Behind the Door

(Image by Tama66 - Pixabay)

The door stood ajar, a sliver of light cutting into the darkened hallway where he stood. The sobbing and muffled words drifting through the door were so much clearer now. He felt a sudden need to comfort the woman, for he assumed only women made noises like that when they wept. He took a step forward then hesitated, not wanting to intrude. Maybe I should fetch someone, like the doctor, he thought. He’ll know what to do. But he remained where he was.

In truth, he didn’t know anyone in town, and he wasn’t even sure if there was a doctor here. A travelling man, he’d stopped in so many towns and villages over the years, most of them now looked the same to him.

He’d been on the outskirts, ready to leave the town, when the rain had started. In seconds, it had turned into a biblical downpour and he’d ducked into the nearest building. A shabby, neglected house, huddling on its own, cut off from the company of the town. The buildings that had been close to it had long since fallen into decay, random bits of brick and rotting furnishings the only evidence they’d ever existed.

The gloomy interior had done little to make him feel welcome, and he’d decided to wait out the storm by the front doorway. At first, all he’d heard was the hammering rain. Gradually, weaving itself around and through the sound of rain came the sobbing. Convinced he was imagining things, he’d laughed it off. The sobbing had gotten louder, harder to ignore.

Against his better judgement, he’d found himself wandering up the dilapidated staircase, barely able to make out his surroundings in the dim light. Pausing on the first floor, his heart had almost burst from his chest at the sight of an old woman, holding up a lamp, peering out one of the doors. He’d raised his hand, but before he could speak, she’d crept back in and shut the door.

The sobbing continued to rise and fall, tugging at his emotions. With a shake of his head, he put aside his own feelings of possible embarrassment and slowly pushed the door open.

As he stepped into the room, the grieving sounds seemed to fade. Finding himself standing in an empty room, he frowned. Now the sobbing seemed to be coming from the inner room, from behind a small, closed door. “How strange,” he said. “I could have sworn the crying was coming from this room.” But the room was completely empty. There were no furnishings, nothing to cover the naked, grimy windows or stained, bare floorboards.

The crying seemed to draw him towards the door. Squaring his shoulders, he marched up to it, took hold of the door handle, and immediately snatched his hand away. It was cold. Freezing cold. Absently rubbing his hand, he stared at the handle. Slowly reaching out to it, he hesitated then knocked on the door instead, though not very convincingly. “Who’s there?” He was aware his voice was shaking.

Still, the woman continued to sob and plead as if she had not heard him. “Open it, please open it. Have pity…”

Unable to bear it any longer, he braced himself, grabbed the handle and turned it. But the door did not budge. Quickly pulling his icy hand away, he blew on it before rubbing his hands together.

“Why do you not open it?” said the woman between sobs. “I can hear you there. I beg you–”

“It’s locked,” he said. “I don’t have a key.”

“No. It cannot be, there is no lock.” Her words ended in a wail.

Bending slightly, he saw there was no keyhole. Which meant the door was, most likely, jammed.

“Please, please, I will be good now. Open it, please. Before it–” Her begging sobs were abruptly cut short.

He slowly straightened up, a prickling sensation creeping up his back. “Hello?” he whispered. Silence. Not just from behind the door, but all around him. It was as if nothing else existed but him, the door and the now-silent woman. Even the sound of rain had disappeared. All that penetrated the silence was his pounding heart, his laboured breathing. A drop of sweat crawled down the side of his face.

His fingers brushed the handle. Still icy cold. “Hello?” he said again, so softly, he could barely hear himself. She’s not crying now, he reasoned with himself. She’s probably able to open the door herself. I can leave now. He turned to go.

But what if she’s hurt? He squeezed his eyes shut, betrayed by his own mind. What if she needs help? I should open the door and make sure.

He made no move to do so, shaking his head instead. “I don’t want to,” he whispered. But he knew he had no choice; his conscience wouldn’t allow him to walk away.

His hand reached for the handle as he held his breath, fervently hoping the door would be too jammed for him to open. His breath escaped in a keening moan as the door now opened easily. It swung inward on its hinges, revealing blackness so intense, it seemed solid. His mouth went dry.

“You should not have opened the door.”

The unexpected, clear voice behind him made him jump and he stumbled around. It was the old woman he’d seen earlier, her snow-white hair a gossamer halo around her head.

“But. She was crying, she needs help–”

“You should not have,” was all she said as she stepped back out into the corridor, her eyes mirroring the sadness in her voice.

Standing on the threshold of the inner room, gripped by an inexplicable, child-like fear, it took him a moment to notice a cat sat next to the old woman. A black and white cat, so similar to the one he’d shared his meal with earlier.

Wanting to step out of the room, he stared at the cat as if connected to it by an invisible lifeline. His limbs as heavy as lead, he strained to put one foot in front of the other. An icy hand closed over his wrist.

