldn't believe me when I said I didn't have the key. I was forced to tell her that I'd left it in my sister's coffin. She'd gone silent after that. that. Not because of the implications of what this meant, but because she was transported back to the funeral in her mind. Her eyes filled up, but the tears would not fall. I couldn't bring myself to tell her that I thought the key was in the house now. On the other side of the door, all she was thinking about, now that she shook herself into reality, was that we couldn't duplicate

a key we didn't have. What more? She decided the door wasn't locked, but merely jammed by humidity or something else. Apt punishment for her not having opened the door in a while. She decided we would have to call a locksmith that very day. Once she flew this idea by my father, however, he would have none of it.

He left his breakfast half-eaten at the kitchen table and roared out to the garage to retrieve his toolkit and roared back in. and straight up the stairs, followed by my mother rolling her eyes behind his back as he spewed forth his wounded pride. Gingerly I hung back in the hall as my father began to play locksmith at my sister's door,

with me and my mother watching over his shoulder. He tried the door this way and then, pulled and pushed, banged it with precision here and there, and finally knelt at the doorknob and probed a penlight into the hole. I saw his eyebrows shoot up. There's something blocking the keyhole, he said, confirming what I had seen the other day.

It was mid-morning by then. My sister's room had a window facing east. The light should have shown through the doorknob, as it did from the gap under the door. But it was dark as night. Through this gap, my father slid a sheet of old newspaper along the floor, a good deal of a centerfold to cover as much ground as possible. Then was a thin metal instrument from the screwdriver kit.

He prodded into the hole until we all heard a thin, distinct thought of metal on the paper on the other side. A dot of light was cleared in the doorknob. My father pulled it the paper carefully from under the door, and we could see the slight weight of the key keeping the paper from flapping. But then before it was halfway out, the weight was gone. and the paper came clean away on our side of the door, very suddenly unburdened from its weight. The key was gone.

Father had that puzzled look on his face, and he turned a glance through the doorknob. Then he got on all fours to peer under the door to see if the key had gotten caught on something or had somehow fallen off the paper. But of course he saw nothing. No movement of shadow across the light, no telltale form of a key on the paper.

the floor for any distance. I knew what had happened, of course. It had been plucked out from under our very noses. Mother asked father if he was quite finished playing locksmith so we could call a professional. He wasn't quite ready to give in. And as they continued to bicker, I left them and went upstairs, out the back door. I circled her in the yard to look up at my sister's window from the outside. They had picked her room very carefully.

Not only had she gotten the best view, but the window was the most secure for many break-ins from the outside. You couldn't get to its ledge from the roof or any outdoor piping. There's no tree branches close enough for a foothold. This side of the house was smooth and unscalable. And as I stared up at her open shutters and drawn curtains, the way they had been the last day of her life. I saw that the window panes were intact. I want to gotten in from there. Looking carefully, for as long as I could stand,

I detected no movement or light from the dimness behind the curtain. When I went back in, my parents were in the kitchen now, taking a break, it seemed, from trying to break the door open, but not a break from their bickering. They shut up at once almost as soon as I entered, and when I heard it, I shut up. too. A great silence descended on us three as from the top of the stairs we could hear my sister's ballerina music box playing the way it did when the lid was opened. I was frozen.

But barely a second later my father dashed up the stairs. Eyes wild. My mother called after him in a fright, but then followed him after barely a moment of hesitation. I was drawn upward as well, as though by magnetism, though I wanted to be nowhere near that room. I found my father at the door, one hand on the still tightly locked doorknop, the other wrapping sharply on the wood, calling, who's there? No response. My mother had her mouth covered in both hands, suspended between shock and grief. No matter how much they demanded answer from an assumed stranger, as my father did,

or changed tack and called my dead sister's name as my mother. mother did. Nothing stirred from the other side of the door. The music had stopped by the time I'd got into the top of the stairs. It seemed we stood there holding our breath for a good half minute or so, before my father stepped back from the door and took my mother's elbow, leading her downstairs. He gestured with his head at me to do the same. Downstairs they spoke and hushed funeral voices, wondering what was going on. I couldn't bring myself to say much, and for once my mother showed real concern toward me. She had me sit down at the kitchen table while she got me a glass of apple juice to revive my energy,

afraid I'd faint. I noticed my reflection in the chrome body of the toaster oven. I don't even dare say the word even in my mind. We stayed downstairs for the most part. At some point my father went out to look at the window the same way I'd done, and had come back to report to my mother the same things I'd observed. My mother asked again whether we should call a locksmith. But I could see a resolve had dissolved, and so with my father's.

