The Winners of the 2026 Eugene Gullish Writing Competition

Updates

Mar 9

The Paris-Henry County Arts Council is pleased to announce the winners of the 2026 Eugene Gullish Writing Competition. Each year, this competition celebrates the creativity and storytelling talent of writers across our region. This year’s entries explored the prompt of a mysterious or unexpected door, and the results were imaginative, moving, and remarkably diverse in style and perspective.

From stories of cosmic discovery and time-bending encounters to quiet moments of grief, hope, and faith, this year’s submissions showed how a single prompt can open countless creative paths. The judges noted the strong emotional depth and originality demonstrated by many of the writers.

Adult Division Winners

🏆 Judges’ Choice – Best Overall Story
“The Story Spinner” by Lydia Perts
🥇 First Place
“The Door That Never Was” by Kendall Rogers
🥈 Second Place
“The Peculiar Door” by Crystal Glisson
🥉 Third Place
“A Speck Called Earth” by Ted Scott

Youth Division Winners

🥇 First Place
“The Door Appeared on a Tuesday” by Jlyne Tharpe
🥈 Second Place
“A Space Between Walls” by Rylee Shell
🥉 Third Place
“The Door That Was Never There” by Anniyah McClure

Judges’ Reflections

This year’s competition was judged by Amber Crouch and Amanda White, both experienced educators with extensive backgrounds in literacy and language instruction.

Amber Crouch noted the wide range of interpretations inspired by the prompt.

“The idea of a mysterious door produced some truly creative storytelling. Writers explored doors as portals to other worlds, gateways to memory and grief, and even symbols of personal transformation. Many entries demonstrated strong narrative voice and vivid imagery. It was exciting to see writers use the prompt as a starting point for stories that felt both imaginative and deeply personal.”

Amanda White emphasized the high level of craft and emotional storytelling across the submissions.

“Several stories stood out for their ability to blend imaginative concepts with meaningful human experiences. Whether through science fiction, fantasy, or heartfelt personal narratives, many writers used the door as a metaphor for change, discovery, and reflection. It was clear that a great deal of care and creativity went into these pieces, and selecting winners was not an easy task.”

Celebrating Local Creativity

The Eugene Gullish Writing Competition continues to highlight the incredible storytelling talent within our community. Every submission represents a writer willing to share their ideas, imagination, and voice!

The Paris-Henry County Arts Council Board would like to extend a sincere thank you to everyone who participated this year. Your creativity keeps the literary arts alive and thriving in our region.

We also extend our appreciation to our judges for their time and thoughtful evaluation of this year’s entries.

We look forward to seeing even more inspiring stories in next year’s competition!