“You opened the door,” breathed a cold voice in his ear, the voice of the crying woman. “For that I am grateful. But you should have opened it sooner. Before it got hungry.”

“No…” He tried to pull away, but the woman held him fast.

“Come, cold one. Here is one, warm, fresh.”

The temperature around him plummeted.

He opened his mouth to scream, but his voice had frozen in his throat. Shuffling, grunting sounds came towards him. Galvanised by terror, he lunged out of the door.

The woman shouted. “No. I need you to stay.” She still had hold of him.

Something tore through his shirt, puncturing his skin. He turned to fight her off. But all he could see was glimpses of her; she kept fading in and out of view. What he managed to see robbed him of strength. A protruding eye seemed to reach for him as did long, skeletal fingers…

“It needs you. Then I can go free.”

His mind rebelled at her words, but he remained frozen where he stood.

The cat’s hair-raising howl fired him into action. The ghoulish woman came into view again. He punched her in the face. She staggered back, loosening her hold enough for him to pull free.

Stumbling forward, he fixed his wide-eyed stare on the old woman and the cat, symbols of normality against the inexplicable nightmare.

Eyes bulging, the old woman had one hand clutched over her mouth, the other stretched out towards him. The cat, ears flat against its head, bristled as it arched its back and bared its fangs.

He jerked to a stop and fell forward. The woman had grabbed his legs. Despite her skeletal appearance, she was strong. Strong enough to pull him back.

His fingers scrabbled to grab hold of the floorboards. Hauling himself forward, he inched away, but his legs were still in the room. Breathless sobs escaped him. He felt something fly past. Hissing and growling, the cat landed on his back then leapt off.

The woman-creature screamed, releasing her grip on his legs. Kicking out, he scrabbled free. A howl of denial followed him.

He knew he had to close the door but was too terrified to reach back into the room for it. The cat stood between him and the door, ears back, yowling loud enough to wake the dead. On his hands and knees, emboldened by the cat’s courage, he crawled forward and grabbed the handle. Glimpsing a skeletal hand snaking towards him, he pulled the door shut and fell back, breathing heavily.

Shaking, he scooped up the cat and held it close.

“You. Escaped…”

He swore loudly, having momentarily forgotten the old woman.

She was staring at him, her mouth open, hand resting lightly on her chest. Then she gestured for him to join her in the corridor.

Still holding the cat, he awkwardly got to his feet and stumbled out of the room.

The old woman pulled the outer door shut and started to herd him towards the stairs.

He stopped to retrieve his pack, which he’d dropped in the hallway almost a lifetime ago, it seemed. Glancing back, he stopped. There was no door. Only bare wall. He tried to speak but whimpered instead.

“Come,” said the woman. “It is best to leave now. You have had a lucky escape. Do not tempt fate.”

 “What–who was… What is this place?”

The old woman silently led the way down the stairs to the door of what he took to be her room. “This place is my home, where I was born. Where my sister was born. That…” She looked up, indicating the upper floor. “That was-is my sister. She is suffering her punishment for interfering in things best left alone.”

“But…” A small part of him wanted to know more, but a bigger part of him didn’t.

“It was another time. Few come here, only to leave food for me. None venture upstairs.” With that, she disappeared into her room.

He stared at the closed door, his thoughts swirling chaotically in his mind. Until the cat nudged his chin with its head.

Cuddling it close, he relished the comforting thrum of its purring. “I owe you my life, little one. And all I did was share my meagre lunch with you. Come. Let’s leave this cursed place.”

He stepped out, the cat still in his arms. Bright sunlight brought him up short, causing him to blink rapidly. He breathed deep of the freshly washed, clean air. “All I can say is thank you,” he said to the cat. “For what it’s worth, you have my eternal gratitude.”

Bending down, he placed it gently on the muddy ground, straightened and saluted it. “Farewell, brave warrior.”

Turning, he squared his shoulders, adjusted the pack on his back and walked away, eager to lengthen the distance between him and the ghastly house. He soon settled into a steady rhythm then glanced down before stumbling to a stop.

Walking beside him was the cat. It, too, stopped and looked up at him before curling its body around his leg.

“What are you doing? That’s your home back there.” He pointed back at the town.

The cat’s reply was to jump up. Instinctively, he caught it.

It’s paws on his shoulders, it purred, rubbing its head on either side of his face.

Scrunching up his face, he laughed, and the fear that still clung to him loosened its grip. To his surprise and delight, the cat climbed onto his shoulder and made itself comfortable, its whiskers tickling his ear. Smiling, he slowly nodded and resumed walking.

He’d never minded the solitude of his life. But, after the nightmare he’d just escaped, he was glad he now had a companion, a talisman against the newly discovered strangeness of the world.