He didn't seem all that keen to be the locksmith either. At dinner, my mother asked me, as if she'd just remembered, whether I had really left the only key to my sister's room in her coffin. I nodded my head, just once. I was sure I had. But I didn't want to be sure anymore. Mother asked nothing else. Father wondered if calling a priest would be more appropriate,

and my mother gave him a dirty look. Everyone knew their priests always failed in the movies. And besides, neither of my parents were believers. Not in God. Not in ghosts. Not in anything. I wasn't sure they even believed in me when I said the key was buried with my sister. But that lack of belief kept us all suspended in a swirling and torturous meaninglessness,

where the only meaning that now presented itself was a dangerous one. They let me sleep in their room that night. This helped my nerves somewhat, though their bedroom was technically right next door to my sisters, with a wall in between. Well, mine was directly across the hall from hers. I didn't mind as long as I wasn't alone. I don't know how they managed to get to sleep, or if they were pretending as I was.

But at some point during the night, I was lured out of my drifting at the sound of the music box playing, softly, as if to itself, down the hall and just on the other side of the door. The next day, we all gave the room a wide berth, and tried not to speak of it. We tried to get on as normally as possible,

but there was something very odd about the house now. Like we had an evil secret we had to keep even from each other. Every now and then the music box would start playing from the top of the stairs. Usually when we were downstairs, and never a few bars at a time before it stopped again. Whenever it did that, we would all go quiet instantaneously. Mother would go white and rigid, her eyes filling up,

and father would reach for her hand and hold it tight. I would go over to sit beside them, and father would put an arm around my shoulder. I almost thought this was a good thing, to have that room occupied once more. But I couldn't bring myself to be grateful. It was I who had asked her back. after all.

But I dared not confess that part. As soon as silence returned, we would take a few seconds, and then carry on as if nothing had happened. But we could not fool each other. We were shaken. My parents refused to talk outright about how they felt. But I thought I understood since I felt the same way. Instead of feeling any warmth from my sister's memory, there was only a cold dread.

and around her door there was a sense of bitterness that chilled everyone who wandered too close even in the humid warmth of the day. We kept this up for the next few days, and no matter how late I tried to dally after school instead of coming straight home, I would always be the first one in. My parents were trying to stay away as long as they could too. But in the middle of the second week of this, my mother decided what it was they had to call. a real estate agent. We were going to sell the house and move out.

But things had to get worse first. I'd found myself in my pent-up distress mentioning something about the door to my friends at school, and Keith invited himself home with me to check it out. I knew my parents would be away from home, and I didn't want to go back alone, so I agreed. I hung back a good few steps when Keith cleners. on the stairs to the bedrooms.

He walked right up to my sister's door, as if he hadn't felt the miasma that, at least my parents and I, had grown stronger every day. Keefe tried the door, as I knew he would, and found it locked, as I know he would. Then he bent at the waist and peered through the keyhole. His other eyes squeezed shut to focus. His old body shuffling him, side to side a few inches at a time to get a better look. I stood there in the hall, shifting uneasily from foot to foot. Then I heard a reassuring sound of the front door opening and my mother coming in, calling my name.

Before I could answer her, though, Keith jolted back from the door. Daniel clutching at his throat. His face was pale and strangled. His eyes wide and unseen. He couldn't scream. But I screamed for him. And my mother was upstairs in an instant, just in time to see Keith collapse on the floor writhing and twitching. As my mother rushed to tend to him, I threw a glance at the doorknob.

Nothing but a point of light. An utter silence. We had taken Keith to the ER, left him there with his family, and gotten back home in time to tell my father what had happened. Keefe had swallowed his tongue and would have choked himself. to death if my mother hadn't acted so quickly. The overseeing physician had assumed it had been some sort of accident caused by surprise or an unfortunate posture.

Something. I hadn't really been listening. My mind was torturing itself, trying to imagine what he must have seen that made his body recoil so violently as to strangle itself. I wanted to ask Keefe myself. Desperately.

