Uncle Shom — Part3

“That’s the secret, nephew,” he said. “You don’t.”

Now, this is Part 3. I arrived on a Tuesday in October. The leaves were the color of bruised plums. Uncle Shom didn’t greet me at the door. Instead, I found him in the parlor, sitting before a wall I had never noticed before. It wasn't a wall of plaster or wood. It was a wall of locks.

“Understand what?”

Part 2 was the basement door that opened onto a staircase with thirteen steps—no matter how many times I counted.

By an unreliable nephew

“You didn’t tell me you had a third thing.”

By the time I was fifteen, I had stopped believing in Uncle Shom’s stories. That was my first mistake. uncle shom part3

He pointed to a lock near the center of the wall. It was small, silver, no bigger than a thumbnail. It didn’t belong among the others.