I stand in the kitchen of this old, run down house. “Why I did I agree to this?” I thought studying the blue prints to this place. The house is filled with all kind of stranger noises. “I should just knock this down and count it as a loss,” I thought listening to my surrounds. A few seconds later I heard a noise I never heard before, “What the hell?” I questioned. “There was it again,” I thought, I decided to investigate the noise. I was on my way upstairs, I noticed something from the corner of my eye that wasn’t their before. “That is strange,” I thought, turning towards the object. “This door wasn’t there before,” I whispered, a scared and happy feeling come over me. I slowly walked to the door, it was open just a little. I reached out, pushed the door open.

Things had been tense in the house the last few months after Janet had caught Jack cheating on her. They had been working through their issues but the air was thick between them and couldn’t seem to see no way out of divorce. The morning that it happened they had just gotten done with a huge fight.

“What the hell do you mean you can never forgive me, do you remember what you did two years ago to me?”, “Oh sure bring that up. It is nothing like fucking around on me with my best friend, or should I say ex best friend.” Jack just huffed and walked out of their bedroom slamming the door behind him causing the picture of there wedding day to fall to the floor.

Janet fell to the bed and began to sob. _How could it come to this _ she thought as she got up and picked up the picture. The glass had been shattered just like their once perfect marriage had been. _ How could he bring up when I had lost all that money in the investment, it wasn’t her fault her ex best friend lied to her _she thought.

She attempted to hang the picture back on the wall but the frame had been bent and the glass just kept falling on the floor. She set it on the table next to the door and put her head to the wall and began banging on the wall in frustration. There was no way out of this, it was over divorce was inevitable.

When she hit the wall the last time all of the sudden and small shimmer of light appeared next to the bed. “Oh, I almost forgot about that” she said out loud. The door was to a small closet next to the bed. It was pretty much useless so they didn’t use it but now there was a light on in the room, and then all of the sudden she heard a low growl of a voice come from behind the door “We can make this problem go away.”

Janet walked closer to the door and put her ear near the door and heard it again only a little louder this time, “We can make this problem go away.” Janet stepped back from the door and shook her head, she had to be hearing things and decided to look into the room but just a peek and that is when she saw the little creature behind the door and he said “We can get rid of him and make the problem go away.”

His teeth were pointy and his hair was jet black. He smiled and blood rolled out of his mouth and down his chin. His eyes began to glow like two shiny pennies and he said “You let me out and I can make this problem go away.” He began running towards the door. He pulled out a knife and began to shriek in an evil laughter that was what Janet pictured the laughter of a madman would have sounded like.

Janet slammed the door shut and stepped back. The light went out and no more noise came out from behind the door. “What the hell was that?” She said out loud and realized that she never wanted to open that door again, and planned to nail it shut. A peek was more than enough for her into that room and she never looked inside again.

Three children decided one day to explore the house at the end of the road, the one that no one has been in for over 20 years. No one has lived there, no one has fixed it up, no one’s taken care of it. They ran around to the back of the large, dark building, trampling weeds on their way through. They convinced the oldest of them to open the door, the large, wooden door swung open with a loud shudder as they pushed it opened it, dust floating through the air as they walked in, the door swinging shut behind them. They began exploring the first floor, most of the windows broken, letting in an eerie breeze, causing some of the doors to swing precariously on their rusted hinges. They explored through the kitchen, the dining room, and a bathroom, not finding much other than dust, a few mice, and some left over knickknacks that the previous owner must have left. They found creepy looking paintings, broken vases and cups, and even some rotting furniture scattered in the parlor.

They decided to explore the second floor once they went through the last room. They crept up the stairs, each one creaking and moving under their weight. Once they made it to the landing, they noticed a different atmosphere than the first floor, there was no wind blowing though the shattered windows, the doors weren’t creaking on their hinges, and there was no scuttle of mice. It was eerily silent as they walked into the first room they saw. The door creaked as they swung it slowly open, cautious to not make to much noise. They looked through the rooms, finding some bedrooms, another bathroom, and what appeared to be a study. As they explored, the sun got lower in the sky, casting long shadows on the floor. Just as they reached for the handle, they heard a rhythmic creaking, almost sounding like footsteps. Thinking someone was in the house, they ran down the stairs, a couple of the stairs breaking under their rushed steps, and they shot out the door, not bothering to close it behind them as they ran down the street back to their own houses.