The door stands out like a woman dressed for a gala in a sea of ordinary, legging-clad women. I feel like one of those ordinary women as I stare at the door in perplexity. It is tall with a detailed carving of a tree in the center. It looks like something straight out of Lord of the Rings, and I am completely at a loss as to how and why it stands in my small apartment office. I chew on my lip, suddenly irritated at this strange apparition. I came in here to work, despite a full and long day at the office. My Zoom meeting with Joseph O’Donnell is in fifteen minutes. My article needs polishing. Just a moment ago, my mind was churning with words and phrases that I might incorporate into that article. Those words are gone; they have been replaced by thoughts of this door and what lies behind it. Something alive, surely, for it seems to breathe. Perhaps a palace full of fae lies on the other side. Unconsciously, my mind starts to spin a scene of a grand feast inhabited by tall elves. I shake my head at my foolish imagination and at the fact that I still stand staring stupidly at the door instead of at my laptop. I look at my watch. It’s 6:18. I still have plenty of time before my interview with Mr. O’Donnell.
Finally, I give in to my feet and let them lead me to the ornate, wooden door. Hastily, I grab hold of the knob and pull open the creaky door before my mind has a chance to chide me.
Darkness meets my eyes. I grab my phone from my dress pants pocket and illuminate a stone-clad hallway. Curiosity pulls me forward as a lantern does to a moth. As I step into the chilly corridor, my feet yelp at the chill seeping through my thin socks. My mind whirls and my heart thumps so loudly it seems to echo off the walls.
After many steps, a small, flickering light greets me in the distance. I turn off my flashlight and briskly walk towards the light. Soon, I find myself in a small room, about the size of my bedroom, lined with row upon row of books. An old-fashioned oil lamp is seated on a small, simple table in the center of the room. A book lies open on the table beside the lamp, as if someone was reading by the lamplight.
“Hello?” My voice feels too loud in this little library.
When my question is greeted with only silence, I examine the room again. Bookshelves, the small table, and a chair in the corner are the only inhabitants of this room. I search for another door, another room, but find none, save for the chilly corridor that leads back to my office. I take off my glasses and rub my eyes. I know I should walk down that hallway and back to my office. My mind, the industrious and responsible part, berates me for being here instead of there. Curiosity, however, pleads harder, begging for just a glance at the book on the table. Oh so hesitantly I let the curiosity, the wonder, bloom so that I can barely hear the chiding I am so eager to inflict upon myself. Gingerly I walk towards the open book, promising myself I'll leave after just a glance.
Script lines only one page partially. I reach my hand towards the parchment, but as soon as my fingers brush the paper, the library dissolves. I startle when I find myself in another room. Music tickles my ears, and the smell of delicious food wafts towards me. The room is far larger than the library, with an overflowing table of food in the center. My eyes grow wide, and I swallow a gasp as I observe the tall, courtly creatures seated at the table. They are fae, or at least the fae-like creatures I have always imagined. Tall and sharp and light they are with delicate features. Their hair is long and smooth, and their laughter musical. They are lovely to behold and yet terrifying.
Slowly, I back away towards the curtains, praying they won’t notice me. Distantly, I can feel my hand on the paper, which is strange for my hand lies limply at my side. I pull it from the paper and suddenly find myself back in the library. I put a hand to my beating heart, wondering. I pull a random book from the shelves, a deep blue one, and open it. I hesitate for only a moment before I touch the paper.
I find myself in chaos. Shouts and cries erupt around me as a few men race past me into the lapping waves of the moon-lit sea. An imposing, tall woman with many golden earrings commands them to stop, but they do not heed her. My socks are wet and sandy, but I hardly notice the sensation. I’m too worried someone will notice me, for, unlike in the dining hall, I am completely out in the open here. No one does, however. I look directly at a woman not far from where I stand. She wears a pale pink nightgown with a plaid shawl wrapped around her. Her brown hair has all but come loose from her braid. Her face is pinched in fear and pain. Despite my stare piercing into her, she doesn’t look my way. I chew on my lip and walk directly in front of her. Still, she looks right past me, through me. Seemingly, I am invisible. Relaxing, I let myself take in the chaos around me.
In the distant waters, a small boat is floating. Two men are swimming towards it, and I squint, trying to discern why. I make out two figures on the boat. It’s hard to tell from here, but they look like children. The woman with the earrings says something in a foreign language and I shiver. The woman in the nightgown cries. Suddenly, lightning strikes the water right by the children in the little boat. I gasp and yank my hand from the book so hard I stumble into the bookshelf behind me. I slide down to sit against the bookshelves, trying to wrap my mind around this place and that book. I know how that scene ends. I know that something lurks beneath the water, something called from the deep by that woman. I know why two children are in a boat in the middle of the night. I let out a shaky breath. My own hand penned that story. It’s a half finished story from my teenage years full of pirates, and thick with magic and courage.
I pull more books from the shelves and enter into other stories my mind has spun, and my hand has penned, some so old I barely know them. I know the time is far past 6:30, yet I can’t seem to make myself leave. There are so many books here, all of them my own stories. I used to love writing. This strange library reminds me of that. I would spin stories like how some spin wool into clothing. But stories aren’t practical, my parents would often say. I told them that many writers can make a good living. Writing is practical, I would argue. And so I proved it to them. I became a journalist. I wrote every day, all day, for the paper. I didn’t realize until now how much writing has lost its magic. Its beauty. It is something I loathe, at times. I haven’t penned a story in years. And yet, they still swirl in my head. Almost constantly. The first book I touched was never transferred to paper. I was crafting it in my mind as I stared at the door in my office.
After hours in the library, I rise from my spot in the worn chair. I pause at the corridor and drink in the sight of the library before I turn away. As I pad down the hallway, I feel lighter, not so weighed down by monotony. My hands itch for paper and pen, and, once I’m back in my office, I don’t deny them their desire.
It's February 5th and my memories from four years ago are like the pages of a book. The print is right in front of my nose. So close, I can feel them, smell them, taste them. But just like the words on a page they can never be lived. Their worlds locked tight in imagination. For these memories, I imagine and I cry.
This day is a hard one. I just want to sleep it away. Four years ago, on this very day I was in the hospital holding my daughter in my arms as her life slipped into the ether. She was born with Limb Body Wall Complex – a rare disease that few survive. She came and went so quickly. The time I had to memorize her face, so brief.
What I do remember is the cold outside, the sound of the nurses and doctor’s bated breath, and my husband’s hand on my shoulder as we watched our daughter die. I relive this day every year. I feel her full weight in my arms and see her tiny body in my mind’s eye.
When I look up from my tear-stained pillow to take a breath, I notice something in the corner of my room. In my closet, behind my clothes is a frame of white light glowing. It is subtle and unusual. Curiosity becomes me as I struggle to put my weight on my feet. I feel like I’ve been crying all day. My whole body feels like a bag of sand. My strength has left me. As I clutch my heavy heart, I slowly make my way towards the light. My hand reaches out to move my clothes and there in the back of my closet there is a knob.
How can this be?
I am in my own room. Colors of blue and gold on the walls - all the same. The green, shaggy comforter crumpled at the foot of the bed. Pictures of my life hanging on the walls. The dust bunnies gathered under my dresser drawers. I tell myself this cannot be a dream because the room remains familiar. Everything but the door. My anxiety begins to rise as I reach for the knob.
Questions are set aside for hope. I hope what lies beyond the door ends my suffering. I hope this door makes my imagination come alive.
The sound of a child’s giggles hit my ear as the knob turns. I would know that sound anywhere. A mother always knows her child.
Beyond the door is a glimpse into life that would have been. A life without the disease that took my baby from me.
The door opens wider, and the room beyond it spills forward like a held breath finally released. Sunlight pools on the floor in soft squares from the window. Toys I recognize without remembering buying them. Crayon drawings taped crookedly to the wall. A small pink shoe by the door, abandoned in haste.
She runs to me, laughter ringing, arms outstretched, solid and warm and impossibly real. The weight of her collides with my knees, and I fall with her, not caring where we land. I breathe her in. Her wild, untamable hair smells like strawberries and soap. Her heartbeat presses against my chest, fast and certain. Alive.
I feel everything, everywhere, all at once.
“Mommy,” she says, as if no time has passed at all. Her voice hits my ears like a sweet melody. Oh, to hear her voice!
I hold her too tightly at first, afraid she might slip through me like the memories always do. But she doesn’t. She squirms and laughs and presses her cheek to mine. I have to look at her, to take her in. I pull back for a moment, arms still wrapped around her little shoulders, and gaze at her. For one stolen moment, the ache disappears. There is no before. There is no after. There is only this.
I look up, and I see myself in the room—older, steadier, smiling in a way I forgot how to do. A life unfolding in small, ordinary miracles. Bedtime stories. Scraped knees. First days of school. All the moments that never existed, living here instead, behind a door I was never meant to find.
I feel the warm tears on my cheeks tracing the lines of my smile and dripping off my chin. Although I feel the warmth of happiness that I was desperately searching for, I know it isn’t mine to keep.
The light begins to dim.
I feel it before I see her grip loosening, her laughter softening into an echo. Panic claws its way back into my chest. “No,” I whisper, dropping to my knees again. “Please. Just a little longer.”
She cups my face with hands too small to be real, eyes wiser than a four-year-old’s should ever be.
“It’s okay, Mommy,” she says gently. “You didn’t forget me.”
The room fades like breath on glass. The warmth leaves my arms, and I am holding nothing but air and the ghost of her scent. I want more of her, more time, but I gently let go anyway. The door stands open one last second, glowing softly, patiently.
Then it closes.
I am back in my room. Blue and gold walls. Quiet. February 5th.
But my chest feels different now—not lighter, not healed, but… anchored. Anchored in an imagined memory of life where my daughter lived.
I walk back to the closet and push my clothes aside. The door is gone. Only drywall and hangers and shadows.
Still, I know.
Some doors aren’t meant to be opened twice. Some aren’t meant to be lived in. They exist only to remind us that love doesn’t disappear just because the world takes a different shape.
I lie back down, tears soaking the pillow again—but this time, they are not only grief. This time, they are grateful.
Micheal wakes to the sound of someone banging on his door, he looks over and groans seeing that it was two o'clock in the morning. Who could possibly be needing him at this early hour, he thought. As he went to the front door, Micheal was confused when no one was outside. Then a knocking sound came from somewhere in the house. After a few minutes he came to a dark mahogany door with old markings along the bottom. This was absurd, he had lived in this apartment for five years and a door in the middle of his book case was something he would have remembered. This time the knocking was quieter and definitely coming from this peculiar door. He reached his hand out slowly, resting his palm on the cold black handle. If someone knocks you have to answer, right? He slowly turned the handle.
Micheal couldn’t believe what he was seeing. It was like looking at an older version of his apartment. The furniture and style looked as if it was from the nineteen twenties. It was vastly different from his being in the year two thousand and twenty five. As he looked around he stopped at a mirror, he wasn’t in his sweatpants and muscle shirt. He stood there looking over his full suit and tie, even his fancy pointed shoes. As interesting as this was, he figured he’d better go back to his own time. That’s when he realized the door was now gone. He was in the middle of still searching when the sound of a woman’s laughter could be heard. He made his way to the kitchen where the sound was coming from.
There stood a woman around twenty five with long brunette hair, standing over the counter smiling at something she was reading. Micheal cleared his throat and the young lady spun around with a fright. His throat went dry as he took in her beauty and the bluest eyes he had ever seen. The woman started to scream but Micheal held up his hand in a surrender motion. He rapidly started apologizing for intruding in her home and that it was a misunderstanding. The young lady looked almost annoyed now. “Please tell me you didn’t come through some peculiar door,” she said.
Micheal was speechless for a second. “Actually, I did”, he replied.
The woman shook her head, “A guy was here last week saying he was from nineteen sixty five.” “What is your name and what year are you supposed to be from?”
Micheal cleared his throat and told her his name and the year it was before opening that strange door.
“My name is Ruth and you are the second person to show up unannounced in my home”, she replied.
Micheal looked intrigued. “Do you know why the door keeps showing up?” He asked.
Ruth shakes her head. “I had an uncle that lived here and just vanished one day and my mother claimed the door had gotten him. I didn’t put much thought into it until last week when that man arrived, talking about some door.”
“What happened to the man from last week. Did he find his way back?” He asked.
Ruth looked down at her feet, not wanting to look into his brown eyes. “No, he was startled by the whole thing and ran out not believing me. I learned later that day that a man was killed by one one of those new fancy Ford T’s, and no one knew who he was.”
Micheal pulled out a chair to sit, how was he going to find his way home? He thought of something then as he watched her fidget with a string on her dress. “Did you see and knock on the door?” he asked.
Ruth looked puzzled, “I’ve never seen the door, let alone knock on it. Why do you ask?”
Micheal went through and explained how he was awakened by the sound of knocking that led him to the strange door that he had never seen before. If Ruth hadn’t been the one knocking then who or what did, he thought. “Do you mind if I stay here and try to find the door?” he asked.
Ruth looked skeptical. “I don’t think I have much of a choice, given the circumstances,” she replied. “Since you might be here for a while, how about you tell me about your timeline.” Ruth couldn’t help feeling a little excited about learning about a future she would never live long enough to see.
Micheal wasn’t sure at first, he had read about the butterfly effect and that you shouldn’t say or do anything that might alter the course of time. But surely a few things couldn’t hurt, right? He went on to tell her about the major leagues of football and other sports as well keeping the information vague.
Ruth sat there smiling, enjoying the sound of Micheal’s voice as he carried on about some football team he really cared for. “If you don’t mind me asking, what’s your family like?” she asked.
Micheal smiled as he thought about his mom raising him and his sister alone after his father had passed when he was ten. He told Ruth about his strong mom who raised them and who worked as the head nurse in a hospital. How his sister had gone off to college and is now working her way up to a partnership at a law office. He couldn’t explain it, but it felt like he could talk to her for hours.
Ruth was amazed at Micheal’s stories; women were able to accomplish amazing things in the future. She had been helping the women to be heard and have more equal rights.
Micheal was still talking when Ruth stood and walked over to the small cabinet to their right. He recognized it as the same one that was still in his kitchen. She reached to the far back and pulled out a small leatherbound journal. Micheal was intrigued and waited for her to explain the book.
She opened it and slid the book over to him. He read through some of the pages that clearly showed entries from before Ruth’s time. It was entries from different women in her family who spoke of their struggles of not being heard. He was amazed at how strong these women must have been.
“Why are you showing this to me?” He asked.
Ruth took his hand in hers. “Because your future sounds amazing and gives me faith in what the future truly holds,” she said. “This book represents my family and will be continued to be passed down through our generations. I can't explain it, but it feels as though you needed to see it.”
Micheal leaned in closer and brushed a stray hair behind Ruth’s ear. Just then they both jumped as a door appeared right in the kitchen where the cabinet had been.
“I guess it means your time here is done,” she whispered.
MIcheal without thinking pulled her into a hug, she melted into his embrace. “Come with me,” he asked.
“I don’t think that would be allowed.” Ruth wiped away a tear that had fallen. “But I feel as though I am a different person from meeting you.” “I don’t know why the door comes and goes, but I am happy to have met you, Micheal.”
“I don’t think I’ll ever forget you, Ruth.” Micheal turned and gave her a small smile as he opened the door.
Micheal found himself standing back in his own home and time. He quickly went to the kitchen and checked the cabinet to see if her notebook would still be there. At first he didn't see it but then his finger tips felt something. He slowly pulled out an old dusty leather bound journal, his hands shook as he went to open it. Inside he found an entry from Ruth describing an encounter with a strange man from the mysterious door. Inside were newspaper articles from the women protesting their rights. In one photo was a picture of Ruth standing proud with her fellow ladies. Micheal shook his head, why did the door appear just to show me this journal?
Micheal shook his head and went to lay the book down when a thin piece of paper fell out. He carefully unfolded it and found it was addressed to him.
“Hello Micheal, I hope all is well. It is almost the end of my time on this earth and with no children to pass my family's history to, I wanted you to have it. “Please see to it that it goes to a museum so everyone will know our hardship. Love Ruth.”
Micheal writes down a museum's name and places it beside the book. He would make sure everyone knows her history. Just then the door reappears. What could it possibly want me to do now, he thought.
“Should I stay or should I go?”
Garret - A small, cramped room located at the top of a house; ideal for attic storage.
     Some nights I would lie in that room, watching the moon and stars. It was the last place I would ever see my dad, who disappeared some years ago. He was raised in this house, this room being his favorite. The moon would shine bright against the wall and slowly shed a dim blue box shape along the cedar wall next to me. The room had a boundary of tranquility that couldn’t be matched outside of it.
     The garret had a certain smell—nothing like any other room I had been in. It was small with no decor that could hardly fit a twin-sized bed, tucked under the roofing of the farmhouse with a small window facing north. We used it for storage when I was young and cleared it out for Dad when he got sick. We added brown carpet to the floor and insulation to the roofing, covering it with cedar planks. That cedar smell never went away. It had that warm scent of sap with dry and smoky sweetness—cinnamon apples being fried on a campfire, the closest smell my memory can match. There was also a small hole in the wall from an old knot in the wood. There was nothing leading to those walls. Just outside. It was the only room among the roof of the farmhouse. Dad was raised in this house. His father had built it from the ground up—he passed away before I was born. They had hundreds of acres and countless pastures and livestock. They weren’t wealthy by any stretch, but they had enough to get by.
     As I lay, a small whirring started to grow into a soft humming against the wall. It didn’t sound like it was on the other side of the wall—more like it was coming from a part of the wall itself. And that’s when I noticed: the sound was coming from the dim outline of the shed in moonlight. The light on the wall slowly became brighter as the ground began to vibrate in unison with the humming behind the cedar. There was no room beyond that wall nor on any other wall in the garret. It was simply a staircase leading to four walls with two of them slanted with the roof, and then—nothing but open air outside.
     As the shine on the wall turned brighter, it began to take form into a bigger shape. Bigger than the frame of the window. It shaped itself into the size of…a door. The hole in the cedar began to glow, a piercing white beam stretching across the room. The humming and quakes continued when the hole couldn’t get any brighter—until a quick snap and then—dark and quiet. The humming and shaking stopped.
     I stared at the wall in silence, trying to understand what I had witnessed. The wood began to creak like slow steps in a hollow cabin. The creaks turned to cracks and snaps. The planks began to split loudly, each one giving way. The cracks shaped themselves into the outline of the door the moon had shown. When the cracking stopped, the hole in the wall started to glow with a dim light of moonlit snow. That spot in the cedar left a perfect place for a doorknob. I hesitated, then pressed a finger through the hole. It moved. The door slowly opened as a misty cool draft shifted the temperature in the room.
     Behind it was the sky not seen from the north-facing window in the garret—it was an entirely different galaxy of stars. Dusty clouds splashed bright violet across a twilight canvas. There was no count to them. A door leading to another universe had opened in the room where my father vanished.
     When I stepped closer to the door, it wasn’t just a portrait I could touch. It was an entire new dimension—completely different. The stars grew in number, expanding in countless wonder as I stepped closer, surrounded by brilliant dusty splashes of lavender and northern-light green. No picture could do it justice. Below all those stars sat a familiar image of the roofing on the farmhouse. Our farmhouse. This door didn’t just lead to another dimension—it led to a dimension where our farmhouse roof was the vantage point to the magnificent spectacle above.
     When I stepped out of the garret and onto the roof, all the sounds I had heard from the garret—from every cricket to every wind-blown whisper—slowly began to absorb into the spatial atmosphere. That’s what happens in space, I thought. An atomic bomb could blow up in space and not a soul would hear it because of the vacuum—
