She’d given him a key to her heart, a twisted, dented, little thing of brass and rust. You could see that it had been crafted a long - long - time ago – far longer in fact that her smooth face full of freckles might have prompted – and not used in ages. But somehow he must have said some magic words and she’d slipped him the key, one rainy morning.

The key came with a warning – they often do – not to look further afield.
He had thought she’d meant that he wasn’t to look at any other women and had felt sure that he could keep in line with such caveat. She was so fascinating, this little wisp of foxy girl, all shiny teeth and glittering eyes: who WOULD look elsewhere?
However, as he started to use the key and peer into the depth of her, he’d become aware that there was more to her soul than what had first seduced him. Beyond the shimmering gay panorama he’s been ensnared by, he now saw shadows and darker recess, pulsating ominous rhythms.

Trying to get – so to speak – to the heart of the matter, he’s attempted to visit such places, to find about the darker aspects of his mistress. But the vivid crimson gaps and threatening labyrinth had been closed to him; he would need another key to unlock those mysteries. As he poked, nudged and prodded, trying to pry open the darkness, his love had gone restless, lashing at him with tongue and nails in sudden bursts of fury. No more playful kitten: he had to back down a bit, to win her back.
But the madness within called to him far surer now than all her playful antics had in the past. While he still enjoyed her mischievous behaviour, he could now see clawing shadows of untold horrors waving softly in her path, beckoning, daring him to step closer.

In the end, he had to know. They call this the “Bluebeard Curse”: no locked door is safe from it and, one afternoon of tempestuous lovemaking, he managed to pry open one of the gates that kept his lover’s secrets so well hidden. He immediately understood his error: Out of the gap, slithering monsters from untold abysses lashed at him from the deep, snapping their fangs onto his hands, making another dent into the already twisted little key, he’d kept clutched in his fist.
Scared of the things he had unleashed, he backed out in a hurry, slamming all doors behind him in his flight.

It was only when he found himself back on the ledge of the bed, panting, and looking into his lovers cold eyes that he realised that he’s even closed that very first door, the one he’d opened with the key. Still trembling and aching for comfort, he tried to let himself in again but found that the key with all its rust and dents had started to disappear, to dissolve, leaving only traces of bolted locks in his hand.

Looking up to his mistress, he wasn’t so surprised to find that she had faded out as well, leaving just a trace of musky scent in the sheets and a wisp of smoke twirling in a sunbeam.

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