Square Peg

A key with square teeth wasn't going to turn any ordinary modern lock. I hauled the iron slab down the hallway, tapping the baseboards with my dowsing stick until the solid thud turned hollow. Right behind the coat rack, the faded striped wallpaper bulged over a crisp vertical seam. I wedged the twig beneath the brittle paper and ripped it back. Tucked flush into the plaster was a squat wooden door, barely knee-high and sealed shut under layers of old paint. The keyhole plate was raw iron, notched with three square corners. I shoved the key into the slot, dug my boots into the floorboards, and twisted hard until the heavy bolt threw back with a hollow clunk.