     “Quite the sight, isn’t it?”
     I jumped, shrieking as I turned. I lost my balance and started to fall off the roof when a hand grabbed my shoulder, steadying me. When I saw who it was, I screamed again.
     “It’s okay, Son. I know—I know, it’s me,” he said trying to console me. “It’s Dad.”
     It was Dad—relaxed, fresh, nothing like the way he was when he disappeared. He grabbed my shoulders and pressed me down. “Now, sit.” And I did.
     I was speechless, as if I had seen a ghost. He sat, staring up at the stars. He spoke, but I couldn’t gather words. I could only stare at him in amazement.
     Then he nudged my shoulder and pointed. “See that there?”
     He pointed directly to what I knew as the North Star—Polaris. I had seen it countless times. He taught me how to find it, using the Big Dipper as a guide to true North.
     “The North Star—”
     “EHHHH! Wrong!” he barked, bumping my shoulder, making me laugh. He laughed with me and pointed again.
     “No, no—that’s Earth, see?…That’s home, believe it or not.”
     I stared at what looked like a star from where we were sitting—a pinhole through a sea of black with colorful overcast, surrounded by millions more.
     “Wait… if that’s Earth, then where is the North Star?”
     Dad chuckled. “Get comfortable, my boy! You’re sittin’ on it.”
     I turned my gaze toward the ground below the roofing, looking for our fresh-cut grass and beautiful pastures beyond. But they weren’t there. All that was there was shining lights of dust with hot gas, all pulling the gravity of a single farmhouse held in place.
     I watched him lie back on the roof, hands behind his head, sighing as if he just finished a long day’s work. I laid back with him, without a care in the world.
     “I looked up to this thing all those years,” he said, disappointed almost. “I had hopes and dreams for most of it, just like my daddy did,” he paused. Then said, “Failed to see the hopes and dreams that came true down there, back home.”
     I couldn’t speak as tears started to make my eyes burn and fall down my face.
     He turned to me. “I’m a stubborn man, you know that.” He paused. “But if there’s one thing in the world I’m sorry for … it’s that.” His voice cracked.
     My vision blurred with tears, seeing the purple glow of the stars glistening across his face. I wanted to beg him, please, come back home with me.
     He interrupted my train of thought as he put his arm around me. “Ain’t no need to come lookin’ for me anymore, son. I’m sittin’ right here.” He looked back toward the speck called Earth. “All the problems I had there seemed so big,” he pondered with a grin. “Made me forget how small they were from up here.”
     He’s right, I thought. How easy it is—we fall for making our troubles bigger than they actually are. I looked up with him when he said, “Don’t ignore the world around you down there, son. If you need me… I’ll be right here—”
     I jerked awake in the bed back in the garret in the dark with crickets singing outside the window with navy-blue pastures below, dotted with fireflies drifting in the cool breeze under the pale moon.
     I got up and stared at the wall, washed in moonlight, waiting for the room to vibrate and crack the cedar planks again. Waiting for the hidden latch to reveal itself.
     But it wasn’t necessary. I had seen what I needed to see.
     I walked to the wall, gave it a soft knock as a kiss goodbye, and looked into the dark room where my dad had once slept. Then I headed for the stairs leading down, a lump rising in my throat, knowing that this would be my last time here. Behind me, faintly, the familiar whirring and humming began again as the wall creaked—but I kept walking, stepping out of the garret, with broad shoulders and my soul smiling, without a care in the world.
I know that because Tuesdays are laundry days, and I have walked across the cracked tile floor of the hallway a thousand times carrying an overstuffed basket of clothes. I know every inch of that hallway: the pale yellow paint, the family photos slightly crooked, the air vent that whistles when the heater kicks on.
And I know without a doubt that there has never been a door at the end of it.
But that morning, there it was.
It stood between the linen closet and the wall mirror, as natural and ordinary as if it had always belonged there. It was narrow, painted the same soft yellow as the walls, with a brass knob that gleamed faintly in the dim light.
I stopped walking.
The laundry basket slid from my arms and thudded onto the floor.
For a long moment, I simply stared.
Maybe I hadn’t noticed it before. Maybe it had always been there. Maybe…
No.
I would have noticed.
I moved closer, my socks whispering against the tile. The paint around the frame wasn’t chipped. No cracks. No seams in the wall suggesting recent construction. It was seamless. Perfect.
Like it had grown there.
I reached out and touched it.
Warm.
Not warm like sunlight. Warm like skin.
I jerked my hand back.
The house was silent, except for the hum of the refrigerator in the kitchen. My heart pounded in my ears. I told myself to laugh, to take a picture, to call someone. But instead, I wrapped my fingers around the brass knob.
It turned easily.
The door opened inward.
Beyond it was not a room.
It was a forest.
Not the kind from a park or campground. This was ancient. Towering trees stretched impossibly high, their trunks wide enough to swallow cars. Sunlight filtered through thick emerald leaves, casting shifting patterns across moss-covered ground. The air smelled of rain and earth and something sweet I couldn’t name.
There was no threshold. The tile simply became soil.
I stepped back so quickly I hit the mirror behind me.
The forest remained.
A breeze rustled leaves somewhere deep inside. Birds called to one another. The sound felt distant yet intimate, as if the world beyond the door breathed on its own.
I looked behind me down the hallway.
Still my house.
Still ordinary.
I looked back at the forest.
Still there.
This was impossible.
And yet.
I crouched and touched the edge where the tile met dirt. It wasn’t an illusion. The soil was cool and crumbly beneath my fingertips. A small beetle crawled past, disappearing beneath a fern.
I should have closed it.
I should have called the police, or a scientist, or anyone.
Instead, I stepped through.
The air shifted instantly cooler, heavier. The sounds of my house vanished behind me. When I turned around, the door stood upright in the middle of the forest floor, unattached to anything. Through its open frame, I could see my hallway.
The laundry basket lay tipped over.
My ordinary life waited on the other side.
I hesitated.
Then the door swung shut.
The click echoed louder than it should have.
I lunged forward and grabbed the knob.
Locked.
My chest tightened.
“Okay,” I whispered to myself.
“Okay. Calm down.”
The forest wasn’t threatening. It wasn’t dark or twisted or filled with snarling creatures. It felt… alive. Watchful, yes, but not cruel.
A narrow path wound forward between the trees.
I didn’t see any other choice.
As I walked, the light shifted above me like rippling water. Strange flowers bloomed along the path, silver petals, deep blue centers that pulsed faintly as I passed. Somewhere to my left, something large moved through the underbrush, but it never came close.
Minutes or hours passed. Time felt slippery here.
Eventually, the trees thinned.
I stepped into a clearing.
In the center stood a small cottage.
It was simple: stone walls, a thatched roof, smoke curling lazily from a chimney. The windows glowed with warm amber light.
And sitting on the wooden steps was a woman.
She looked up as I approached.
She was older, maybe in her sixties with streaks of silver through dark curls. Her eyes widened when she saw me.
“You finally came,” she said softly.
The words sent a chill through me.
“Do I know you?” I asked.
She smiled faintly.
“Not yet.”
I stopped a few feet away.
“Where am I?”
“Home,” she replied.
“This isn’t my home.”
“It will be. It was.”
Her gaze was steady, searching my face like she was memorizing it.
“I don’t understand,” I said.
She patted the step beside her. After a long hesitation, I sat.
Up close, she looked familiar in a way that made my chest ache. The shape of her nose. The faint scar above her eyebrow.
I had that scar.
“You’re me,” I whispered.
She nodded.
Panic surged.
“That’s not possible.”
“Neither is a door that wasn’t there,” she said gently.
I stood up again, pacing the clearing.
“Is this the future?”
“One of them.”
I froze.
“One of them?”
She rose slowly and joined me.
“The door appears when you’re standing at the edge of yourself. When the life you’re living no longer fits the life you’re meant to live.”
“I don’t hate my life,” I said defensively.
“I know.”
She gestured around us.
“This is the path you didn’t take. The risks you were too afraid to try. The dreams you tucked away because they felt impractical.”
The forest seemed to lean closer as she spoke.
“I don’t—” My voice faltered.
Didn’t I?
There were things. A job I’d turned down years ago. A city I almost moved to. A book I’d half-written and hidden in a drawer.
“You always wondered,” she said softly.
“What if?”
The words hit harder than anything else.
“What happens if I stay?” I asked.
“You build this,” she said, motioning to the cottage.
“You learn the forest. You become… me.”
“And if I leave?”
Her expression shifted, something like sadness flickered across it.
“And you never see what might have been. Then this door disappears.”
The weight of the choice pressed against my ribs.
“Are you happy?” I asked.
She looked around at the trees, the sky, the little stone cottage. A small smile curved her lips.
“Yes,” she said.
“But I was also happy in my other life. Just differently.”
I thought of my hallway. The yellow paint. The crooked photos. The familiar hum of appliances. The safety of it.
And I thought of this forest. The unknown. The possibility.
“You don’t get both,” she said quietly, as if reading my mind.
A door appeared behind her.
Not the one from my house. This one stood at the edge of the clearing, made of dark wood, slightly ajar. Through it, I could see the faint outline of my hallway again.
My heart pounded.
“If you walk through,” she said, “something in you will change.”
“You won’t remember this place clearly. Just a feeling. A tug. But—”
“And if I don’t?”
“Then the other life fades.”
Silence stretched between us.
I stepped toward her.
For a moment, I thought I might stay.
Instead, I reached out and hugged her.
She felt solid. Real.
“Thank you,” I whispered.
“For what?” she asked.
“For existing.”
She squeezed my hand once, then let go.
I walked toward the door.
At the threshold, I looked back.
The forest shimmered in the dappled light. The cottage stood warm and welcoming. The woman myself watched me with quiet understanding.
I stepped through.
The hallway snapped back into place around me.
The laundry basket lay overturned at my feet.
The yellow walls were unbroken.
There was no door.
No brass knob.
Just smooth paint where it had always been.
I stood there for a long time.
Had I imagined it?
Maybe.
But something inside me felt different, wider somehow. As if a window had opened in a room I didn’t know was stuffy.
I picked up the laundry basket and walked toward the living room.
On my way, I passed the desk where an old, half-finished manuscript sat buried in a drawer.
I paused.
Then I turned the knob.
And opened it.
I’ve lived in the same house for sixteen years.
Long enough to know which stair creeks, how long the kitchen tap needs to run before it stops sputtering, and the exact way the afternoon light falls across the living room carpet in a crooked rectangle. The house is small and stubborn and familiar. There are no surprises left in it.
Or at least, that’s what I thought.
I was brushing my teeth when I saw it.
The bathroom mirror was fogged from the shower, and I wiped a clear circle in the glass. That’s when I noticed something strange in the reflection behind me. Not in the bathroom itself but in the hallway just outside.
A thin vertical line .
I turned around.
There, between the linen closet and my bedroom door, was a narrow white door.
It matched the wall perfectly. Same paint, same trim. Same brass handle style as the others in the house.Except I knew-absolutely knew-it had never been there before.
That stretch of wall had always been blank. I’d leaned against it while tying my shoes. I’d set my laundry basket there. I’d even measured it to see if we could hang a picture.
No door.
My first thought was that I was still half-asleep, maybe I was dreaming. But the cold tile underneath my feet felt real.the hum of the bathroom fan felt real.
The door felt real too when I reached out and touched it.
The handle was cool and solid. My heart was beating harder than it should have been. I told myself there had to be an explanation. Maybe it had always been there and I’d just …. ignored it? Forgotten?
But how do you forget about a door?
I wrapped my hand around the handle.
“Don’t be stupid”, I muttered to myself.
And I opened it.
The hinges didn’t creek.
Beyond the doorway was not a closet. Not an unfinished crawlspace. Not brick or insulation.
It was my kitchen.
Except not quite.
The layout was the same-same wooden table, same hanging light fixture, same pale yellow walls. But everything looked… older. The paint was brighter. The wood floors gleamed like they’d just been polished. The air smelled faintly of something warm and sweet.
And someone was standing at the stove.
She turned around.
It took me a full three seconds to understand what I was seeing.
It was my mom.
But not the way she looks now-tired-eyed and always rushing between work and home. This version of her was younger. Her hair was wearing the blue sweater I'd seen in old photo albums.
She smiled.
Not at me.
At someone behind me.
I spun around.
There was nothing in the doorway behind me except the dim hallway of my current house.
When I turned back, my mom-this younger version-was kneeling down in front of a little kid sitting at the kitchen table.
The kid was drawing with crayons.
Messy brown hair.too-big T-shirt with a faded dinosaur on it.
Me.
Not exactly how I look now, obviously.smaller.rounder. legs swinging under the chair because they didn’t reach the floor.
“You're going to smudge it if you lean like that“, my mom said gently.
Little me huffed.
“I want it to look like a real volcano”.
I stood frozen in the doorway, watching a memory unfold.
Except it wasn’t fuzzy or distant like memories usually are. It was sharp. Bright.alive.i could hear the scrape of crayon on paper. The ticking of the kitchen clock. The low rumble of a car passing outside.
I stepped forward before I could stop myself.
The floorboards creaked under my weight.
Neither of them reacted.
It was like I wasn’t there at all.
I moved closer to the table. On the paper was the volcano I vaguely remembered drawing in second grade—the one I’d insisted on covering with so much red crayon that it tore.
“I’m going to be a scientist,” little-me declared.
My mom laughed.
“You can be anything you want.”
The words hit me harder than I expected.
Because I hadn’t become a scientist.
I wasn’t anything, really. I’d quit robotics last year. Dropped art the year before that. I told myself I was just ‘keeping my options open,’ but mostly I was scared of choosing wrong.
Watching this younger version of myself felt like looking at someone braver.
The scene flickered.
The light shifted suddenly, deepening into evening. The kitchen changed again—same room, different moment.
This time the table was cluttered with unpaid bills. My mom sat alone, rubbing her temples.
There were dark circles under her eyes. The house felt heavier somehow.
I remembered this too.
The year my dad left.
I hadn’t understood what was happening at the time. I just knew voices had gotten sharper. Doors had closed harder. And then one day, he didn’t come back.
“You’re doing your best,” my mom whispered to herself now, staring at the papers.
Something twisted in my chest.
I took another step forward.
“Hey,” I said without thinking.
The word slipped into the room like a stone into water.
And this time—she looked up.
Not past me.
At me.
Her eyes widened slightly, not in fear, but in recognition. As if she’d been expecting me.
“You found it,” she said softly.
My throat went dry.
“Found what?”
“The space between walls.”
I glanced around. The kitchen had begun to blur at the edges, like paint dissolving in water.
“This isn’t real,” I said.
“It is,” she replied.
“It’s just not now.”
The room shifted again.
Suddenly I was standing in the hallway outside my own bedroom—but it looked different. The walls were a different color. The framed photos were unfamiliar.
Older.
On one of the walls hung a picture of me in a graduation cap. Another of me standing in front of something that looked like a research lab.
“What is this?” I asked.
“A possibility,” she said.
I turned.
But it wasn’t my mom anymore.
It was me.
Older. Taller. Confident in a way I didn’t recognize but desperately wanted to.
“You think you’ve run out of doors,” future-me said.
“But you haven’t. You just stopped opening them.”
I swallowed.
“What if I choose the wrong one?”
Future-me smiled faintly.
“There isn’t just one.”
The hallway began to dim. The walls seemed to fold inward, like the house itself was breathing.
“This door,” I said quickly, “Why now?”
“Because you needed to see that you’re not stuck,” she replied.
“This house holds every version of you. The one you were. The one you are. The ones you could be.”
The air felt thin.
“And if I close it?” I asked.
“Then you go back,” she said gently.
“But you won’t forget.”
The light drained from the scene all at once.
I stumbled forward—
—and found myself standing in my regular hallway.
The narrow white door was still there.
For a second.
Then it wasn’t.
Just a blank stretch of wall between the linen closet and my bedroom door.
I reached out, pressing my palm against the paint. Solid. Unbroken. Ordinary.
The house hummed softly around me—the refrigerator downstairs, the faint ticking of the hallway clock. Everything was exactly as it had been.
Except it wasn’t.
Because now I knew.
The walls of this house weren’t limits. They were layers. And somewhere between them were every choice I’d ever made—and every one I still could.
The third stair creaked as I went down.
The afternoon light fell across the living room carpet in its familiar crooked rectangle.
Nothing had changed.
But when I passed the hallway again later that night, I caught myself glancing at the blank wall. Not hoping the door would reappear.
Just knowing that if I ever needed it—it would.
The door appeared on a Tuesday morning. Maya noticed it while waiting for her toast to pop. She has lived in this same house for seventeen years. She knew every crack in the floorboards, every crack in the ceiling, every stubborn cabinet hinge. The kitchen had always been small, just a refrigerator, sink, stove, and a plain stretch of a wall beside the pantry.
Except now there was a door.
It was narrow and painted the same dull white as the wall, as if it had always been there. The handle was brass, slightly tarnished, catching the early morning light. Maya stared at it, toast forgotten.
“That wasn’t there,” Maya whispered.
Her voice sounded small in the kitchen.
She pressed her hand against the wood. It was cool and solid. Real. Her first thought was that her parents had installed it as some sort of renovation. But they would have said something. They always said something about new lightbulbs, about leaky faucets, about anything different.
She knocked.
A hollow echo answered from the other side, distant and strange, as if the sound had traveled farther than the thin door suggested it should. Maya hesitated only a moment before turning the handle.
The air beyond smelled like rain. She stepped through and found herself standing in a long hallway lined with doors identical to the one she had entered. The floor was polished wood, stretching endlessly in both directions, reflecting a ceiling she couldn’t quite see. Behind her, the kitchen was gone. The door she had used now looked just like all the others.
A chill ran down her spine.
“Hello?” She called out.
Her voice drifted down the corridor and vanished. She chose the nearest door and opened it.
Inside was her old bedroom. Not the one she had now, but the room from when she was seven, pale yellow walls, glow in the dark stars on the ceiling, a tiny bed with a crooked blanket. Sunlight slanted through a window that overlooked a backyard swing set long since taken down.
A younger Maya sat on the floor, drawing with crayons. She hummed softly, completely unaware of the visitor. Maya stepped inside. The air felt thick, heavy with the quiet warmth of memory. She watched her younger self struggle to draw a perfect circle, tongue pressed against her lip in fierce concentration. The sight stirred something gentle and aching in her chest.
She reached out, but her hand passed through the scene like mist. The room shimmered, and she found herself back in the hallway. Her heart pounded.
“What is this place?”
She opened another door. A hospital room appeared, stark white, filled with the steady rhythm of beeping machines. Her grandfather lay in the bed, frail but smiling, telling a story she had nearly forgotten.
Another door revealed a classroom where she had once failed a test, the weight of shame pressing down on her shoulders. Another showed a future she had dreamed of, a sunlit studio filled with paintings she had never created. Every door held a moment. A memory. A possibility. A life.
The hallway was endless because her life was endless in its choices, branching and shifting with every step.
Maya walked for what felt like hours, opening doors to laughter, regret, fear, and hope. Some rooms were warm and inviting. Others filled her with a quiet dread she could not explain. Then she noticed one door was different. It was darker than the rest, its surface unpainted, raw wood etched with faint, shirting patterns. The handle was cold as ice.
She knew without understanding how, that this door had never been opened. It waited for her.
Her hand trembled as she reached for the handle.
“What happens if I do?”
No answer came. Slowly, she turned the handle.
Beyond the door was not a room but a vast open space filled with soft, glowing light. It stretched infinitely in every direction, silent and boundless. In the corner stood a single mirror. Maya approached it cautiously. The reflection staring back at her was not quite herself. The figure’s eyes held centuries of weariness and wonder, as if it had lived countless lives.
“You finally came,” the reflection said
Maya stumbled back. “What is this place?”
“This,” said the reflection gently, “is the door to what you choose to become.”
The mirror’s surface rippled, showing versions of her life unfolding in different ways, paths of courage and paths of fear, kindness and cruelty, creation and destruction. Every decision she might make branched outward like an endless constellation.
“The other door,” Maya said slowly, "they're memories.”
“And possibilities,” the reflection replied. “But this one is the only door that matters. The future is not something you find. It is something you open.”
The light grew brighter. “Why me?”
“Because you noticed,” said the reflection. “Most never see the door at all.”
Maya closed her eyes. She thought of her small, ordinary kitchen. Of burnt toast and morning light. Of the quiet, unnoticed moments that built a life piece by piece. When she opened her eyes again, the mirror showed only her, uncertain, flawed, alive. She reached forward. The surface felt like warm water beneath the fingertips.
The toaster popped.
Maya gasped and staggered back into her kitchen. The smell of burnt bread filled the air. The white wall beside the pantry stood bare and empty.
No door.
No handle.
Nothing.
For a long time, she simply stood there, listening to her racing heart. Then she noticed something strange. Her hand still felt warm, as if it held a fading light. She smiled.
The door, she realized, had never truly disappeared. It had only moved, from the wall into her choices, waiting each day for her to open it again.
And this time, she would.