After the children left, and the sun set further into the sky, the last door on the hallway creaked open slowly, no dust moving as the door swung open, revealing a child’s room in perfect condition, not a toy car out of place nor a speck of dust, as if it was just dusted and cleaned by a loving mother preparing to put her child to sleep. The only noise in the house is a soft humming and the creak of the wooden rocking chair in the corner of the room, then the door slammed shut, the house shuddering as the eerie hummming continued, now muffled with the door closed. That wouldn’t be the last time someone caught the loving mother putting her child to bed, perhaps one day someone would enter the long lost room and uncover the secrets of the house, but until then, the humming continues, and the rocking chair creaks, the mothers love always keeping the little room clean.

It had been years since Emily had seen this room with her own eyes. It had appeared so many times in her nightmares she sometimes thought maybe it originated from inside some deep place there, locked away to only escape when her waking mind was otherwise occupied. Of course, if that were true then it all hadn’t happened. If it all hadn’t happened then she wouldn’t have run away, none of the things in the last 10 years of her life would have happened, and Lucy wouldn’t be gone. As much as Emily wished her mind had been capable of inventing such torture, the knife stabbing into her heart with even the thought of Lucy reminded her how real it all was.

With a shuddering breath, Emily stepped forward into the dusty room that had belonged to her and Lucy all those lifetimes ago. Back then it smelled like a sweet concoction of vanilla, cotton candy, and hairspray, but now it smelled like stale air and mothballs. The dresser that once displayed all her favorite photos sat empty, and the once shining wood now faded with age and neglect. Emily noticed with a frown the beautiful knobs she had hand-selected as a child were now missing. Emily wondered how long she had been gone before her mother desperately unscrewed them to pawn them off for her next fix. Forcing herself to turn away from the dresser, she turned toward the bed. A sheet had been tossed over the bare mattresses but she could still see them the way they had been that night: covered in pillows with mismatched pillowcases and a fluffy comforter they had gotten for their 16th birthday — their grandmother had gone to every store in town to find the exact colors they wanted.

Emily scanned the walls of the room that no longer held the collection of posters and magazine articles she and Lucy had spent so many hours curating. A few small strips were remaining, evidence that her mother had thrown a tantrum at some point after she left and torn everything from the walls. The cushion on the window seat was no longer a soft lavender color and seemed like it would crumble if anyone tried to sit on it. She tried not to think about all the times she had sat on that cushion with Lucy, crying over all the little things teenagers go through and all the big things teenagers shouldn’t have to go through. Lucy had always given her hope to keep going. “It’s going to get better, you’ll see,” she would always say.

Emily wiped her eyes and looked over to the bookshelf in the corner of her room, full of dust and cobwebs instead of her collection of books and figurines. Rage bubbled inside of her as she imagined bumping into that shelf years ago, books tumbling to the floor as she had begged her mother to call paramedics when Lucy went unresponsive. The fear in her mother’s eyes quickly turned to anger when she realized the girls had gotten into her stash. Furious about her missing drugs and terrified of what the police would do when finding an OD’d teen in her house, Emily’s mother had refused to call anyone to help Lucy when the girls had decided to try what they thought was a line of cocaine from their mom’s bedside table. Instead, she had yelled at Emily that everything was her fault and it better be fixed by the time she got back from replacing what had been used.

Emily had never forgiven herself for leaving Lucy behind that way, even knowing that Lucy was gone before she slipped out the front door to never return. Emily now turned toward the door again, her eyes pausing for a long moment on the spot Lucy had lain all those years ago. She couldn’t be sure if there was a visible stain on the floor under the thick dust, or if it was all in her mind; at this point, she didn’t want to know which was which. She took another deep breath and walked out the door, down the hallway, and out the front door. She nodded to the man in a yellow vest and hard hat, “All clear. Tear it down,” he said gruffly into his walkie-talkie. Emily heard the first of the walls coming down as she closed her car door, her eyes shone with tears but there was a smile on her face as she yet again journeyed down the familiar street, again with no intentions of ever coming back.