But his parents wouldn't let me near him anymore. Meanwhile, my parents were throwing themselves into the search for a new place to live. We knew now that we were in a dangerous situation. Over the next few weeks, we had terrible luck selling the house. The agents we got kept asking about the room and why we wouldn't unlock it, and the few people who showed up to the open house had a bad feeling about that room. They assumed we had something to hide, and they were right. No matter how beautifully we'd presented the rest of the house,

that room poisoned the atmosphere. Even though from a photograph of the second floor, you couldn't tell there was anything off about it at all. The house was listed as a three-bedroom space, and people expected three bedrooms. My father thought we should just promise to get the door fixed before they moved in, and then just let them do what they would with whatever they found behind it. But my mother argued with him over the ethics of it all.

By this point, my parents were willing to just abandon the house and leave it to some in-laws they were not fond of. They'd planned to move into what was supposedly a summer home, but with the idea that we would settle there. It was smaller, less comfortable, and farther from my school and my father's workplace. But it didn't matter by then. We only had one goal between us. Get Out. The music had started to drive us half mad at night. Sometime during the week, the music box had broken, and the tinny mechanism began to play just one note over and over again.

One key. One key. Over and over. And then it went quiet again, so suddenly that the silence was just as loud as anything before or after. To call it music was to call whatever it was on the... other side my sister. It might have been music at some point, but now it was a mere sliver of what it had been in life. Now it was a hideously shrunken fragment of the hole, distorted and sharpened so it was no longer recognizable as part of the original, and louder, and it appeared to be moving along the walls. My parents' bed, which I still slept in with them, was positioned so that our feet were pointed

to the wall that divided the master bedroom from my sisters. I used to comfort me somewhat, knowing that this was the furthest we could get away from it and from, well, her. But it had gotten so that it seemed the music was seeping into the walls like a pipe had burst and bled into the paper. The paint on the wall seemed to be shifting my mind's eye and the half-light. We were all unable to fall asleep until dawn, and our daylight lives were thrown out a rhythm. We stumbled home exhausted.

and stayed on guard all day. Hearing that one key play on and off throughout the afternoon and evening, and then we stayed keyed up all night to repeat again the next day. We were fairly at the end of our rope. My mother insisted we move within the week and drove us to finish packing up while she saw to the logistics of getting boxes and furniture shipped off. We were even more strung out and exhausted by then,

and thanks to that, I must have drifted off that last night before we were to move, move, right there on the bare mattress in the master bedroom, with nearly all its contents and cardboard boxes. I woke up to hear the music over my head and right beside my ear. I snatched myself away immediately and saw that my parents had done the same. The music, that one demonic key, was throbbing louder than usual through the wall opposite from my sister's bedroom, where our headboard was. The broken note played again and again,

traveling and swelling and surrounding us. Till today, that one key played in isolation on a piano can trigger a horrible case of nerves in me. An F-sharp, I think it was. My parents were up in an instant, scrambling to get dressed, and yelling at me to get moving as I sat there frozen. They had to yell because of music, was so loud now that it was impossible, the neighbors would remain undisturbed by it.

The moving company we hired was scheduled to come by and help us the next morning. We had to get out right then. 3.30 in the morning. My father said we would return later to help the movers if they showed up. But for now, we were going to a nearby motel with nothing but an overnight bag hastily thrown together. We rushed out and piled into the car, noting as we left that the music had been thrumming throughout the house, even downstairs. but it could not follow us out the front door.

As soon as I cleared the doorway, the air came easier to my lungs. I hadn't known that we had been literally suffocating in that house all this time. From the yard and then the garage, pulling out from our driveway. Our house was as silent as anything should be at three in the morning. While my father backed the car down the driveway, my mother nervously scolded him all the way to watch the mailbox. I twisted around in my seat to look back at the house one more time. We were pulling down east, and I had a clear view of my sister's window from the back of the car.

The shutters were still left open, and there was no light from the depths of the room, which I could clearly see, now that the curtains were thrown open. And standing there in the gap of the curtains, I saw a pale ballerina in the window. watching this go. For more information, including pictures and videos of the stories told on this podcast, or to suggest stories for future episodes, please visit us. At Creepypod on Twitter, Instagram. All stories told on this podcast can be found at creepypasta wiki.com

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