I noticed the door because of the light.
     It slipped through the seams in a thin, steady line, bright enough to catch my eye from across the room. I stopped where I was and stared at the baseboard, certain at first that it was a reflection. Sun off glass, maybe, or a trick of the morning.
But it did not move.
     The door was no wider than four inches, set low into the wall as if it had always belonged there. A knob the size of a marble protruded from one side, dull with age. The wood beneath it was pale and smooth, worn down as though something had passed through the same narrow space again and again.
     I would have sworn it had not been there yesterday. I was in this room every day. I knew the lines of it. I knew where dust gathered and where it did not.
     I moved closer.
     The light leaked from all four edges of the door, faint but unmistakable. I reached toward the knob and tried it. It did not turn. Locked. From the inside.
     I drew back and settled where I was, watching. The thought of forcing it crossed my mind, how easily the thin wood might splinter, but something stopped me. Not fear exactly. Curiosity. Or maybe the sense that breaking it would be a mistake I could not take back.
     I stayed.
     After a while, the light dimmed, then brightened again, like something passing in front of it. I leaned forward without meaning to.
     A phone began ringing somewhere behind me. Sharp. Insistent. It kept ringing. I did not turn around.
     I tore a strip of paper from the edge of an envelope on the table and slid it beneath the door until it caught.
     Time stretched. My legs cramped. The light shifted again, slower this time.
     Something brushed the paper. Not hard enough to tear it, just enough to move it.
     I froze.
     The paper slid back out from beneath the door.
     I stared at it for a long moment before pulling it closer. The edge was uneven, torn by hand. Three words were scrawled in pencil, the letters pressed hard enough to dent the page.
     Is it safe?
     I had assumed whatever was on the other side was dangerous. Trapped? Waiting?
     The question made me wonder if I had gotten it backward.
     I turned the paper over and looked at the blank side. After a moment, I slid it back beneath the door without writing anything.
     It disappeared. The light on the other side dimmed.
     I stayed where I was and watched the door.
     I do not know when sleep took me.
     When I woke, the afternoon light had reshaped the room. The door stood open. The space beyond it was dark, too dark to see into. A musty smell lingered in the air, old and damp, like fabric left too long in a closed place. The paper I had slid beneath it was gone.
     I stayed where I was, listening.
     The house breathed around me. Wood ticking. Pipes settling. Nothing else moved. Whatever had asked the question had already decided.
     I followed the smell until it thinned into the hallway. The dog lay sprawled in the foyer, blocking the doorway with his bulk, fast asleep. His scent flooded everything, warm and familiar, drowning out whatever had drifted from the small door. If there was danger, he did not sense it.
     I returned to the door and nudged it closed. The latch caught softly. I pushed a thick book against it, heavy enough to press flat against the wall, sized just right to block the opening.
Later, after the humans ate and the house settled into its evening rhythm, I came back to check.
     The book had moved. Not far. Just enough.
     The door was closed. In front of it sat a saucer.
     It had not been there before. One of the small ones from the cupboard, set carefully against the wall. On it rested a crumb of something sweet, soft at the edges, broken. Offered.
     I sniffed it.
     Whatever lived behind the door thought I was the dangerous one.
     I curled myself in front of it and kept watch. It seemed only fair.
     It has been a week now. Every day, there is a new offering. A crumb. A corner. Something sweet, carefully placed on the saucer.
     At first, I watched constantly. Then less.
     I began to lose interest.
     The dog never reacted. Never growled. Never paused at the doorway. He slept. He ate. He slept again. If there was danger, he did not sense it. And if he did not, perhaps there was none.
Or perhaps he simply did not care.
     I caught my reflection in the window as the sun went down, my eyes bright against the glass. I licked and smoothed my fur, precise and unhurried.
     Maybe it was time to go back to myself.
     Still, I did not move the book. Whatever was behind the door should remain afraid.
After all, I am a cat.
At what age do we stop thinking about ourselves as “old enough to . . . “ and merely as “old”? It seems like only yesterday that I was old enough to learn to drive, old enough to get married, old enough to retire, and old enough to qualify for Medicare. Aging provides opportunities that are not available for those who are younger, but also additional responsibilities and expectations. As we age, we’re expected to obey rules of the road, understand the ever-changing income tax rules, and follow unwritten rules of aging. Though some in our age group appear to struggle with the passage of time and continue to look for the mysterious fountain of youth, most of us enter our golden years with a resolute desire to age gracefully. Admittedly, we’re surprised by all that is involved in the concept of “acting our age”.
In some civilizations, those who have reached old age are held in high esteem, while other civilizations merely require the aged to be swept along with new ideas and technological advances that were never dreamed of when they were young. Though apprehensive about trusting the internet, out of a desire to remain informed about our children and grandchildren, we found ourselves connected to our friends on Facebook, participating in group conversations though GroupMe, and buying and selling items though Marketplace and Ebay. While struggling to maintain a reasonable balance between the old and new, my husband of fifty-five years and I joined the ranks of those with more modern attitudes and gadgets. while maintaining reasonable life expectations and conservative Christian beliefs and values, that seem so foreign to today’s generation, we settled into a comfortable life. While still trying to remain physically active, stay involved in our local church, maintain our mental agility, and dapple with new-fangled gadgets, we realize that we do so at a slower pace than earlier in our lives.
We are determined to maintain our dignity and refuse to shuffle and toddle around aimlessly in Walmart stores, wearing our pajama pants, and we resent being called “cute” when we hold hands while crossing the parking lots of our favorite stores. Being realists, we do know that we have lost much of our earlier physical stability and some of our memory. We have resorted to using very stable step stools instead of climbing onto kitchen chairs, and set timers when we put food in the oven instead of trusting our memory. When our grown children began repeatedly expressing concern about our ability to maintain our home and live independently, we reluctantly decided to move into a smaller residence where we could receive assistance if necessary.
Though I know I occasionally have forgotten names and where I placed my car keys, I still consider myself to be mentally alert and aware. That’s why I was caught by surprise when a door, that had apparently been hidden by our large china closet when we sold our heavy wooden dining room set, was revealed. We were newly married when we bought the dining room set, and I am sure that we would have never covered a closet door with furniture, because we were always in need of extra storage space. Obviously, my husband did not know the door was behind the cabinet either, because we were both surprised by its presence. The young couple who bought the “vintage” solid wood furniture seemed very cavalier about the door, so neither my husband nor I expressed our surprise.
After the furniture was loaded into the truck parked in our driveway and we said goodbye to the couple who got a great deal on some lovely furniture, we reentered our home and approached the door. Though I had hesitations about doing so, my husband immediately tried to open the door. I was relieved when he discovered that the door was locked and would not open. I imagined, after all the years of neglect, that any space behind the door would be filled with rodents, spiders, or snakes. I convinced my husband that we should be well armed with stiff brooms or a shot gun if we decided to jimmy the lock and open the door.
While my husband fell asleep quickly that night, my thoughts were filled with creepy crawlies and dusty cobwebs. When I eventually fell asleep, by dreams were filled with keys, hidden treasures, and unusual creatures.
When we woke the next morning and began our morning routine, we did not expect to find an eerie glow from the base of the locked door, but our plans for the day were changed by the find. The doorway immediately became less worldly and more mysterious and ominous. Being a ravenous reader, I imagined a doorway into C.S. Lewis’ Narnia or a passage into H.G. Wells’ Time Machine. My husband, who was always more scientific minded and more realistic, tried to develop reasonable theories for the light behind the doorway and kept touching the doorknob to make sure the light was not produced by a fire. The doorway was on a indoor wall, and the chances of it leading anywhere other than to supportive wall beams were slim and stretched our imaginations. Leaving the door locked and closed and blocking the light with a rolled-up towel seemed to be the best option until we decided how to handle this dilemma.
My husband and I frequently make life-changing decisions while on a car ride or on a walk in the park, so we decided to drive to a local park and use a walking path while we considered our options. We did not consider getting anyone else’s opinion because we feared being viewed as old and senile by anyone in our small circle of friends and by our own children. Their concern about our “independent living” sealed our decision to keep our find a secret. We decided on a reasonable solution of opening the door, while being prepared to tackle whatever was behind the door. No key could be found that fit the lock so we began to research “how to pick a lock” on YouTube.
After watching multiple videos, we decided to pick the lock. Giggling like little kids, we searched our tool box for the necessary tools to unlock the door. To our amazement, the age of the door worked to our advantage, and the lock was released with relative ease. When we realized the doorknob now turned, we needed to prepare for the mysterious door opening and quickly put our tools away and placed the towel back on the bathroom shelf. With great anticipation, we decided to dress for any unusual circumstances. Boots to protect our feet from fleeing critters seemed reasonable, as did gloves, coats, and beanies to protect ourselves from drafts. I slipped a container of dog spray, that the kids had given me to carry on my walks into my pocket, and my husband slipped a pocket knife into his. We both glanced around our home to make sure everything was in order . . . just in case. We kissed and hugged each other, held hands, flung the door open, and stepped into the light.
As a counselor, grieving is something that I have studied and learned to understand. I was trained to help others walk through the grieving process and can easily recognize the steps of grief, including denial, anger, and acceptance, when others are experiencing loss. I was unprepared, however, for my own heart-wrenching feelings of anger when they became a part of my everyday life. I could draw no connection between knowing and experiencing. Everyone from my trusted doctor to my own children became suspect and experienced my angst.
Though I had always been a social, fun-loving person, over the next few months I became withdrawn and reclusive. Though others were simply trying to be helpful and supportive, I found their invitations and contacts to be troublesome and intrusive. To maintain my solitude, I made a decision to make my house appear unoccupied by keeping the lights off and the curtains drawn. This helped to keep visitors at bay and allowed me to wallow in my grief. I began to order all of my groceries and other necessities on-line, and I only left my house to gather deliveries from my front porch and mail from my mailbox after the neighbors were inside for the night.
Though never a meticulous housekeeper, I began attacking my home by cleaning with a vengeance. Boxes of items that used to bring me joy, including kits to make crafts, puzzles, and decorations for the house, were piled around the house. I had no idea what to do with the “stuff”; I simply did not want to tempt myself to fill the empty spots in my life with anything but darkness and solitude.
While engaged in this cleaning frenzy and vacuuming the corner of the large walk-in closet in our bedroom, the hollow clunk sound in the rear of the space gave me pause. When we moved into our home, ten years earlier, we had repainted the closet and claimed the space for our clothing and boxes of personal keepsakes. Though the closet door was opened frequently, the closet was rarely reorganized and had never been re-emptied. If something was behind the wall of this closet, it had never been explored. My brightest flashlight showed a thin line around a small entryway. Our previous home had nooks built into the eaves of our second floor, but our single floor home would have no such storage space. I ignored the spark of curiosity that the finding created, slammed the closet door closed and left the room.
That night my dreams were filled with dancing and laughter. I woke with a start, only to discover that nothing had changed. I resented the fact that my mind could travel back to a better time, when now my future was only filled with loneliness and tears. I stumbled my way through breakfast and an evening meal, only to end the day sitting in recliner chair my weeping over all I had lost.
The next morning, the hidey-hole in the closet kept creeping into my mind though I tied to ignore its pull on my curiosity. Finally, armed with a large screw driver, I sat on the floor and tried to pry the wood away from what, I imagined to be a small storage area. My inability to budge the panel, resulted in another flood of tears and sent me back to the comfort of my bed. Though not intending to nap, exhaustion won. I was soon surrounded by dreams of diaries, photo albums, small keep-sakes, and ribbon-wrapped letters. I imagined long-kept love letters filled with secrets only the young can enjoy, trinkets from carnivals and parades, photos of family members from past generations, and pages full of hopes and dreams.
When I woke, feeling unusually rested, I again tried to pry off the panel. Having only gained a splinter, I sat back. Determined to un-mine the secrets hidden behind the stubborn door, I ran into a utility room and found a hammer. I was prepared to knock a hole in the wall large enough to reach any hidden treasures. Because of the limited space in the closet, I had to maneuver my body into an awkward position to ready myself to swing the heavy hammer. To my frustration, an unseen hand seemed to stop each of my meager swings, and finally I dropped the hammer onto the floor.
I rested my head against the wall and shouted my frustrations inside the empty closet. When my anger was spent, I slowly began to realize that my unusual dream of hidden treasures was not filled with some unknown previous owners’ items, but with my personal keepsakes from times gone by. My future could be spent trying to relive the past or I could move forward with hopes for tomorrow and dreams yet unfulfilled. I backed from the closet and stacked my collection of filled boxes into the empty closet space.
I plugged in my long-dead cell phone and waited for my list of contacts to appear. I quickly scanned the alphabetical listing of family members and friends, who I’d avoided for too long, took a cleansing breath, and chose to reconnect.
(Note: This story is based on the lore derived from the Lovecraftian, spinoff novel known as “The King in Yellow.” If you have not read this book, I highly recommend doing so in order to fully understand the totality of the cosmic horrors you are about to review. However, if for whatever reason you decide not to read that collection of stories, then fear not. You can rest assured that this story does not have a happy ending.)

