One flight of stone stairs led upward to
the bedroom, another to the cellar. I decided to go downstairs. They were steps, not made of masonry, but apparently carved out of the
living rock. The cellar was simply a cubical hole in the mountain. It
all looked very old. I had the uneasy feeling that originally that
cellar had been a tomb and that later the house had been built over it. But, once at the bottom, there was nothing to indicate a sepulcher. A
few small casks of wine, some junk, odds of rope and rusty iron, those
were in the corners; otherwise, the room was empty, and dusty. "It is an odd room," I commented to myself. It seemed in some way out of
place and out of shape and size for the villa above it. I had expected
something more, something larger, gloomier. Walking around, I examined
the walls, and then something came to my alert senses. Three sides of the room were carved out of rock, but the remaining side
was of masonry, and in that side there was a door. A door! And why
should a door be there except to lead to another room? There was a door,
and that presupposed something on the other side. And what a door it
was! More of a barricade than a partition. The iron hinges were built to
support weight and give complete defense and support. There was a
keyhole, and if the key corresponded with the size of the hole, it was
the largest that I had ever heard of. Naturally, I wanted to open the door. As master of the villa, I had a
right to. Upstairs the old woman seemed unable to understand me and
ended by telling me to see her husband. He, in turn, seemed incapable of
following my stream of talk. At last, I took him to the door and pointed
to the keyhole. In English, Italian and sign language I told him rather
emphatically that I wanted the key to that door. At last he was willing
to admit that he understood my questions. He shook his head. He had
never had the key to that door. Yes, he knew that there was such a door,
but he had never been on the other side. It was very old. Perhaps his
ancestors understood about it, but they were all dead. He made me tired,
so much so that I rested by placing a hand on the butt of the upper
hinge. I knew that he was deceiving me. Lived there all his life and
never saw the door open! "And you have no key to that door?" I repeated. "No. I have no key." "Who has the key?" "The owner of the house." "But I own it." "Yes, you are the master; but I mean the one who owns it all the time." "So, the various masters do not really buy the place?" "They buy it, but they come and go." "But the owner keeps on selling it and owning it?" "Yes." "Must be a profitable business. And who owns it?" "Donna Marchesi." "I think I met her yesterday in Sorona." "Yes, that is where she lives." The storm had passed. Sorona was only two miles away, on the other side
of the mountain. The cellar, the door, the mysterious uncertainty on the
other side intrigued me. I told the man that I would be back by supper,
and I went to my bedroom to change, preparatory to making an afternoon
call. In the room I found my hand black with oil. And that told me a good many things, as it was the hand that had rested
against the upper hinge of the door. I washed the hand, changed my
clothes and drove my car to Sorona. *       *       *       *       *

Fortunately, the Donna Marchesi was at home. I might have met her
before, but I now saw her ethereal beauty for the first time. At least,
it seemed ethereal at the first moment. In some ways she was the most
beautiful woman that I had ever seen: skin white as milk, hair a tawny
red, piled in great masses on her head, and eyes of a peculiar green,
with pupils that were slots instead of circles. She wore her nails long,
and they were tinted red to match the Titian of her hair. She seemed
surprized to have me call on her, and more surprized to hear of my
errand. "You bought the villa?" she asked. "Yes. Though, when I bought it, I did not know that you were the owner. The agent never stated whom he was acting for." "I know," she said with a smile. "Franco is peculiar that way. He always
pretends that he owns the place." "No doubt he has used it more than once." "I fear so. The place seems to be unfortunate. I sell it with a reserve
clause. The owner must live there. And no one seems to want to stay; so
the place reverts back to me." "It seems to be an old place." "Very old. It has been in my family for generations. I have tried to get
rid of it, but what can I do when the young men will not stay?" She shrugged her shoulders expressively. I countered with,

"Perhaps if they knew, as I do, that you owned the property, they would
be content to stay, for ever, in Sorona." "Prettily said," she answered. Then the room became silent, and I heard
her heavy breathing, like the deep purr of a cat. "They come and go," she said at last. "And, when they go, you sell to another?" I asked. "Naturally, and with the hope that one will stay." "I have come for the key," I said bluntly, "the key to the cellar door." "Are you sure you want it?" "Absolutely! It is my villa and my cellar and my door. I want the key. I
want to see what is on the other side of the door." And then it was that I saw the pupils of her eyes narrow to livid slits. She looked at me for a second, for five, and then opening a drawer in a
cabinet near her chair, she took out the key and handed it to me. It was
a tool worthy of the door that it was supposed to open, being fully
eight inches long and a pound in weight. Taking it, I thanked her and said good-bye. Fifteen minutes later I was
back, profuse in my apologies: I was temperamental, I explained, and I
frequently changed my mind. Whatever was on the other side of the door
could stay there, as far as I was concerned. Then again I kissed her
hand farewell. On the side street I passed through the door of a locksmith and waited
while he completed a key. He was following a wax impression of the
original key. An hour later I was on the way back to the villa, with the
key in my pocket, a key that I was sure would unlock the door, and I was
confident that the lady with the cat eyes felt sure that I had lost all
interest in that door and what was beyond it. The full moon was just appearing over the mountains when I drove my car
up to the villa. I was tired, but happy. Taking the candlestick in my
hand, which candlestick was handed to me with a deep bow by the old
woman, I ascended the stairs to my bedroom. And soon I was fast asleep. *       *       *       *       *

I awoke with a start. The moon was still shining. It was midnight. I
heard, or thought I heard, a deep moaning. It sounded a little like
waves beating on a rockbound coast. Then it ceased and was replaced by a
musical element that came in certain stately measures. Those sounds were
in the room, but they came from far away; only by straining my sense of
sound to the utmost could I hear anything.