the gate is amile from the house, eight feet high and made of wrought iron - although the ornate lock is made of something else, some other alloy entirely. if you put your ear to the keyhole, you might almost imagine you hear whispering. it's very like listening to a shell. The single lane winds up a tree, through trees as old as the nation itself. these trees were here before you were born and some of them will be here after you're dead. listen again and you will hear another sound - the squall and shriek of the gulls, the dull thud of waves beating against the rocks. The wind is cold and fresh, scrubbed clean by abrasive salts. The atlantic is somewhere close, continuing its tireless assault against the New England stone. Follow this last curve in the road and there is the house: a disjointed fortress of towers, stone balconies, stained glass, blue slate, and curiously hostile shadows. some of you know this place well. Some of you are only arriving for the first time. Either way, we are glad to see you. The Keyhouse has been waiting for you.

You drive up to the house, it's quiet in the car other than the sound of gulls outside. Even your younger sister is quiet. Your mother and father are looking at the house. Eventually they get out and start to get the stuff out of the back of the van. You go and help them. Your sister follows but does nothing. You and your parents bring all the bags and items into the lobby of the house and place them down. Once that is done your parents tell you and your sister to look around the house and choose your room