“O’er the mountains and past the skies,
Where souls sing gayly before they die,
I shall see you there, in the by and by,
Along the shores of great Carcosa…”
Excerpt: Act II, Scene 1 – “The King in Yellow”

‘Don’t open the door.’
It was a simple instruction, yet one I somehow failed to follow. Left in a letter that appeared on my dining room table, I noticed it the same night we returned home from the grand play, the name of which I shall never speak of again. My wife, my darling Crystal, thought nothing of it. After all, she’d fallen asleep halfway through the first act and didn’t stir until well after the curtain’s call; saved from insanity by little more than a mid-afternoon nap and dumb luck.
But not I.
No, I had watched with great delight as the singers sang and the dancers danced; as the crowd moved and swayed, guided along by spectral actors who spoke with all the elegance of a band of sirens. I had followed their every move, and I had listened to their every word. And when we had returned home, it was none other than I who found that accursed letter.
‘Don’t open the door.’
It seemed silly at first. After all, what door in my own house had I not opened at least a dozen times before? Perhaps even hundreds. But as my darling Crystal slipped away into slumber, I soon found what someone else was trying to warn me of. There, standing tall and proud in the center of my study, was a great oak door; trimmed with alabaster and gilded with the finest of gold. In all my awe and wonder, I went to speak, but no words ever came out. I went to move, but my feet stood firm.
THROUGH THIS DOOR LIES HEAVEN AND HELL
THROUGH THIS DOOR LIES THE GREAT CARCOSA
It was printed above the mantel; chiseled in by ethereal hands that words could never hope to describe. And in that moment, I knew the stories were true! I knew that the songs sung and the dances danced were more than just the amalgamation of some great imagining. They were directions! Prophecies of all that was and all that was to be!
They were, or so I thought, the proclamations of that great and mighty king – the giver of knowledge and the deliverer of madness.
‘Don’t open the door,’ the letter read. But open the door, I did.
And oh, how I wish I hadn’t…
Stepping through life and into eternity, I felt an icy wind against my face as all that I ever knew fell away from existence. My body, my very being, was made new in an instant; my soul transformed, violently freed from its mortal bondage and left to wander aimlessly through a void and cold abyss. For what I can only describe as a lifetime, I fell into that great nothingness, and in what felt like a sliver of a second, I found myself standing along that distant shore.
Silent, I stood there frozen, watching as the twin suns were swallowed up behind the crystal sea.
Silent, I stood there frozen, surrounded by countless others watching through gilded masks.
And when that great sea opened up, and the moon erupted in the sky, I saw him for the first time.
Clothed in darkness and bathed in starlight, he sat before us atop a golden throne; his great, white eyes piercing through me like a thousand spears. I knew in that moment that I was ruined! That my curiosity had led me to my own demise! Terrified, I went to run, but no matter which direction I turned, there he was. Watching and waiting; peering into my soul while speaking to me of all the truths that no man should ever understand.
I ran for what felt like ages! Begging for deliverance! Pleading for mercy! But no matter how far I ran, I could never escape his gaze. And as moments turned into hours, and hours into eons, eventually, I quit running altogether.
“Through my door, lies heaven and hell,” he chanted.
“And in my presence, forever dwell.
Minds made one as souls converge,
Feeding your King with a carnal urge…
…Forever mine in Carcosa…”
And so, here I am, one with the masses of imbeciles. A loving husband turned forgotten remnant, all because I could not heed the instructions of a simple letter. It’s been nearly four thousand years since that dreadful day; a mere drop in the oceans of eternity. And in those millennia, I’ve stood here along the same crystal shores as when I first arrived, shoulder to shoulder with the other countless fools, each of them ignorant in their own, pitiful way. Every day, from sun-birth to sun-death, we stare at him – devoting our existence to little more than honoring his own self-indulgence. And every day, I wish I could send a warning to myself; a letter back in time to the old me, beckoning that foolish man not to come near this place.
I would tell him, ‘Don’t open the door.’
Lying in bed, thinking about the disease she was fighting, remembering her mother and her battle with the same disease, Liza felt tired. Tired of feeling wiped out, tired of being misunderstood, of fighting to find words that refused to come; tired of people looking at her as if to say, “We understand. You’re just confused.” She looked back longingly at the life she had before – being outside in her garden, traveling, being part of community events. It seemed so long ago. Had her mother felt the same way? Alone? Alienated? Forgotten?
Marcie came in to check on her. Marcie was as good a care-giver as you would ever want to have. Liza knew this, but she had given up on trying to tell her that; like with anything else, the words she wanted to say got lost before they could come out of her mouth and what came out was nonsense, not at all what she had meant to say. She did not say anything, but hoped her smile would tell Marcie what her words refused to. This seemed to work as Marcie said, “Good. It looks like you are ready for a nap. When you wake up, I’ll have lunch ready for you.” She left the room and Liza was once again alone with her thoughts.
Liza really was tired and felt very much like taking a nap. She was just close to going to sleep when there was a noise – was it a noise? It was something, but Liza couldn’t put a name to it. But it did need to be investigated. No need to try to call Marcie – the words she would need wouldn’t come and it would just alarm her. Liza decided to check on the disturbance herself. Mobility was not a problem for her – just communication. So she got up from the bed and went toward the bedroom closet from where the “disturbance” seemed to have come. And there she saw something she totally had not expected to see.
She and her husband had designed the house 60 years ago. It was built from drawings Liza had set down on graph paper. When the construction was going on, they had discussed putting a door in the closet which would go to the stair landing on the other side of the wall and thence to the utility room: a way for him to come in from the field to their bedroom without going through the living room where company might be sitting with Liza. They had DISCUSSED the door, but never BUILT the door . . . or had they? Liza knew her memory was NOT what it used to be at all, but she just could not remember there being a door there. But today . . . here she stood looking right at it . . . right where they had proposed putting it!
Liza approached the door cautiously, expecting it to disappear any second, a figment of her diseased mind. But it was there, and solid when she reached it. To open it? How could she open something that wasn't there? But it WAS there and something inside her said, "It is there for you. Open it!" She touched the knob. It was neither warm nor cold, just there. She turned it and pulled ...
A bright light met her eyes, a total surprise after the semi-darkness of the closet. There should not have been light there - she should have been on the landing at the top of the back stair leading to the basement. But this was definitely no stair landing she had ever experienced! It felt . . . safe? Inviting? As though someone or something was calling her to come through it.
A voice inside her head said, "No, stupid! Never, but NEVER, walk through a door that isn't supposed to be there into a space you really can't identify.” Lewis Carroll’s Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland came unbidden into her mind. What if ..." But the "What Ifs" had already surfaced in her mind: what if she fell into, . . . into what? Into nothing? Where would she land? Would she die with that landing? Was something waiting for her just inside the light, something deadly or, at the least, frightening? But a feeling inside her contradicted the voice. The light was not threatening, it was just there; she could turn around and walk away. But she still didn't move. The door had appeared for her - she was beginning to feel that, and it gave her confidence. She stepped forward, into the light . . .
Nothing happened . . . Well, nothing bad anyway, because something did happen: she felt warm and – what a strange thought – safe; as though, given a choice, she had stepped onto the right path She thought of the movie she had seen where the hero woke up in a white "room" and things magically appeared as he thought of them. But nothing was appearing here; no one was walking out of the mist to meet her. She knew where the door was and felt she could turn back to it if she wanted to. But she wanted to know why she was here - for there had to be a purpose. She was convinced the door had not appeared for no good reason.
She moved forward (she assumed it was forward, for she could not see anything except the misty light) and felt no change. Another step, and another. Had the light around her changed? A subtle change in color? Density? Something. A sound (for lack of a better term) came . . . Unidentifiable . . . As had been the “sound” that first brought her to the closet. Step. Step. Step. Then, unmistakable (“and impossible” said the voice in her head), her mother’s “voice” – words as though from a long time ago but with a message obviously meant for her today.
“Liza, you are so like me in many ways: in love for our husbands, our children, our friends and family, but one thing we do not share. This battle you are fighting is not the battle I fought. You can WIN your battle. Something inside you does not belong there, but unless it is removed, you will lose your battle.”
Liza peered hard into the light, but no form was there, no entity source for what she had “heard” in her mind. She felt drawn back through the light, back toward the door. But she didn’t want to go – wanted to talk to her mother. How she had longed for that opportunity from the time her mother got sick, through all the bad years and her death. “I want to stay!” She heard the words come out of her mouth, but they sounded thunderously loud in the misty light. And she knew immediately a comforting image of her mother saying, “No. Go back. Fight.” And a feeling of peace came over her like nothing she had experienced since her battle had begun; serenity engulfed her as she found herself at the closet door, and she knew her way lay on the other side of it.
When Marcie came in to check on her, Liza was not asleep, but not totally awake either. Groggily she seemed to physically struggle to form three words: “Check brain scans” then she lay back on her pillow as though exhausted. Marcie was shocked at the coherency of the words and then alarmed at their implications. She called Liza’s son, related what had happened and they got the wheels moving. Soon Liza was heading for the hospital and further tests and scans, though the doctor felt skeptical about the outcome.
A month later – after surgery to remove a small, hidden, slow-growing brain tumor – Liza was home, working with a speech therapist, when Marcie came to the house. Liza welcomed her enthusiastically, saying slowly, but distinctly, “I . . . love . . . you!!!”
A miracle? Yes. Definitely.
A lucky trick of the imagination – the doctor’s “diagnosis.”
But Liza believes – KNOWS, actually – what really happened on the other side of that impossible door and knows a warm feeling inside whenever she thinks about it.
Thunder shook the dark, immediately after the lightning bolt struck the large oak and caused it to crash into the house. Tess awoke in a panic-induced terror, frightened not only by the noise but the actual movement of the house. Indeed, the house let out a series of groans as the tree continued to slowly settle into its framework. It did not take long for Tess to figure out the source of the clamor. The tree had also taken the power and so the house was completely black. Tess blindly searched the nightstand for her phone. Thankfully it was still by the bedside, and it lit up with a soft glow once she touched it. She turned on the flashlight feature and scanned her bedroom. Everything seemed in order other than a perfume bottle and necklace tree that were obviously knocked over by the violence of the impact. Tess cautiously walked into the hallway. Curiously, her light reflected off of millions of dust particles set free by the impact of the crash. Still, she could not determine the point of impact. Just as she passed the door across the hall from her bedroom, Tess noticed something that had not been there before. Cracks in the plaster formed a perfect rectangle in what appeared to be an old door frame.
The next day, Tess arose early after a sleepless night. The sunlight revealed far greater damage than she realized in the darkness of the night. Her living room and dining room along with her front porch were completely destroyed. Apparently, much of the town had been damaged by the storm and a flurry of insurance adjusters were already onsite snapping pictures and directing the efforts of a clean up crew summoned early that morning. Tess wished for a cup of coffee and was returning to her room when, again, she saw the cracks etched in the plaster that appeared during the storm. She made a mental note to tell the adjuster to include the plaster repair of this space in their quote.
Chester Jenkins had been practicing carpentry in the community and countryside for many years, first at the side of his father as a young boy, and since, as a respected carpenter. He liked the insurance remediation business. It wasn’t steady but it paid well and the customers were usually extremely grateful. He was assessing the damage to Tess’s house. Chester had looked forward to this assignment as Tess’s house was actually the old Clifton Home which had been standing long before Chester was born. Chester had never been inside the Clifton Home but now, here he was about to be, in what was left of it. He knocked and Tess quickly opened the door. After some brief introductions and Chester explaining the process, Tess directed him down an adjoining hallway to the mysterious rectangular crack. “This needs to be repaired too. What do you think it is?” Chester replied, “Looks to be some kind of door frame. Height is about right but it sure is narrow.” Chester took out his pocketknife and began to explore the crack. After a moment, Chester backed up and looked at Tess saying “Well that’s really odd. Can you see that?”
Using a bright penlight, Chester and Tess explored the crack and made a startling discovery. The crack hid some kind of passage. Mr. Jenkins pointed at the baseboard below noting that a piece had been fitted to the exact size of the rectangular crack above it. Tess had never noticed.
Tess could barely contain the excitement of her curiosity. Her mind was already reeling with ideas to turn this new space, with the guest bathroom and bedroom on either side, into a master suite. Knowing the enormity of the Clifton Home storm repairs, Chester sighed “Time to get to business.” Tess lightly tapped Chesters’s wrist saying, “Mr. Jenkins, if you don’t mind, I’d like for you to start here.” Chester replied, “Well now, seeing your paper coffee cup makes me think your first priority is getting that kitchen back together.” Tess shrugged saying “I can make coffee anywhere in the house. I’ve got hot water for showers and three great restaurants I can walk to. Chester pursed his lips with subtle, approving smile. He was secretly excited over his new priority.
Tess and her husband bought the Clifton Home with the idea of getting out of Carbondale and slowing down. It was his idea, but Tess had doubts. Their marriage lasted ten weeks when one day, Tess awoke and he was gone. His closet and drawers were empty. She dialed his phone, but the number was no longer in service. There she was, in an old house, in a small town in the middle of nowhere, shattered and alone. Tess, a recently trained physician, had signed a contract with an area hospital to open a family practice clinic. It was the town’s first clinic in 7 years! The town folk adored her. And she had grown to love the town…especially Clifton Home. Gradually, the complete finality of Tess’s husband’s departure and the medical practice refocused her thinking. She would make the best of it.
Chester had spent a day mulling over the best to approach for the demolition of the door frame. He arrived the next day and managed to remove small chunks of the plaster patching of what was, indeed, a door frame. Tess spent the first night of demolition peering through those small holes into the dark room, unable to look away. It was not a passage. It was a tiny room. She could only see a built-in cupboard and some drawers on the left. Mr. Jenkins had explained he would have the wall down the next day.
When Tess came home, she was surprised to see Mr. Jenkins’ truck. He was usually long-gone by the time she came home. Tess walked into the house and Chester immediately said, “You won’t believe it." Tess’s pace quickened as she walked down the hallway. She turned, facing the freshly exposed entrance. On the wall opposite was a portrait of a striking, young woman. It hung in a substantial frame, and the artist was obviously skilled. On the right side was a small desk, barely large enough to hold a carving platter. On the desktop was some kind of jewelry box. Over the desk was a large, framed mirror. Tess turned her attention to the cupboard behind her. Hanging inside was a garment box. Tess took down the box and found it was protecting a wedding dress. The drawers contained an assortment of items. Coins from the turn of the century, a thimble, a pocket size book of Proverbs and a tiny, jeweled watch. There were also some brightly covered feathers, a scarf and oddly, an ornate and hefty chessman piece. It was the queen and it appeared to have been carved from ivory. Tess turned back to the small table and peered at the jewelry box. She slowly opened it and discovered a beautiful wedding ring and a folded piece of paper. She unfolded the paper and read the script. “To whomever has ventured here, this room is about the love of my life, Moira. God took her too soon from me. I built this room to keep her memory… the only thing that I have left of her. If you please, seal it back, if possible”. It was signed, Thaddeus Clifton.
Tess’s eyes became watery. She instantly felt guilty for her invasion and her selfish ambitions to modernize the Clifton Home using Moira’s space. She empathized with Thaddeus’ emptiness and loneliness. Though their emptiness was caused by two different circumstances, their loneliness was nonetheless tragic. There was nothing left of her former husband’s possessions, or the love they once shared. But there was a part of her that wondered how different her loneliness would feel if it was accompanied by a forever-longing. She pressed the chess piece close to her and quietly whispered, “Moira, this will remind me of the remarkable love that once filled this home.” Mr. Jenkins heard Tess’s remarks.
Tess snapped a picture of the note with her phone before folding it up and returning it to the box. She took a picture of the three walls as well. She simply turned to Chester uttering a hushed sigh. He nodded and said, “I hope it was okay. I read the note before you got home. I can fix this back, good as new.”
*****
Three days later, Chester waited on Tess to return home. Curious, Tess asked if he had found another surprise. Chester remarked “No, but I made something for you.” He showed her the finished wall which now featured a small alcove about five feet above the floor. “It’s for the queen to watch over the place. I can easily fill it if you want.” Tess’s lips quivered before she remarked, “No, it the perfect spot for the Queen and her secrets.”
The Crack was there again. By now it was becoming more of an annoyance than a threat. “This old house has held up its fair share of storms,” Papa said the last time I mentioned it. “That little crack won’t make any more of a difference.” He had seen the wrong crack though, the little one trailing up the wall in the corner. The one I saw was much bigger.
“Evaline, perhaps you should focus more on your piano lessons than the state of the walls,” Mama had scolded when I mentioned the crack to her. She didn’t look at house walls anymore, not since the pictures had been sold and the paint had started peeling, probably even before that.
“But it’s getting bigger!” I protested. “Can’t you see it? It’s covering half the wall now!” A large, jagged crack stretched across the center of the music room. It changed daily, something I knew normal cracks didn’t do. Some days it was small, barely noticeable unless you were looking directly at it. On days like today it was wide enough to fit my hand through.
Mama’s eyes narrowed. “The only thing I see is you not getting into St. Clare’s Academy if you don’t get back to practicing.”
“But I don’t want to go to St. Clares!” Unfortunately, I had no choice in the matter. From the moment I turned thirteen, Mama had started filling out forms, securing interviews, and calling in favors from her old society friends to send me to some pompous finishing school. That was the life of a ‘proper’ young lady. Raising my chin high, I met her gaze. “Please, Mama. I want to –”
“You’re going, and that’s final!” She pointed a sharpened finger at me. “You’re leaving here in three weeks whether you like it or not, so I suggest you make your peace with it.”
“But Mama –”
With one swift movement, Mama slammed her musical playbook onto the piano stand, the pages crumpled from her tight grip. “Now get back to work. Until you can play ‘Harps and Harmonies’ without mistakes, you are not to leave this room. No dinner, no sleeping, and if I catch you trying to sneak outside again, I’m tying you to the bench!”
She would too, and she had before. I glanced at the window, wondering if I could use my long dress as a rope to climb down onto the first story railing – or hang myself.
“You’ll thank me for this one day,” Mama said, walking towards the door. “When I was your age, if I had half the opportunities you’ve been given –”
“Then you wouldn’t be stuck with me and Papa inside the house all day. I know, Mama! I know!”
She made it no secret that she hated her life. She hated Papa for making her move away from the city. She hated the crumbling house and the textile factory that we lived beside. But most of all, she hated me…because I had stolen her beauty. I had turned her beautiful blonde hair gray, stretched wrinkles around her face, and strained her beautiful voice beyond anything considered sweet. She’d always wanted to be a dancer, she told me once. And if I hadn’t taken her health by being born, then she might have been one. After fourteen years, she could finally have her revenge.
Mama’s reply was a quiet scoff. “The things I do, I do for love,” she said stiffly, her shoulders sagging. “One day you’ll look back on this and be glad for it. Now get to practicing!” Without a further word, she closed the door. The lock clicked into place, trapping me inside.
A thousand ungodly sounds broke through the air as my elbows slammed onto the piano keys. Love? Love! How could anything from that woman come from love? How could forcing me out of my home and subjecting me to a heinous lifestyle of manners and protocols have anything to do with love? Oh, how I wished I could have been born a boy! How I wished I could’ve been born ugly or crippled or anything but the spitting image of my mother!
My fists beat the piano in a furious rhythm, sending broken notes and strained melodies into the room. Mama wanted a song? I would give her a whole orchestra of just what her love meant to me!
Louder and louder, I played, composing my song of rage until the piano began to shake and the keys began to break. Any moment now, Mama would unlock the door to punish me. And when she did, I would seize my chance and flee. I would run past her and out the door, never to see her or anyone in this house again –
CRACK!
The room shook violently, the stool I sat on knocked out from under me. An earthquake? We’d never had one here before, and certainly not one this powerful. How –
To my right, the wall began to shake, the large crack upon it doubling in size. It split vertically, growing wider and wider with every shake of the room.
“Mama!” I shouted, running over to the door. I tried the doorknob, forgetting that she had locked it. “Mama, please! Help me –”
The shaking stopped just as suddenly. I expected to find the room in shatters, but the only damage was to the back wall, now a mess of web-like cracks and crevices. And right down the middle…was a door. A very thin, wooden door with a bent brass handle and writing etched at the top.
The Door of Opportunity
Opportunity? If I hadn’t been terrified only moments before, I would have laughed at the irony. What sort of trick was this? And what did it mean? And the cracks – had this door been in the cracks the entire time? Why was it just appearing now?
Thump. Thump. Thump.
I turned around, expecting Mama at the entrance door, but the knock didn’t come from there. Someone…or something was knocking on The Door of Opportunity.
Thump. Thump. Thump.
My feet began to tiptoe across the dusty floor, moving toward the splintered wall. What in the world could be on the other side? If it was from our world…
“Eva? Evaline, are you alright?”
Mama’s voice called from the entrance door. I heard the lock click, but the door didn’t open. Mama pounded on it from the other side. “Evaline, open this door!”
My left foot swung around to step towards her…then stopped. I had a strange feeling that if I did let her in then The Door of Opportunity would disappear, maybe forever. Did I want that?
Thump. Thump. Thump.
The knock was more urgent this time. I took two steps towards it.
“Evaline, you open this door right now!”
There was fear in Mama’s voice. She had never been scared before. I’d watched the woman stare down a bear that had once wandered onto our property without even blinking. After one look from Mama, the bear had taken off running. So why was she scared now? Maybe I should –
Thump. Thump. Thump.
My hand reached out, my fingers only inches away from the bent, brass doorknob. It would be so simple to just turn the knob and look inside. For years I’d wondered what the strange cracks on the wall had meant and why I was the only one who could see them. Could this door be the answer? What if it led to another world? Or another time! There were so many possibilities!
What if it was just a closet?
What if the knocking sound was only a trapped rat desperate to escape? Maybe the door wasn’t even there. After all, Mama and Papa never could see the cracks. And if they couldn’t see them, did that mean they didn’t exist? What if there was nothing behind the door?
Thump. Thump. Thump.
“Evaline, please open this door! I’m sorry for what I said, I –”
At that, I did laugh. She was sorry? It was her fault I was locked in here in the first place! She wanted me to go; she wanted me to have ‘a life of opportunities.’ Maybe now she could finally have what she wanted. What was that saying Papa always told me? “When one door closes, another one always opens…”
“Evaline!”
Evaline…
Opportunity was calling me. I didn’t know what it was or what was behind it, but I owed it to myself to find out. I wanted to find out. Maybe Mama was right. Maybe I would look back on this one day and be glad it happened.
Thump. Thump. Thump.
I took one last long look at the music room, staring at the peeling paint, the crumbling walls, and the half-tuned piano. I wondered…had the room always looked this shabby? Or was I just now seeing it clearly for the first time? Shrugging, I reached forward and opened the door.