The door creaked open, revealing a long-forgotten hallway. Dust and cobwebs filled the musky space. A foul odor wafted from the passage way on a stale wind, kicking dust up into Kevin’s eyes. He coughed and fanned the air, turning back to the rest of his remodel crew.

“This certainly wasn’t on the master floor plans,” his coworker Ralph remarked.

“No shit,” Kevin quipped, turning on the light of his headlamp and stepped through the precipice.  

“It’s no wonder the previous owners reported sounds of scratching from within the house but could never find the source.”

“Right,” Kevin trained his eyes on the space his lamp illuminated.  He scanned the hallway for rats or mice, or any of the trappings that they may be nearby.  He didn’t see the tell-tale signs of their droppings or their dead—anything.  But he did see something that gave him a start.  There were scratch marks.  But too big to be rats.  Far too big.  “Must have been some big rats.”

“You’re not going in there are you?”  Ralph said, still standing at the precipice.

“We’re being paid to remodel.  You don’t think our contractors would want to know about this hallway?  I mean, its going to completely fuck the entire plan.”

“I dunno, I just get a bad feeling.”

Kevin laughed.  He never took Ralph as a coward.  He was a big dude—muscle in places Kevin didn’t know muscle could be.  And yet he was scared.  Kevin shook his head to himself.  “If you’re not coming along, then do something useful and start mappping out the rest of the house.  Recheck everything.  If this was hiding behind the wallpaper, who knows what else might be.

Ralph nodded and ran back into the house, out of sight.  Kevin took out his phone and started to snap photos in the light of the headlamp, documenting the path as he went.  It was a rough hallway.  In fact, calling it a hallway at all might be a bit of a stretch.  It went straight for a short while, just a rickety construction between two walls.  Plywood and wooden supports that were laid as the bones of the house before the drywall was applied stuck out and twisted to the right and headed beyond, tracing the wall that they had thought was the exterior wall before they discovered this passage.  Like behind, ahead was covered head to toe in cobwebs and spider webs, the eight legged creatures dangling from webs and some staring down from above as Kevin made his way forward.   It was quiet—so quiet Kevin could hear so very intently the sound of his own breathing, the beating of his own heart.

And then the hallway did something Kevin couldn’t have predicted.  It went_ down_.  Down.  Kevin scratched his head.  How could it possibly go _down_.  This wasn’t mapped in the basement.  There was only a small storage space as a basement.  But they didn’t see any signs of any other passage ways or spaces down there.  The air grew more stale and Kevin found himself having a harder time breathing as he carefully followed the slope downward.  His headlight caught on more and more of those scratching marks.  They were larger.  Deeper.  And the walls that were rough wood work turned into dirt…no, not dirt.  Clay.  The scratch marks were deep in the hard clay walls.  The floor was nothing more than well-worn dirt patches.  Something that had Kevin’s breath catching in his throat.  It was well worn.  Something came down here.  Often.

Kevin was all but about to turn heel and walk back the way he came, but when he turned, his nose collided with a rough surface.  His hard hat collided against the wall and managed to come loose from upon his head, falling onto the rough dirt floor.  He squinted his eyes to acclimate to the darkness.  The path he’d come down was gone.  There was just a hard clay wall.  Then he heard it.  A rattling.  A rough rattling breath.  It was coming from behind him.  

The headlamp on the ground flickered on and off, the thing damaged from the fall.  He turned and ducked down, trying to grab the hat, but in the flickering light he saw it.  Something—a figure—on the other side of the hall.  The hallway continued to narrow and in the flickering light, hunched down where the path ended abruptly was a paper thin figure.  Its skin pulled taught over its emaciated body.  Its bones poking out at odd angles.  And the eyes—the glowing eyes.  Kevin felt himself succumb to fear.  Felt his heart pounding in his ears.  Sweat trickled down his brow and he tried, and failed, to stop the shaking of his hands.  

