Kamp shrugged. “I know it’s a symbolic story. When people say the key to the city belongs in city hall, that Goblin’s history runs amok when it’s not, they’re just trying to make excuses for why the present is so messed up. And as you know, the key has been lost for…how long now? Gosh, I don’t even know. Years. Mayor Blackwater says he’d like to locate it, but I think he’s just putting us on. Having fun. You do know that when someone gets the key to a city they’re not receiving an actual key, of course. It’s all symbolism. And to suggest that, whenever the key isn’t where it’s supposed to be, that all of history, that all the ghosts of Goblin…”

Kamp trailed off. He still had his hand on his chest.

“Walter,” Mrs. Doris began. And for the second time tonight Walter wondered if she had asked him over with a mind to distract him. Exactly how much did Mrs. Doris know about Walter’s personal life?

“Yes?”

“Why don’t you head to bed. Lord knows one of those many alarms is about to go off. You could silence it now, before it begins, and get some good sleep.”

Walter stared long into her eyes.

“Have you been inside my rooms, Mrs. Doris?”

The way he asked it, the accusation in his voice was naked.

“Walter Kamp, I would never enter your apartment without your permission in a hundred thousand years.”

“Then how did you know I have numerous alarms?”

Mrs. Doris shrugged. Kamp couldn’t read her reaction. The idea of someone gaining access to his rooms meant that anybody could.

And then maybe anything.

“A woman knows,” she said, getting up, leading Walter to the door. “And besides, your apartment sounds like a bloody battlefield through these thin walls.”

8

“Waaaaaalter?”

Kamp sat up in bed, sweat dribbling down both sides of his face. He’d been dreaming of Mrs. Doris in his rooms. Only she was dead, like Mom and Dad, and her wrinkled flesh had fallen to her wrists, her shoulders, her ankles, exposing bones that looked just like the trunks of the twisted trees in the North Woods. It was as if she no longer had the strength to carry her own skin, and now it all sat rumpled like oversized leg warmers, puffy scarves, in piles.

“Waaaaaaaalter?”

It was Mrs. Doris’s voice, no doubt, calling from the hall. But while Kamp knew this, he couldn’t help but wonder if perhaps she was inside.

He scanned the length of his rooms, still seeing in his mind’s eye the eighty-eight-year-old woman, slowly inching toward his bed. What had she been saying?

Of course I’ve been inside your rooms. I’m here all the time. And I’ve found a hiding place, Walter, a place to jump out from, a place from which to scare you to death…

BANG BANG!

She was knocking on the door.

“Mrs. Doris!” Kamp called. “Are you okay?”