The scarf I wanted was just out of reach at the top of the closet. I stretched as far as I could. “If I could just touch it…” I muttered. “Almost got it… There!” I yanked one of the scarf’s fringe tassels, and the scarf, several sweaters, an old box of photos, and at least an inch of dust cascaded on my head. Still clutching the prized scarf, I knelt to pick up the fallen sweaters and pictures, childhood memories scattered on the closet floor like cobblestones. I spied another picture under the hanging clothes and reached for it when my hand brushed rough wood. “Ouch!” A splinter stabbed my finger. Where did that come from? I pushed the clothes aside, and there was a door that wasn’t there before! The thick wooden beams of the doorposts looked old, and the simple wooden door with a leather latch looked so ridiculously out of place in my closet I would have laughed if it not been so shocking. I couldn’t help myself, though, as curiosity got the better of me—I fingered the worn latch and wondered what was beyond the archaic door.
Suddenly, I knew I had to find out. I took a breath and pulled open the door. I couldn’t see anything at first as I stepped through the mysterious doorway, but a warm breeze caressed my cheeks. I tripped over a raised threshold and tumbled onto a hard beaten path. It was more like an alley or street, but not like any I’d ever been on. Where am I? My scarf snagged on the wood of the door, so I left it there. I’ll know where the door is later this way. Both flat and thatch roofs lined the path, and I could smell fish and fresh bread wafting on the breeze. Yet, the ancient city street was deserted, or so I thought. I could hear a crowd coming, but I couldn’t really tell if it was friendly or a mob. My courage failed, and all of the sudden, I didn’t want to find out what the group was like. I whirled back to lunge through the door behind me, but it was gone! Not a sign of either the door or my scarf! Panic welled up in my chest. I leaned against the rough stone brick wall and tried to breathe.
That’s when I heard the whispering. It was an indistinguishable sound at first then somewhat recognizable. “…just touch… be… If I just touch… be… If I just touch his clothes, I’ll be well...” The wind carried the woman’s wispy voice away as the noise of the approaching crowd grew louder. Then I saw her. She was pale, weak, and trembling, bundled in too many clothes, a thin, frail woman. She crouched in a doorway near me, waiting. She clutched a cane in her shaking hands, repeating the sentence to herself over and over. I could tell she was very sick, so why wasn’t she resting in bed?
People began to fill the street, the excitement palpable in their shouting, incoherent noise reverberating against the archaic buildings. Above the clamor I could hear the strong voices of men ring out “Keep back!” “Don’t touch him!” “Let the Teacher through!” Could this be? Surely not! But then, what if it is? I saw movement out of the corner of my eye, and the woman stood up slowly. She leaned heavily on her cane as she shuffled into the crowd. I jumped forward to follow her She’ll be trampled to death! I watched in amazement as one by one the crowd moved aside just enough to let her pass by without touching her. She kept whispering to herself, her eyes fixed on where she wanted to go. The crowd was thick and jostling, shouting and calling to one another. The nearer we got to the heart of the crowd, the more the people pressed together. “Teacher!” they called. Questions, requests, rebukes, concerns, jeers, praises all mingled together. I could see the woman’s lips moving constantly as she navigated the mob.
I know who she is. I knew where she was going, too. I fought the crowd to keep her in sight. It was slow progress as we moved diagonally toward the heart of the group. I noticed the tumult started to shift beyond us, away from us, and with a sinking feeling I knew we would miss the goal. She knew it too, and began to turn with the crowd instead of against it. She would come up from behind. No one would probably even notice her. What was one more hand reaching out in this massive crowd? She was determined. Her eyes were set like stone.
There! Just up ahead, I could see a glimpse of a robe, a tassel of a shawl, the heels of sandaled feet flashed out to us from the jostling press. His progress was slow, too, in the mass of people. She was almost there, if she could just reach out… He paused ever so slightly. I saw her summon all her strength, drop her cane, and stretch out one trembling hand. Just one touch… There were no fireworks or booming thunder or even goosebumps. But she knew. And I knew. When she stood upright, I knew she was well. Her color was better instantly, and she no longer trembled. She turned quickly to leave when we heard, “Who touched Me?” She froze. Those closest to Him replied, “You see the crowd pressing against You and You say ‘Who touched Me?’” He insisted, “Someone touched Me because I know that power left Me.” A well-to-do man I hadn’t noticed before stood next to Him and looked impatiently down the road.
He scanned the crowd, and I knew He was searching for her. The look in His eye was so compassionate, so compelling. I saw her slouching in the crowd, her back to Him, scared and shaking. I wanted to call out to her to tell her not to be afraid, that it was alright, but the words caught in my throat. Her shoulders shook, and I realized she was sobbing. Without a word, she turned toward Him with her head bowed. She was shaking like a leaf and sinking in fear.
She fell down before Him and her whole story gushed out. The crowd grew quiet. She had been sick for twelve long years, and although she had spent every last penny she had on doctors and cures, nothing had helped. Now she had nothing and no one. Then she had heard that He could heal the sick, so she decided that if she could just get to Him, just one little touch would be all she needed to be well. He listened patiently to her as if she were the only person in the whole world.
I watched the man beside them try to hide his frustration as her story unfolded longer and longer. He was desperate to go on down the road, but they did not move. The woman fell silent, waiting for Him to speak. When He spoke, He was so tender, so kind. It wasn’t a rebuke at all, but in the most loving tone, He simply said, “Daughter.” He said it like you would to a most beloved child. The man beside Him caught his breath at the word, and his fury melted into compassion. “Your faith has made you well.” She dared to look up, and He smiled at her. “Go in peace, and be healed of your affliction.” Then she smiled back at Him, new hope dawning in her eyes. Thankfulness poured out of her as she rose, and the crowd cheered.
Another man entered the crowd and spoke to the well-dressed man, “Your daughter is dead. Do not trouble the Teacher.” Before the rich man could respond, the Teacher spoke instead, “Fear not. Only believe.” The man nodded his agreement, now unwilling to speak, and the crowd continued down the street.
The woman and I smiled at each other, and she turned to go. I knew she was going to be alright. She was finally going home. I wanted to go home, too, but where was my door? When I turned around, it was right there! I picked up my scarf and opened the door. I could keep following the crowd. I shook my head and stepped back into my own closet. There were still pictures on the floor and dust everywhere. Yet when I turned back to touch the ancient door again, it was gone. I almost cried then, wishing I’d have stayed, but, somehow, I knew it wouldn’t be right. I remembered the joy on the woman’s face, the kindness in His eyes, and the tender way He spoke to her. I wanted that too. So, I knelt there in my own little closet doorway and asked Him to speak tenderly to me, too. And you know what? He did.
Alice was going about her day and doing all the chores she needed to get done. This was her first day off after a fourteen day stretch at the hospital. She had a lot to do to get her house ready to be sold by the end of the month.
Alice was ready for the change. She had been living in this house for twenty years, but after the loss of her husband last year she couldn’t stay here anymore. The house wasn’t fancy by any means, but it did have three bedrooms and two and a half bathrooms. Each bedroom had a nice walk-in closet. There were two features though that Alice absolutely loved. The first was the master bathroom with its old fashioned garden tub where she could relax after a long day in a hot bubble bath and little tea light candles and soft music. Now that she was thinking about it she would probably do that tonight. She could use it to relieve her sore and aching muscles.
Alice’s favorite room though was her library. This room was where she would come to escape from reality and find an adventure, a hot romance or maybe even a mystery. The library was her sanctuary and she came here daily.
Music was playing from her phone as she was going around dusting shelves and packing boxes. Something shiny caught Alice’s attention as she was bent down packing the first box of books from the second bookcase. She tried to reach it and only managed to push it even further behind the shelf.
“Ugh! What are you and why are you behind my bookcase?” Alice asked to no one in particular. With a hearty groan Alice managed to pull the heavy bookcase away from the wall. Looking down on the dusty hardwood floor Alice saw the shiny object and crouched down to retrieve it.
“Now what do you go to?” Alice mused while looking at the key in her hand. Standing up she started walking around the room looking closely at every trinket, jewelry box and drawer to see if she could find what the key went to.
Not finding anything on the shelves and double checking her desk drawers without any luck Alice came to the conclusion that she would need to move the bookcases and check behind them.
DING DONG!
“Coming!” Alice yelled as she started heading to the door and dusting off her overalls and old orange T-shirt.
DING DONG!
The doorbell rang again.
“Coming!” Alice yelled as she approached her front door. Looking out the glass on the door she could see it was her friend Kimmy.
“You’re just in time.” Alice said as she opened the door to let her best friend in.
“Just in time for what? I was just dropping in to see if you needed any help with packing.” Kimmie said as she walked in and then she looked up and saw that Alice was smiling and a spark was in her eye.
“Okay, what is it? You are smiling way too big.” Kimmy said.
“Well I do need your help, but it’s not for packing. I have found a random key but I can’t find what it goes to.”
“You have a mystery?” Kimmy asked with wide eyes behind her wire rimmed glasses.
“Yes, so do you want help me solve it?” Alice asked her knowing that she would.
“As if you even had to ask.” Kimmy said bouncing up and down excitedly.
“Where do we start?”
“I found this key in the library as I was cleaning and packing up the books. It was behind one of the bookcases. I managed to pull the bookcase out to get to it and then searched the shelves for anything with a lock with no luck. I could use your help to pull out the other bookcases and look behind them.” Alice said.
“Let’s do this!” Kimmy exclaimed.
The two of them rushed to the library excited to see what they could find.
“Okay let’s start over here by the window and work our way around the room.” Alice told Kimmy.
One by one they start moving the bookcases out from the wall searching for anything the key might go to.
“Ugh! Nothing! I’m not seeing any trinket boxes, doors or anything this key might go to.” Alice complained.
“Me neither. Wait! We have all the bookcases in the center. What if the lock is hidden? Maybe we should try knocking along the walls for a secret lock or door to appear.”
“Kimmy! That could work!” Alice exclaimed.
Once again they walk around the library this time slowly while knocking along the walls. Kimmy was knocking up high as she was six feet tall while Alice was knocking along the bottom half due to being just below five feet tall. As they were making their way around the room Alice squinted at the sunlight coming through the window and turned her head away. All of a sudden Alice gasped and stopped where she was causing Kimmy to almost fall on top of her.
“Alice, why’d you stop?”
“Look.” Alice said while pointing at the back of one of the bookcases.
“Oh my goodness!! Is that a…” Kimmy couldn’t even finish the question.
“Door?” Alice finished for her friend. “Yes.”
Hesitantly Alice slowly inserts the key into the lock on the door and turns the key. The door opens with a long creak outwards. Alice leans in to look around holding the side of the bookcase for support.
All of a sudden the two of them were sucked into this new place.
“Wow! This is humongous.” Kimmy said while standing up after the being pulled in.
“Get off!!! Let me see.” Alice said.
Looking down Kimmy was startled to see that she had not only landed on Alice but was still standing on her.
“Oh!!! Are you okay?” she said stepping back.
“I’m fine now. Where are we though?” Alice asked.
“You should know since you used your key to get here.” A random deep masculine voice said. “Oh! You’re not Jerry. Where is he?” This time they could see a short and muscled figure heading towards them.
“Where’s Jerry? He’s about twenty-five years late for his shift.” The guy continues.
“I don’t know who J-J_Jerry is. My fr-fr-friend and I fell in.” Alice stammered.
“Oh no. If that’s happened then Jerry is gone and you two are his replacements. Let me introduce myself. I’m Reginald the knowledge keeper of all you see around you.”
“You’re a librarian?” Kimmy asked with a chuckle as she looked around seeing only books.
“I’m the knowledge keeper. Similar to a librarian as I collect and guard the knowledge in these books, but these books can be checked out to anyone with the proper credentials. Enough! We must get you tested to ensure you’re worthy before making it official.”
Surprised, Alice and Kimmy cautiously follow Reginald through the many aisles until they came upon a door.
“This door will tell us what kind of keeper you are destined to be. Since the two of you came with the one key both of you will need to hold the key and insert it into the lock. Once it’s open we will see.” Reginald explained.
Looking at each other Alice saw what looked like determination on Kimmy’s face.
“Are you sure?” she asked.
“With you by my side I believe we can do anything.” Kimmy said and guided the key in their hands into the lock and turned until it clicked open. Alice started to push the door open when Kimmy stopped her.
“What are you doing?”
“The last door you opened brought us here. Let me open it so I can see if it’s safe.” Kimmy replied.
“I assure you ladies it is absolutely safe and to prove it to you I’ll open the door for you.”
“Okay!” They exclaimed in unison.
Hanging on two hooks through the door were two identical sets of clothes. Black shirts and pants with a flash of silver and gold depending on how the light hits them.
Reginald stood at the door with his mouth gaping wide open.
“I can’t believe it. After all these years. The two of you will be my apprentices.”
“What do you mean?” Alice asked.
“What exactly do you do? You haven’t told us anything about where we are or what happens here.” this time it came from Kimmy.
“Well as stated before I’m the knowledge keeper, but as you now know there are different types. We not only guard the knowledge but we gather, sort, transport and filter all of it and make sure each client no matter the realm has what’s needed. Knowledge is power and if forgotten or ignored history will repeat itself. According to the red bands on your sleeves and pants the two of you are my apprentices. I hope you girls are ready.”
The girls looked at each other…shocked.
Maybe I was wrong. Maybe it was a dream. Maybe it was all a big joke and I really, really hope it was. Maybe it wasn't a door. And maybe I didn't crawl into it and find something so confusing that it still gives me a heavy heart as I rack my brain in an attempt to understand. And maybe it wasn’t even real, because no mother who packs her child's lunch with carrot sticks and sandwiches could have done that.
         It started off as any normal Tuesday for a high school girl. Woke up at 6:30 and rolled over to throw a sleepy hand at the snooze button. So, at 7:00 I forced my tired body to heave its way towards my closet. I picked out a pink shirt displaying an image of my favorite band “The Dangers”, ripped jeans, and sneakers. The steps to my bathroom were begrudging and slow; I looked in the mirror at my bright green eyes and pale, freckled face. I throw on the outfit and tiredly brush my teeth. A brush is quickly yanked through my messy auburn hair.
         “Hey, Mom” I say sleepily.
         “Why are you so tired??” She asks, full of energy, her long brown braid swaying as she scrambled around the kitchen making breakfast. “Geometry homework. I did it last minute” I tell her, rubbing my eyes as if it would banish my exhaustion.
          “Spence, come on, I reminded you yesterday morning!” Spence, as in Spencer. She's called me it since I was young and I've always hated it.
        “ I know, I know, but I'm like a math genius so I'll be fine” I say, knowing my eye roll was practically audible.
        “Spencer. Just because you're a ‘math genius’ doesn't mean you don't have to put in effort” she replied, putting air quotes around the words “math genius” with her flour-covered hands.
         “Yes, mom I know” I say, grabbing my backpack from the couch where I left it and basically sprinting out of the doorway.
         The bus ride to school was incredibly boring. Luckily, it was over quickly.
         I walk into room 213, Mr.James English II reads the little plaque outside of his room. Crap, essay grades come out today. I know he grades like a madman so I panic as I sit in my seat. My friend, Lacie, is already rambling on about some boy.
         “You'll never guess what Sam said to me yesterday!!” she squeals excitedly. See, Lacie and I are alike in many aspects, but boys are not one. I prioritize my GPA, while she prioritizes men. I love Lacie, I really do, but a new boyfriend every week is excessive.
         “What?” I ask, trying to sound less uninterested than I am.
         “He said I love you!” she shrieks, her shrill voice ringing in my ears.
         “Lacie! Sam isn't even your boyfriend yet! He hasn't asked you!” I snap back at her.
         “Okay guys, essays are graded and I've got to say, I am severely underwhelmed” Mr.James declares, rising from his desk with a stack of papers. Luckily, saving me from the argument Lacie was about to start. Mr.James is the worst English teacher ever. I swear he doesn't even understand what he's teaching!
         “Spencer Holland” I hear him call out. I walk up to the front of the room to grab my paper.
         “84!? Mr.James you're kidding me! ‘Didn't correctly identify the meaning’ Mr.James! Fahrenheit 451 is obviously an allegory for government power and censorship! That's the whole point!”
         He looks up from the stack of writing unimpressed, “Don't care. It's already graded.”
         There's no way this guy is serious. “Mr.James, I even provided sufficient evidence for my claim. Did you even read my essay?”
         “Spencer, if you want to continue arguing about it you can have detention.” He says, barely even pretending to care.
         “Yes, sir.” I say, wishing the class would be over already.
         The rest of the day flies by like a blur and before I know it I'm back home.
         My mom doesn't get home until around 8pm so I've got the house to myself for a while. I immediately start playing music from my phone and turn the volume all the way up. I dance my way over to the kitchen, singing along as if this was my own personal concert. I grab a cup and fill it with lemonade from our refrigerator swaying my hips to the beat of the song. I continue singing and dancing as I make my way up to my room.
         I take a sip of my lemonade and lay the cup down on my dresser. I proceed to dance and sing my heart out so hard you'd believe this song was mine.
         “Crap!!” I shouted, staring down at the growing spill of lemonade spreading across my dresser, dripping behind it. I sprint down my hallway, grab a towel and begin wiping up the mess. I press my hands against the side of the dresser and shove it forward. It squeals as it rubs across the hardwood floor.
         “w-what?” I say, staring down at the little wooden door I just uncovered. Before I can think my hands begin rubbing my eyes on the assumption that I must have seen wrong. I stare back down and see the little brown door is still there. Confused, I couch down for a closer look. There's a little gold keyhole under the doorknob, I squint my eyes in an attempt to see what's on the other side. I grasp the handle and twist, thrusting the door open.
                  The other side is a dimly lit, dusty room. Completely empty except for the short, white pedestal in the center. On the pedestal, is a small brown wooden box.
         Bewildered, I open the box and see a folded, yellowed piece of paper. Terrified, I reach my shaking hand into the box and pull out the paper.
         “Dear Spencer, I understand how confused you are currently and I apologize for that.” I read aloud, “ I'm sorry, I just couldn't explain all of this to you before my departure from life, you were far too young. The truth is that isn't your mother, that is simply the woman who has raised you since her hands took you from those of your real mother. Your mother was a wonderful woman, she loved you so dearly and I can guarantee she is still looking for you. Take this information and find her. Christina Liebe - 602-444-7332”
         “no no no no, this is crazy it can't be, no no no” I plead as tears begin to roll down my cheeks. The room begins to spin and I have to catch myself on the corner of the pedestal. I stand there, shaking trying to wrap my head around how crazy this is. There is absolutely no way this can be true. Right? My mother is my mother. Right? It all starts to click into place, no baby photos since before I was 6 months old, no physical resemblances, not knowing what time I was born. I steady myself enough to fully stand and I read over the note again.
         “ This has to be a joke! There's no way my mother could've done anything like that. If that even is my mother...” I think aloud. Then I hear keys unlocking the door. I have just enough time to run out of the room and shove my dresser back into place before she's standing in my room.
         “What're you doing Spence?” She asks, raising an eyebrow at me questioningly.
         I feel myself, bored almost, comfortable, feeling loved by her. My eyes shoot wide open as I remember the contents of the letter. “Uhhhhh....just wiping up some lemonade I spilled” I say, my voice shaking on every word.
         “Are you alright? You look like you've seen a ghost, Spencer did Lacie convince you to take drugs?!” She asks urgently, grabbing my chin to look at my face.
          “What? No, Mom!” I whine, physically recoiling from her touch as the word “mom” leaves a bad taste in my mouth, before I can fully understand why. I know my mother couldn't have done this, she lives in a house with a white picket fence in the suburbs! She's too nice, too motherly, too normal.
         “Oh okay,” she says reluctantly, hurrying out of the door “but you need some spray cleaner or else your dresser will stay sticky, I'll be right back with it”
         Before my brain catches up with me I feel my heart beat rapidly as I begin to heave deep breaths in and out of my chest, feeling each one bang against my ribs. I’m panicking though I know for sure my mother couldn't have done this.She's nice! She drives a minivan and she attends PTA meetings and bakes cookies for the bake sales! There's no way that woman- my mother could have even thought of this! Right?
She came out of the shower, wrapped a towel around herself, and walked past the mirror, paying no mind to the room beyond, with walls of writhing, beating flesh, and bulbous outgrowths creeping towards the mirror at the pace of a bamboo or a fingernail. A moan exasperates from the room; it tenses in anticipation of her return.
When she does come back, fully clothed and only slightly damp, she grabs her toothbrush and toothpaste, wets the brush and begins to cleanse her protruding skeleton. She stares dead-eyed into the mirror, as its lament ceases and its pulsing returns. She spits out foam, tinged red from the frantic cleaning, and continues brushing as blood begins to flow from the fleshy tubers in the other room. Her sink follows suit, and she simply averts eye contact and returns her gaze to the mirror. The room seems to enjoy the return of her attention, and the haemorrhage ceases. The longer she stares, the more apparent it becomes to her that there are apparitions of faces carved into the flesh, one pair of protrusions in particular seeming to be a mockery of Melpomene and Thalia, though most share the same countenance as the woman across from them.
A whisper begins to emanate from some of the faces, though the sound, strangely enough, occupies the space slightly behind her left shoulder. The whisper follows basic human vowel and consonant order, but is not remotely close to any modern human language. It seemed deeply archaic, though the woman understood what they said anyway. Yet she pretended not to hear them anyway. She let the glaze that occupied her eyes clog her ears as well; she had to distance herself mentally.
They shan't be able to cross the distance, she thought, the flesh is too slow to match the pace that I cross within myself. Though this was only one of hundreds of thoughts occupying her brain at once. She had to forgo typical thought to prevent the twitching mass from holding any dominion over her mind. She merely walked away. She closes her eyes tightly, ignoring the room's pleas for her return. Once they fade out, she begins to ground herself back to reality; it's safe now. I can finally open my eyes. Colour floods back into reality, no longer greyed out. Thank god.
I know not if it is real or not, but interacting with it can only drive me madder yet madder. Tell others and risk being locked away within a hospital, mindlessly wandering hallway after hallway until I am forced by impossibly large grunts to return to my chamber to sleep; worse yet, if it is truly real, I be swallowed up by it, joining its hivemind, my flesh sinking into it and its sinking into me. I couldn't even fathom the horror of being controlled by that beast. I should have known that the door that seemed to grow overnight could not harbour anything benevolent.
One overcast afternoon, I sat struggling to write my next article for the local paper. Being an “old soul” writing “Latest Fashion Trends of 2025” just didn't pique my interest. Now, the movie I’d watched the night before, that was a time worth writing about! Looking back at the current fashion trends I was supposed to be researching, all I could think about was how the fashion in the Revolutionary War set movie was so much more refined than anything in stores today.
I looked over at the clock on my desk. It read 2:08, Jun 15, 2025. Since my article wasn't due until the next day, I decided I needed a quick snack, a pick me up. Headed to the kitchen I froze right in my tracks as I passed my bedroom. There was a random door I had never seen before over by the corner. Puzzled I stepped forward, I have lived here for 2 years & never once had I seen that door. Maybe if I touched it & felt that it wasn't real it would go away. I slowly moved towards it like it was cursed, reached out & touched the door knob. Sure enough, it was real!
“What is this? Narnia?” I exclaimed.
The door cracked open just a little, but not quite enough to see what lay behind it.
“What are you doing Maddie?,” I thought to myself. “Why would you open it? This is how a horror movie starts.”
I turned around to leave, but then I heard familiar sounds coming from the other side of the door. I stood stone cold still until I got the courage to swing around, grip the knob & yank the door wide open. To my surprise instead of finding horror there was overwhelming peacefulness. Turns out the familiar noise was just 1770’s instrumental musicians! The sounds were pleasing to my ears! I pushed the door shut behind me. For once in my life this felt like home.