Then his headlamp went out.  And he was alone.  In the dark.  And all he could hear was the rattling, rattling rough breathing of the thing across from it.  As it got closer.  And closer.  Until he could feel its hot breath against his neck.

Charlie stood facing the door for an eternity, expecting the next step to get easier, but it didn’t. Something welled up in his chest, just above his heart and below his neck. It wasn’t exactly pain and it wasn’t exactly love. Thanks to Dr. Thornton, he realized that it was a longing for days past. Charlie often thought that life before therapy had been easier. He didn’t have to acknowledge all of this touchy feely crap. It’s possible he didn’t even know it existed before that last session broke the vault wide open. Prior to that he could just drink, be an asshole and move on. Sweet simplicity. Now he was forced to deal with all the muck and junk that his new state of “enlightenment” provided.

The door itself was unremarkable. It was a typical wooden door seen in most New England homes built in the early twentieth century. It had that reddish-brown glaze with the cracked and almost scaly varnish. The door knob, still original, made that characteristic squeak when it was turned and popped back into position. Charlie loved these old houses. Solid, reliable and full of character, they were everything he wanted to be.

The door opened and Charlie took a half step past the threshold. Physically he made it in , but his heart clawed at the jamb, pulling him back into the hallway. Last time he was here, he was a different person in what feels like a different universe. It was before the war. Before the scars and all of the anger and resentment and bitterness. Charlie had spent the majority of his adult life wearing a uniform and made it out mostly unscathed. The war that tore him down took place in this very room between his mother, “Rainy” as she was so affectionately called, and cancer.
The room was exactly as he’d remembered it. The bed was still there. The smell of the room inflated long lost memories. Good ones. The smell of spearmint just barely touched his nose. To be exact, it was the smell of spearmint flavored Trident chewing gum. Rainy was never caught without it. Charlie wondered how that was even possible after a decade. Maybe it wasn’t real and the scent was merely a powerful memory. Either way he was grateful for it. He hadn’t been that close to his mother for a very long time. The fear melted away. His spine straightened and his previously rounded shoulders moved back to their natural position. Charlie felt good.

The door creaked open, revealing a long forgotten room.

Julia walked inside, breathing hard, scared to fall through the floor. She walked slowly, steadily. She saw a torn chair and a picture of a old lady on the wall. This was a old place, she thought. She started taking things, when she heard a groan. “Aaooouuurrrrrgggg” was the groan. She heard it in the right direction. She realized that there was a tiny hobbit door leading there. She opened it… and then there was a spark, she started walking slowly.. then the lights went off, and she fell.

Like and comment for pt. 2!

-paisley

the door creaked open, rupturing the superficial silence. dust danced on the sunlight, like tiny woodland fairies. the musty sent of old books and comfort filled the air. the floorboards creek beneath bare feet as i breach the undiluted atmosphere.

the wallpaper, the color of faded forests remembered through foggy memories, rolls itself off the walls. heavy over stuffed bookshelves lean on the wall, whispering many forgotten stories into the faded floral pattern. sunlight filters in through the large paneled window, warming me like a cat on a bright day. beckoning me in, asking me to come lay in the dusty velvet lounge basking in the strip of sunshine painting the space.

this space could use a bit of work. and yet it is still warm, and beutiful, and enchanting.

this space is far from perfect. and yet i know i’ll spend every day within its confines. this hidden room, unlocked and open to be explored.

this space, within my soul, is where i reside.

(CW: past death of a family member, grief)

The door creaked open, revealing a long-forgotten room Jack hadn’t seen in nearly thirty years.  It was coated in a thick blanket of dust and stank of mildew and sickness, and perhaps something more sinister underneath.  The blue paint that once brightened the walls was now dull and peeling; the wooden floors were splintered and rotten.  They groaned with each step he took, reawakening distant memories he’d hidden in the back of his mind for too many drawn out years.

He sighed, shoulders shuddering with trepidation and age.  Even after all this time, Jack still half-expected his little sister to be sitting in the sunken, discolored mattress in the center of the room.  He could almost see her looking up from her journal, reassuring him with her slight, gentle smile as he entered.  