As I walked the dirt streets lined with log cabin houses & places of business, a cool ocean breeze hit my face. I was so overjoyed! Some boys playing in the sand were staring at me like I was an alien. Looking down at my t-shirt & sweatpants, I guess in a way I do. I was the only girl in the entire town that didn't have on a skirt. I asked a passing lady the name of the town.
“Why this is Charleston, honey!,” she replied.
“Charleston?” I whispered underneath my breath.
“What year is it ma'am?,” I inquired.
“1773. Are you feeling alright?” She responded.
“Yes! Thank you!,” I quickly replied.
How could I be in 1773, I questioned? This was surely a dream. I thought back about the door in my room. I don't know how I arrived in 1773 but I was loving it! I wondered if there was a newspaper office in town. First on my agenda was to find a store & buy some appropriate clothes to change into.
The town store was smaller than I expected but it was quaint, primitive, & marvelous! Everything that I've envied over in all my favorite time period shows was here, originals! All my fantasies were coming true! The dresses were exquisite in detail & the colors were all just right! Oh how style has plummeted since the nineteen hundreds. It was saddening to me.
I grabbed a dress that looked like it was fit for a queen. The rosy pink silk base was trimmed all over with dainty lace & little crocheted flowers all along the skirt! I began to worry how I would pay for my items but then I felt my vintage time period pocket watch that my great aunt had gifted me on my birthday in my pocket. I asked the store keeper if he would take a trade for the dress & handed him my watch. He studied it & agreed. I quickly changed into the dress & I felt radiant!
After doing the necessary things to look like a modern lady of society, I went to look for the newspaper office. Writing has always been my passion & career. When I walked in the door I found the proprietor bent over a stack of papers with his hands over his head & his hair in a mess. I cleared my throat to let him know I was there.
Seeing me he said “Oh! Hello Madam, how may I help you?”
I smiled, “Hello Sir! I’m a new writer in town & was wondering if I could have a look at your setup?”
He stood up excitedly.
“Why of course you may! Let me show you around.”
He extended his arm & I took it gently! He gave me the best & most complete walk through I've ever had, even the big news offices I had worked in weren't this kind & attentive. He mentioned he was looking for a writer to help him out, the paper had grown too big for him to handle it alone. He offered me the position.
I paused for a second. This could work. I could take this job here & live the life I've always wanted. Find a place to live, collect a few more pieces of clothing I had eyed in the store, & finally be happy with a slow simple life!
“May I think on it for a while?” I asked.
“Of course madam! Just let me know your decision before the end of the week,” he replied.
“Yes I will, thank you!” I said as I left.
This could be the thing I felt was missing. No more dull columns about fashion week, no more keeping up with the busy pace of society. I wanted to take that job so badly it hurt.
I found a boarding house just down the street. A sweet older couple showed me to a room & I got settled in for the night. The next morning the sun beaming off of the water greeted me. It wasn’t just a dream! This was real! I hopped out of bed, tied my hoop skirt around my waist & slipped over the dress. As my head hit the pillow last night, I had decided to take the news man's offer.
I made my way down the street to the newspaper office to tell him my decision.
“Great! You can start right away if you'd like?,” he said eagerly.
I smiled, “That would be wonderful Mr.…?”
He extended his hand, “Oh I'm so sorry, where are my manners? I'm James Reed & you are Ms.…?”
I shook his hand & said, “Madelyn Upchurch.”
Looking pleased, James said, “Well it'll be a pleasure to work with you Ms. Upchurch! Let me show you where to start!”
My first assignment was an opinion article on local residents' thoughts on “The Tea Act” recently passed by Parliament, creating a monopoly on tea sales in the American colonies. My main focus was to be on how it was affecting Charleston daily life. I went out with pure joy in my heart to start my first authentic article!
After a very busy, but successful day I had everything exactly as Mr. Reed had requested! Back at the office, he read over what I had prepared. I saw the smile spread over his face!
“This is excellent work, Ms. Upchurch!,” he exclaimed!
“Thank you! I just did like you told me to do,” I replied.
We stepped over to the hand operated screw press that needed 2 people to operate. an authentic wooden English Press. We started setting the type immediately! He wanted to get this out to the public as soon as possible. For the first time I stayed late because I wanted to & not because I had to. I had to stay & see the finished product, to see it all come together.
After a long day I went back to my room at the boarding house carrying a dimly lit candle. I put on my oversized t-shirt & sweatpants to sleep in since I hadn't had time to do more shopping yet, that was on the agenda for tomorrow.
As I drifted off to sleep, a sense of confusion perhaps a little dizziness set into my head like it does before you get sick. I sat up, the room was completely dark & gloomy. I wanted to rinse my face in the wash basin. I looked around the room hoping I could remember where it was. Making my way over to it I hit my shin on something with a pointy edge.
“That's weird,” I thought, “There wasn't anything in the middle of the floor.”
My eyes adjusted better to the pitch dark. I could see what looked like a coffee table, the one I had in my living room back in my apartment. I turned & saw the stove light shining from my kitchen. I sighed in dismay. It was all a dream! I sighed again deeply & begrudgingly headed back over to my desk to finish my article on current fashion trends before I missed my deadline.
Narrator
The dark clouds swallowed the sky whole. Each star that sparkled was gone, the moon hid behind the clouds. It was so quiet in the Agriche Castle, the wonderful and gigantic mansion that was once so full of noise. It always involved the mother yelling at her poor, little girl, the father yelling at the mother, and the girl waiting for the sounds to quiet down. So, when Camellia woke up in the middle of the darkened night, she expected to hear bickering, but all she could hear was the sound of the wind whistling past her as the front door was left open. Weird is what she thought of it, but she wasn’t curious as to why it was open. Instead of wondering who had left or who had entered, she just simply closed the door. And, still, there was silence.
Camellia
It’s been 6 hours since I last went to explore the reason for the silence. My mother was gone, and so was my father. Where could they have gone without me? But, I wasn’t complaining. Silence was what I wanted from them, no more bickering or yelling. I could finally be at peace. I could hear the great symphonies of the grand piano without being told I was playing the wrong score, or that I was going too fast, or that I was going too slow. I could play how much my heart desired and then not play because mother is gone, for now.
Downstairs in the drawing room, the white, crystalline piano sat open. My fingers traced the keys, a light sound escaped. What a blissful morning; the sky is a perfect blue, the birds are singing a perfect tune, the butterflies are fluttering in a perfect pattern, and the piano sounds perfect today. I sat on the stool, flipping through the music sheets. A particular song I’ve always wanted to play once silence erupted, without the screeching voice of mother: Lacrimosa. I heard it once when I was on my trip in Paris, the Classical Music Arts Academy had performed for us, then again when Mother had her music playing in her study as she wrote, then once more last night when Father and Mother argued, I played it on the record player, listening to the holy vocals of the singers, the angelic chords and the exquisite violins and violas. The song wasn’t hard to play, but it was hard to concentrate when I heard an annoying thumping sound coming from the very dark corner.
“Claud, is that you?” I called for the house cat, awaiting a meow for a response. None came.
After a minute of silence, I went back to playing the piano, my fingers stretched across the keys. But then. . .
THUMP
THUMP
THUMP
I heard it again.
Aggravated and annoyed, I got up from the stool and went to the corner. I couldn’t see much as there were no signs of light, but I could feel my socks being soaked by something cold. Claud wasn’t here, he wasn’t anywhere near here. If he wasn’t here, then what was making all that noise?
That’s when I noticed it. The door. Its round, polished oak shimmered slightly, even in the dark. But, this door wasn’t here before. Hasn’t been here for years. And, before I could even investigate, the liquid below began to drown my socks. My eyes widened when I looked down, it was blood in all its dark, red glory pooling from under the door. I sniffed the area, making sure there wasn't any foul smell of something dead, and luckily there wasn’t, but that doesn’t mean that there isn’t something dead behind the door.
Before I even thought about opening the door, my body shook. My fingers trembling, inches away from the doorknob. ‘What is behind the door?’ I repeated in my head. ‘Should I wait for my parents to check it out? Should I call the police?’ Those thoughts echoed through my head, replaying like a broken record, and yet, I stood there, trembling in fear but curiosity continued to get the best of me.
The doorknob was cold against my shaky palms, it sent shivers down my spine as I twisted it. The sound of the hinge made my ears perk up; I hated that feeling. I left the door cracked, closing my eyes in fear before breathing in and out, and then slowly, the door was finally opened. And, as if on cue, the sun blazed through the window, making whatever was behind the door visible.
Mother. She laid there, skin so pale, her lips purple. There was a hand print on her neck and the pool of blood came from her head. It seemed like father and mother had gotten into something bigger than an argument. I covered my nose with my forearm, backing up in an instant. She was rotten, she was always rotten, but this time, the smell and the maggots ate her from inside out. ‘I should call the police.’ That was my first thought, and as I turned around, I saw something move in my peripheral vision. My mother’s head.
Slowly turning my head, I jumped. She was now looking at me, her eyes wide opened and her purple lips in a frightening, wide smile. ‘Am I seeing things? This must be a nightmare.’ I squeezed my eyes shut, hoping to wake up from this horrible dream, but when I opened my eyes, Mother was still staring deep into my soul.
“Camellia.” Her voice was a haunting whisper. Her eyes never closed. “Camellia..” She called out once more, this time, it was more cold. More firm. More twisting. She began to laugh with whatever air she had left in her. And I felt like throwing up. I felt sick to my stomach. My skin itched, my eyes watered, my lips twitched. My nails picked at my skin out of fear of not knowing what to do.
I hated feeling this way, I hated feeling useless, I hated feeling like I was prone to do something, I hated feeling like my only purpose was to make Mother proud. I hated that Mother had only treated me like some doll, not as her daughter. But the one thing I hated the most was being scared of Mother. No daughter, or child, should ever be scared of their Mother, the one who was supposed to love and take care of them all their life until death.
Mother didn’t do that for me, she taught me that life is a game and that such emotions are how you lose. That being obedient and emotionless was better than being stupid and loud with words. To always smile, even when your face hurts. And I won’t say that Mother was wrong because, even in the situation she’s in, she smiled at me as if she mocked life for trying to take her away. She smiled at me as if she was trying to prove to me that I was stupid enough for even thinking she could die easily without making me suffer even more.
‘I have to snap out of this.’ I swallowed the wad of saliva that was building up in my mouth, inching closer to Mother. Her laugh continued to play in my ears as I stared down at her.
“Camellia, would you look and see what your father had done to me?” Her smile never faltered. “See what kind of monster he is?” When I failed to answer, I saw the way her eyes darkened. I saw the way her eyebrows knitted together in anger.
“Camellia!” She yelled like she always did. This is when I knew that Mother wasn’t wrong with what she taught me. Originally, I thought that she was the one winning the game of life, but as it turned out, she was the one who was stupid and loud, always acting on emotion. She should’ve stuck with what she preached, then maybe she wouldn’t be in this situation.
This is also when I knew that the feelings I felt earlier, the sickening feeling, wasn’t from me being scared. It was from me being disgusted by Mother. How dare she think she could treat me the way she did then get away with it? Did she not know that this little game of life had consequences per actions? Did she not know that you cannot simply win by following your own rules rather than the ones given to you? I could almost laugh.
“Help me.” She finally managed to whimper once she put her pride away, her smile gone into something more sad. It was all an act, I knew it. “Help me, please.” She groaned and moaned, flipping over to her stomach and then crawling to me. Her hands reached my ankles, her nails nearly digging into my skin.
But, I knew better. And, so I turned around and closed the door then watched it disappear.
After hearing her parents berating her for the millionth time that day, she retreated to the only place that shielded her from her parents’ judgments: the attic.
Marlie, why can’t you just focus on important things, like filing taxes and other boring, individuality-draining activities? Marlie mocked.
As Marlie opened the attic door, a glowing orb flew right in front of her, stopping right at her eyes. She noticed the dainty features on the glowing creature and deduced that it was a faerie. It beckoned her through the door, eager to show her what’s in store.
Once they arrived, Marlie was awestruck; the area was everything she dreamed of and read about. It was absolutely perfect: the temperature, season, flora, and fauna, absolutely everything.
A little faun came to her side, and with a mischievous smile, he took her hand and pulled her toward the woods. Dragging her endlessly, Marlie gave up her struggle, and the faun released his hold.
Scrambling to her feet, Marlie demanded, “What is your problem?! You can’t just drag someone halfway across their dream world and refuse to let go!”
“Apologies,” the faun stated, “but I had to tell you something…” he paused, “...Something the faeries will kill me for.”
Bewildered, Marlie asked, “A. Why would the faeries do such a thing? They are harmless. Also, I can’t just trust that whatever you say is gospel; I don’t even know you.”
“Well,” he replied, “my name is Joshua, like the tree, and I’m a human turned faun.”
“Okay, Joshua, how were you a human? Humans can’t be turned into fauns.” Marlie asked.
“That’s the magic of this place; if you stay too long, it transforms you into anything that fits into the current landscape.”
“That’s… amazing!” Marlie exclaimed. “How long do I have to stay?”
Joshua grabbed her arms, squeezing so hard his knuckles went white. Something clearly scared him about this place, and he was trying to warn her.
“No! That’s what the faeries want, to draw people in with their wildest fantasies, and play with them in a game of their own design. Once they get tired, they discard them and reform this place and everyone in it to en-trance the next victim.” He explained.
“So the faeries prey on those unsatisfied with their life, and give them a life of adventure?” Marlie said, mystified.
The sky grew dark; all that illuminated the area was a dozen glowing orbs. Joshua shrank into himself, hiding from what he knew was about to happen.
“No, no, not again,” he whimpered.
The faeries swirled around Marlie, lifting her off the ground and poking and prodding her, as she stood in absolute amazement. Then, all of a sudden, the expression on her face turned from amazement to horror. Convulsing and contorting, Marlie began to change; her skin grew tan, as though she was standing in the sun for days, her legs bent backwards, and her feet changed into something solid, and horns began to protrude from her scalp.
When the faeries were finished, they dropped her to the ground, and she crumbled like a pile of bones. Joshua ran over to her side and supported her as she tried to stand. The faeries disappeared in a blaze of light, not caring about the state of Marlie.
Skin pale and clammy, Marlie awoke to see a mop of messy brown hair, forest green eyes, and sun-tanned skin standing over her. On his face was etched a smug grin, one which she would be very glad to personally wipe off.
“I told you so,” Joshua said matter-of-factly.
“Oh, shut up and help me,” she grimaced, giving Joshua her arm to pull her up, wobbling as she stood.
“And, you didn’t tell me anything, only to get out of here and avoid the faeries,” she retorted, causing Joshua to raise a questioning eyebrow.
When she finally gained her balance, Marlie looked Joshua in the eye and said, “You never said that it would be painful.”
“I’d say it was completely implied, especially since I tried to warn you against something that sounds like absolute bliss in theory,” Joshua explained.
“I thought that you were being selfish, trying to keep this place to yourself,” Marlie replied.
The two began to wander about the magical realm in silence until Marlie finally broke the silence, asking, “So, what did this place look like when you first came?”
“Well, my whole life I’ve loved nature. I used to compile encyclopedias of the different plants I found in my backyard and around my school. As I got older, I learned that I could magically grow and create plant life. When the other kids at school found out about my little hobby, they immediately started calling me weird, making numerous plant-based names for me, and left weeds and poison ivy in my locker.” He explained.
Joshua held his eyes to the ground, tears running down his cheeks.
“But when I found this place, I found an endless greenhouse, filled with plants that I never thought I would see, and nymphs frolicking and tending to the plants. It was amazing, I never wanted to leave, and when I didn’t, the faeries surrounded me, and I went through the painful transformation that you did, turning me into a faun,” he finished, glancing at Marlie.
Putting on a confident mask, he said, “Now that I have laid out all of my lore, it’s your turn.”
Marlie was shocked; no one had ever asked her about her life, nor did they ever show any interest. Her mind told her not to trust anyone in this twisted fantasy world, but her heart told her she could trust Joshua. Marlie was prepared to tell Joshua everything, ready to finally have a friend in her life.
“I…” She started, but was cut off by lightning striking off in the distance, and an agonizing cry followed shortly after.
Joshua went pencil straight, his tan skin blanching to the color of paper. He grabbed Marlie’s hand and started running. How can he run so fast with hooves? It’s like running with heels! Marlie thought, struggling to keep pace. The two ran until they reached a clearing, where Marlie found the menacing glow of the faeries surrounding a wounded centaur.
The lightning, she thought, must have hit her. Marlie thought that the faeries were trying to save the centaur, but one look at Joshua confirmed her worst fears. Joshua, who had just poured his life story to her and proceeded to smile, was gazing at the centaur with relentless eye contact; tears streaming down his face.
“Help me,” the centaur whispered, the light in her eyes fading quickly.
The faeries began to swirl around her, as they did to Marlie not too long ago, lifting the centaur into the air, poking and prodding. As Marlie watched, she noticed that with every touch, the centaur began to change, her body seemingly breaking and mending itself as time went by.
With a blinding flash of light, the faeries disappeared, and the centaur unleashed a final agonizing scream before she fell. Joshua ran over and caught her now lifeless and human body, and carefully laid her to the ground. Marlie came forward and looked at the girl. Her golden hair lay carelessly free across the grass, her once sun-tanned skin now looked cold, and a final tear began to fall, the last remnant of her life.
“I’m so sorry.” Joshua sobbed. He fell to his knees, a river of tears falling across his face. As his heartbroken sobs rang across the clearing, the grass began to engulf the girl, bringing her into its warm embrace. Once she was fully buried, a beautiful flower bloomed above where she once stood. Marlie was astonished by this feat of magic and elated that the girl will finally have some peace.
Joshua stood, his forest green eyes staring at the flower. “Daisies, they seemed fitting for her.”
Marlie couldn’t translate much from that, but she was able to figure one thing out, “You manipulated the plants to give her a proper burial. Didn’t you?” she asked.
“Of course, everyone deserves to be laid to rest,” he said, “especially those who have been trapped here.”
Marlie could tell that he meant every word of it, so she asked, “Did you know her? Did you drag her across the forest when she first arrived?”
That was able to get a laugh out of him, “Her name was Leah, I was there when she first got here, tried to talk reason with her,” he explained.
“She was elated to have found a home, felt like she could start her life over again, and finally be happy. Hence the daisy,” he explained.
Marlie was taken aback by this sincerity, and without any warning, Marlie enveloped Joshua in a massive hug. She whispered into his ear with unwavering purpose, “We won’t let this happen again.”
“I know,” he replied, “We’ll fix this together.”
After living in the same house for a long time, I thought I knew it pretty well. I knew which floorboard creaked near the kitchen, which hallway light flickered before fully turning on, and how the spare room always smelled faintly of dust no matter how often I cleaned it. I walked through that room every morning on my way to the kitchen to pour myself a cup of coffee, usually half-awake and barely paying attention to my surroundings anymore.
That routine is why the door caught me off guard so completely. I was sure it hadn’t been there the day before, and I would have noticed something like that. The door was narrow and painted the same off-white color as the walls, placed between the bookshelf and the window as if it had always belonged there. The brass knob felt warm when I touched it, which didn’t make sense since no one else was home.
I stood there longer than I should have, trying to explain what I was seeing. I told myself maybe I had just never paid attention before, or that my memory was playing tricks on me. None of those explanations felt believable, but they were easier to accept than the truth. Something in my house had changed, and I couldn’t explain how or why.
When I opened the door, I didn’t find a closet or storage space like I expected. Instead, there was a staircase leading downward, disappearing into a soft, warm light below. The steps were wooden and worn smooth in the center, as if people had been walking on them for years. I hesitated for only a moment before stepping inside, unsure of what I expected to happen next.
As I went down the stairs, the air grew cooler and smelled faintly of rain and old paper. At the bottom of the stairs was a wide room with a high ceiling. It immediately felt wrong, like the space was larger than the house itself should have allowed. Every wall was lined with doors, each one different in size and shape. Some looked new, others chipped and worn, and beneath each door was a small metal label.
The labels all had names on them, and at first they didn’t make much sense. Then I started recognizing them, one by one. They belonged to people from different parts of my life, including friends I hadn’t spoken to in years and people who had been part of my life briefly, but not long enough to really know. When I finally saw my own name, written neatly on one of the labels, I felt a tightness in my chest that I couldn’t explain.
I reached for my door but stopped before opening it. Instead, I chose another door nearby, unsure why but feeling like I wasn’t ready yet. When I opened it, I found myself standing in my old apartment. Everything looked exactly the same, from the sagging couch to the way the sunlight came through the window in the afternoon.
On the coffee table was a stack of unopened mail. I didn’t need to read the envelopes to know what they were. They were reminders of opportunities I hadn’t taken and messages I had avoided because responding felt overwhelming at the time. I closed the door quietly and stepped back into the hallway.
Another door showed me a kitchen filled with warmth and noise. Someone laughed from another room, and I could see myself moving comfortably through the space, relaxed in a way I rarely felt. One more door opened to a quiet hospital room where a heart monitor beeped steadily beside a bed. I didn’t stay long enough to understand what that version of my life meant.
As I stood there, it finally became clear what the room was showing me. These doors weren’t memories or dreams. They were possibilities, each one representing a different path my life could have taken if I had made different choices. Knowing that made the hallway feel heavier, but also strangely honest.
Eventually, I turned back to the door with my name on it and opened it. Inside was a small, quiet room with a desk and a chair positioned near a window. The window looked out onto my own street, where rain tapped softly against the pavement. On the desk was an open notebook, a pen, and a short handwritten note.
The note said I didn’t have to fix everything at once and that I only needed to choose one thing and begin. I sat down and looked out the window, watching myself walk past outside with tense shoulders and a distracted expression. Seeing myself like that made me realize how tired I had been without fully noticing it. I picked up the pen and started writing before I could overthink it.
I wrote honestly, without worrying about how it sounded. I wrote about being afraid of making the wrong choices and using logic as a way to avoid taking risks. I wrote about waiting for the right moment and how often that waiting turned into doing nothing at all. When I finally stopped, my hand hurt, but my chest felt lighter.
Nothing dramatic happened after that. The room didn’t change, and neither did the world outside the window. But when I stood up and went back up the stairs, I felt different in a way I couldn’t quite explain. The door stayed in the spare room for about a week after that.
During that time, I went back down a few more times, mostly just to sit and think. I stopped opening the other doors because I didn’t need to see more versions of my life to understand what they meant. Then one morning, the door was gone, and the spare room looked exactly the way it always had.
That day, I finally sent a message I had been putting off. I applied for something that scared me but also excited me. I kept writing, not because I knew where it would lead, but because it felt like the right thing to do. Sometimes, when it rains, I still think about that door and remind myself that I don’t need it to move forward.
That was important, because Thursdays were predictable. I woke up at 6:30, fed the dogs, burned my toast, and walked past the living room on my way to school. The living room had always had four walls - white, slightly cracked near the ceiling, with a crooked painting of a sailboat above the couch.