“Bit of a mess, isn’t it?” Owen said, shrugging.  Jack cleared his throat and nodded, waking from his thoughts.

“Ah, yeah.  It is.  But it’s nothing that we can’t fix.”  Owen chuckled at that, placing a firm hand on Jack’s shoulder.

“Was it your room?” he asked, voice a note softer this time.  Jack wiped his eyes awkwardly.  He hadn’t told him about Isadora yet.  In fact, he’d hardly told anyone.  False sympathy wasn’t anything he wanted to hear more of; he’d heard enough of it lately every time someone brought up his parents or talked about this wretched inheritance. But condolences didn’t work like stitches.  They didn’t close the still-stinging wound in his heart.  All they did was make the other person feel good about themselves.

But Owen wasn’t most people was he?  Ever since the day they met on the coast all those years ago, he’d been Jack’s best friend; a constant lighthouse whenever the moody storms above his head tried to lead him astray. Besides, Owen had probably told him near everything about himself. He began pacing back and forth, floor squealing with uncertainty underneath him.

“It was my sister’s,” he said finally.  Owen’s eyebrows leapt up in surprise.

“You have a sister?”  Jack looked at him.

“Had.”

“Oh.”  There was a heavy pause, the air stilling around them.  Jack’s heart sank deep into his stomach, like a stone dropped in murky water.  He already regretted saying anything; he could practically sense the pity radiating from Owen’s sunken face.  He forced himself not to cringe as his friend opened his mouth to speak, anticipating some kind of generic apology or halfhearted response.

“What was she like?” he said instead.  Jack blinked.

“You really want to know?”  His voice shook during the second half of the sentence, confused and unstable.  He hadn’t said a word about his sister since her funeral.

“I do.”  Owen nodded as Jack took in a heavy breath.

“She was extraordinary,” he said, hesitantly at first, but it wasn’t long before he found his thoughts flowing from his mouth, each detail unchecked and uncensored, as if a dam had been broken.  “She loved weaving, and writing in her journal, and going to the beach.  Her favorite color was blue; it reminded her of the wild ocean waves and the open sky on a cloudless summer day.  We used to sit under that sky together, you know.  We would have picnics and run around through the tall grass.  I would put wildflowers in her hair, and she would smile, and nothing would matter.  

But then she got sick, and I couldn’t stand to be around it.  That paling face and crooked smile…they wasn’t hers anymore.  She would cough up blood and stare into space and cry about menacing monsters who weren’t ever there. Tell me, Owen, would it be terrible to admit that I was afraid of it all?”  

Owen stared at him, mouth slightly agape.

“Jack…”

“Owen, she was only seventeen.  She needed me, and I turned away.”

“And you were only nineteen, and you were scared,” Owen said earnestly.  “You can’t blame yourself.  God, I wish I had the right words for you.  Is it enough to simply know that I care?”

“It was thirty years ago,” Jack said. Owen shrugged, a bittersweet smile crossing his lips.

“Yeah,” he said, “well, some scars stick around for a while.”

The door creaked open revealing a long forgotten room, I gasped in delight as I saw the bounty before me. Dusty light filtered down from a cloudy, web covered, skylight. Tall, intricately carved shelves spanned from ceiling to floor. The shelves, though caked in grime, had vines climbing up the sides; the leaves turned upward desperately seeking the light. In between the ferns and leaves, peered mischievous eyes, claws and fluttering wings. Filling the ancient, beautiful shelves was an astounding collection of books, esoteric knick-knacks, and oddities that I had never seen before. On one shelf, a taxidermied raven perched. He was a dapper fellow, his ragged top hat and cracked monocle cut a rather fine figure. I imagined he would have a name with many syllables like Nicodemus Bartholomew the VI. On the next one down, propped up by a jeweled box, was a series of leather bound books. The jeweled box gleamed in the dull light, the crimson gems were set in a dull grey metal. It set on clawed feet, and promised secrets within. The leather books had no titles, just a stamped image of different phases of the moon. There had to be thirty at least. I was drawn to them. Leaving the rest of the shelves for another time I reached for the first book.