On that Thursday, there were five.
The door stood between the sailboat and the light switch.
It was narrow and tall, painted the same white as the wall, with a brass knob that caught the morning light. It looked old, but not dusty, Like it had been opened yesterday. Or like it had been waiting.
I stared at it long enough for my toast to go from warm to cold in my hand.
“Mom?” I called
She was in the kitchen, scrolling on her phone, “Yeah?”
“When did we put a door in the living room?”
I stepped aside.
There it was. Plain. Obvious.
“That one.”
She frowned, “Abby, there’s no door there.”
I turned back.
Still there.
My stomach felt like I’d missed a step on the stairs. “You don’t see it?”
“See what?” She laughed lightly, but it didn’t reach her eyes. “You’re going to be late.”
At school, I couldn’t focus. The image of the door replayed in my mind. I’d lived in that house for seventeen years, I knew every scratch on the hardwood, every squeak in the stairs. I’d done homework on the couch nearly every day.
There had never been a door.
When I got home, I dropped my backpack and went straight to the living room.
It was still there.
The house was quiet. Mom wouldn’t be home for another hour. The dog stood near he couch, staring at the door with his head tilted.
“So you see it too?” I whispered.
I stepped closer. The brass knob felt cool under my hand. Real. Solid.
I waited for something dramatic - whispers, a draft, the walls to shake.
Nothing happened.
I turned the knob.
The door opened without a sound.
Beyond it was not another room.
It was my bedroom.
But not the way it looked now.
The walls were still lavender, but the posters were different - old ones I’d taken down years ago. A glow-in-the-dark star chart stretched across the ceiling. My bookshelf was smaller, stuffed with children’s paperbacks. On the floor sat a plastic castle I hadn’t seen since I was eight.
The air smelled faintly of crayons.
I stepped through.
The living room disappeared behind me. When I turned around, there was no door. Just my childhood bedroom, exactly as it had been.
On the bed sat a girl with messy braids and grass-stained jeans.
It was me..
Except younger. Smaller. She looked up from the notebook in her lap and grinned.
“You took long enough.”
I froze. “This isn’t real.”
She shrugged. “It is here.”
I noticed what she was writing. Stories. Pages and pages of them, in looping, uneven handwriting. Flowers, sunsets, police officers. The kinds of stories I used to fill notebooks with before homework got heavier and life got louder.
“You stopped.” she said, not accusing. Just stating a fact.
“I didn’t stop.” I said automatically. “I just got busy.”
She raised an eyebrow. It was unsettling seeing that expression on a nine-year-old face.
“You used to say you’d be a writer,” she said. “You used to make up stories about everyone at the grocery store. You said every door might lead somewhere magic.”
I looked around the room. At the castle. The star chart. The stack of library books with cracked spines.
“I grew up,” I said quietly.
“Is that what this is?” She asked.
The room felt smaller suddenly.
“I have responsibilities,” I said. “Grades. Plans. College.”
She nodded slowly. “And where am I in those plans?”
The question landed harder than it should have.
I didn’t have an answer.
The younger me slid off the bed and walked to the wall. She pressed her palm against it, and a faint outline shimmered there - the shape of the door.
“It wasn’t there before,” she said. “Because you stopped looking for it.”
I swallowed. “So what is this? A memory?”
She shook her head. “A choice.”
The word echoed.
“If you leave,” she continued, “the door will close again. Maybe for good.”
“And if I stay/”
She smiled gently. “You don’t have to stay. You just have to remember.”
The castle on the floor flickered. The star chart dimmed slightly.
“I don’t want to forget you,” I said.
“You won’t,” she replied. “Not if you write.”
The room began to fade at the edges, like a photograph left in the sun,
Panic surged through me. “Wait-”
“You don’t have to choose between growing up and imagining,” she said, her voice soft now, distant. “Just don’t pretend one cancels out the other.”
The lavender walls dissolved into white.
I stumbled forward-
-and found myself back in the living room.
The door stood open behind me. Through it, I could only see darkness now. No bedroom. No childhood.
Just space.
I stepped back into the living room, heart pounding.
Slowly, the door swung shut on its own.
When it clicked closed, it didn’t disappear.
It remained. Plain and white and quiet.
Mom came home minutes later. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” she said.
“There’s a door in the living room,” I told her.
She glanced over - and paused.
“Oh,” she said softly. “That’s new.”
“You see it?”
She nodded slowly, as if she wasn’t entirely sure how. “I do.”
We stood here together, staring at it.
“Do you think it leads somewhere?” she asked.
I looked at the brass knob, catching the evening light,
“I think it always did.”
That night, instead of scrolling through my phone, I pulled an old notebook from my desk drawer. The pages were blank, waiting.
The house was quiet. Ordinary.
But every so often, I thought I heard the faint scratch of a pencil on paper, just beyond the living room.
And for the first time in years, I couldn’t wait to see what was on the other side of the next door.
The door appeared on a Tuesday morning. Maya noticed it while waiting for her toast to pop. She has lived in this same house for seventeen years. She knew every crack in the floorboards, every crack in the ceiling, every stubborn cabinet hinge. The kitchen had always been small, just a refrigerator, sink, stove, and a plain stretch of a wall beside the pantry.
Except now there was a door.
It was narrow and painted the same dull white as the wall, as if it had always been there. The handle was brass, slightly tarnished, catching the early morning light. Maya stared at it, toast forgotten.
“That wasn’t there,” Maya whispered.
Her voice sounded small in the kitchen.
She pressed her hand against the wood. It was cool and solid. Real. Her first thought was that her parents had installed it as some sort of renovation. But they would have said something. They always said something about new lightbulbs, about leaky faucets, about anything different.
She knocked.
A hollow echo answered from the other side, distant and strange, as if the sound had traveled farther than the thin door suggested it should. Maya hesitated only a moment before turning the handle.
The air beyond smelled like rain. She stepped through and found herself standing in a long hallway lined with doors identical to the one she had entered. The floor was polished wood, stretching endlessly in both directions, reflecting a ceiling she couldn’t quite see. Behind her, the kitchen was gone. The door she had used now looked just like all the others.
A chill ran down her spine.
“Hello?” She called out.
Her voice drifted down the corridor and vanished. She chose the nearest door and opened it.
Inside was her old bedroom. Not the one she had now, but the room from when she was seven, pale yellow walls, glow in the dark stars on the ceiling, a tiny bed with a crooked blanket. Sunlight slanted through a window that overlooked a backyard swing set long since taken down.
A younger Maya sat on the floor, drawing with crayons. She hummed softly, completely unaware of the visitor. Maya stepped inside. The air felt thick, heavy with the quiet warmth of memory. She watched her younger self struggle to draw a perfect circle, tongue pressed against her lip in fierce concentration. The sight stirred something gentle and aching in her chest.
She reached out, but her hand passed through the scene like mist. The room shimmered, and she found herself back in the hallway. Her heart pounded.
“What is this place?”
She opened another door. A hospital room appeared, stark white, filled with the steady rhythm of beeping machines. Her grandfather lay in the bed, frail but smiling, telling a story she had nearly forgotten.
Another door revealed a classroom where she had once failed a test, the weight of shame pressing down on her shoulders. Another showed a future she had dreamed of, a sunlit studio filled with paintings she had never created. Every door held a moment. A memory. A possibility. A life.
The hallway was endless because her life was endless in its choices, branching and shifting with every step.
Maya walked for what felt like hours, opening doors to laughter, regret, fear, and hope. Some rooms were warm and inviting. Others filled her with a quiet dread she could not explain. Then she noticed one door was different. It was darker than the rest, its surface unpainted, raw wood etched with faint, shirting patterns. The handle was cold as ice.
She knew without understanding how, that this door had never been opened. It waited for her.
Her hand trembled as she reached for the handle.
“What happens if I do?”
No answer came. Slowly, she turned the handle.
Beyond the door was not a room but a vast open space filled with soft, glowing light. It stretched infinitely in every direction, silent and boundless. In the corner stood a single mirror. Maya approached it cautiously. The reflection staring back at her was not quite herself. The figure’s eyes held centuries of weariness and wonder, as if it had lived countless lives.
“You finally came,” the reflection said
Maya stumbled back. “What is this place?”
“This,” said the reflection gently, “is the door to what you choose to become.”
The mirror’s surface rippled, showing versions of her life unfolding in different ways, paths of courage and paths of fear, kindness and cruelty, creation and destruction. Every decision she might make branched outward like an endless constellation.
“The other door,” Maya said slowly, "they're memories.”
“And possibilities,” the reflection replied. “But this one is the only door that matters. The future is not something you find. It is something you open.”
The light grew brighter. “Why me?”
“Because you noticed,” said the reflection. “Most never see the door at all.”
Maya closed her eyes. She thought of her small, ordinary kitchen. Of burnt toast and morning light. Of the quiet, unnoticed moments that built a life piece by piece. When she opened her eyes again, the mirror showed only her, uncertain, flawed, alive. She reached forward. The surface felt like warm water beneath the fingertips.
The toaster popped.
Maya gasped and staggered back into her kitchen. The smell of burnt bread filled the air. The white wall beside the pantry stood bare and empty.
No door.
No handle.
Nothing.
For a long time, she simply stood there, listening to her racing heart. Then she noticed something strange. Her hand still felt warm, as if it held a fading light. She smiled.
The door, she realized, had never truly disappeared. It had only moved, from the wall into her choices, waiting each day for her to open it again.
And this time, she would.

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