The Door

From the minute we moved into the house, I hated the door. I never wanted to move in the first place, I liked it where we were. But my dad's job moved location after he got the big promotion he'd been working towards and of course we had to move along with it. He worked with some big firm, a manufacturing firm. I'm not sure exactly what he did but we had to leave everything behind so he could give it a real try. Or so my mum said.

I almost hated him for that. But he was my dad and I loved him. But I hated the place he brought us to. The house was a stand alone in the middle of nowhere on the South West coast of England. When we arrived it was raining, the water bleaching down from the black sky in torrents that I thought would never end. The house was grey and dismal in the dark. It's brickwork was plan, a boring cement covering the entirety of the house. The windows were single paned, the sills rotting from the outside. Ivy crept up the wall and was slowly beginning to engulf the front of the house, snaking close to the windows where it had obviously been trimmed back recently. Maybe by the estate agent looking to get a sale. Well it worked, because there we were, sitting in our car staring at the house that was to be ours. I didn't like it from the beginning.

The inside of the house wasn't much better. Dreary corridor after dreary corridor. The whole house felt grey to me, dulled. As if all life had been breathed out of it. I remember desperately hoping we could redecorate. But when I'd asked my mum about it she simply said: soon.

They let me pick me own room. There were four to choose from, besides theirs. I checked them all out, scrutinsed them looking for any nooks and crannies, any scary places, before I finally made my decision. The room I chose wasn't the largest one, it was quite mondest in size with a single bed, a wardrobe and a set of drawers being its only furniture. The room didn't feel as dark as the rest of the house, it was a little lighter, probably helped along by the three windows that adorned the wall facing out to the sea. It was a tremendous view.

I tried to stay in my room as much as possible, but of course, I couldn't stay in there every minute of every day, especially during the holidays. I got restless. But the one place I avoided was the dining room. To me that place was the most claustrophobic in the entire house, despite the enormous expanse it actually occupied. Hardwood floors combined with dark wood-panelled walls and heavy velvet curtains in the shade of blood all mixed to provide a foreboding atmosphere. And then there was the door. That door in the dining room that led into a room unknown. I was told not to go in there because the door was worth a lot of money. There was no concern however, no way was I going through that door.

It was a double door standing six feet high at least. On it was a motif, tiny little tiles all shaped and placed together in a bizarre picture. It portrayed a man in his small fishing boat, angling in the rough dark sea for whatever catch he could find. The sky was dark, overcast with thick clouds adorning most of the sky. Here and there, a blue patch shone through, but to no avail for the lonely man. At the bottom of the picture there was land, a rocky shoreline of great big boulders, grey and covered in moss and seaweed. Below that a grassy verge.

The picture had been framed from the house. As soon as I looked out of the middle window in my bedroom I could see that was the angle the mosaic had been created from.

Of course, when I told my parents about the picture, about it's negative connotations, about the way it made me feel, they laughed it off. Especially my dad. He was a no-nonsense man. He thought I was being ridiculous, I knew he would. My mum listened to me with a little more eagerness however, she heard me out without breaking into her usual goofy grin.

"Don't laugh at her Ted," my mum remonstrated my dad and urged me to go on.

"But, don't you think there's something wrong with it?" I asked. Everyone turned to look at the picture. Of course we were all sitting eating at the dining room table, the dark shiny wood only adding to the darkness in the room. Each of us stared at it for a while, seeing the man in his boat, the dark sky above him.

"There's nothing at all wrong about it," my dad continued, shaking his head as he scooped up another forkful of food. "It's a fine picture, a piece of art. And you're not to go near it."

"Don't worry dad, I don't want to," I wrenched my eyes from the scene depicted on the doors. A hard feat since I was sitting opposite. I decided to focus on my food, the issue at hand.

I avoided the dining room as much as I could, but it was inevitable that I had to be there at least once a day. I tried everything to get my parents to eat in the living room, a much more friendly and cosy environment. But my dad always insisted on being in the dining room, said he quite liked it.

I tried not to be on my own in the house. Stupid, I know, at my age, but I couldn't help it. I felt anxious about being there. The first day I did happen to be on my own was the first time I noticed a difference. My dad was at work, had been out since early morning, and my mum went to go shopping at the local store. Or so the note told me when I woke up and read it. I felt instant alarm knowing I was on my own, felt the hairs rise on my arms and the back of my neck. Taking a few moments to calm myself down I wrapped my dressing gown tighter around my petite frame, wanting the comfort as much as the warmth. I moved through into the kitchen where I boiled the kettle and made myself some cereal. Though instead of staying there to eat I went back into the front room, flicking on the television as I slumped onto the sofa. The noise emanating from the box offered a little solace and I watched eagerly.

After an hour I began to feel restless. I knew I couldn't sit there for much longer so I opted for cleaning my cutlery, giving them a quick wash before leaving them to drain. I headed up to my room and got dressed, pulling on a pair of thick jeans and a jumper. That was the other thing about the house, it was cold. So cold that I had to dress from head to toe for bed. It could have been the incessant rain outside spattering the windows from dawn until dusk. It never seemed to cease, endless rivulets of rain water running down the panes of glass, chilling the house. But I didn't believe it was the rain, or even the cold tinge to the weather. I knew it was the house. The house was a cold furnace, breathing ice and chill into all of the rooms from the heart; the cellar. We had a boiler, an ancient boiler that was always on, yet still, no heat seemed to permeate the chill of the rooms. Especially the dining room.

I was lying on my bed, the blanket cast over my legs to ward off the chill, the rain beating on the windows outside, when I first heard the noise. It was the hum of a moan. A man's voice.

I sat up straight, dropping my book without bothering to mark the page. I felt my heart beating wildly in my chest, in my ears. For a while I listened. I waited to hear the sound again. Sure enough, after a few minutes I heard it again. The drone of a voice. A man in pain.

I didn't know what to do. I was alone in the house and I knew my mum wouldn't return anytime soon. The moan came again, a gutteral noise that shook me to the core. It was coming from inside the house. Although I knew that rationally, my theory was absurd, it was right. I had to go and find out, I knew I couldn't just sit there.

I pushed myself from the bed, feeling my legs protest as I moved towards the door. They felt weak, bending at the knees. I steeled myself as I gripped the door handle and flung it inwards, knowing that to do it quicker would be easier. Nothing greeted me outside of my room door. Only the darkness of the hallway. To the left was my parents room, a little farther down the hall. To my right, the other rooms that I had discarded as taking for my own, and the staircase, leading to the ground level of the house. Unsure which way to go, where to check, I waited for a few moments. I didn't have to wait long until I heard it again, the sound travelling up the stairs, echoing down the corridor until it reached me.

Downstairs. Whatever it was was down the stairs. It made me feel a little safer, knowing that I was at least safe in my room. But I still knew I had to go down, had to find the source of the noise. I felt stupid but picked up a metal candle holder from the top of my drawers before I set out, feeling a bit more comfortable knowing I had a weapon.

I began to creep down the stairs, taking my time to make as little noise as possible, even ensuring my breathing wasn't laboured. As I made it to the bottom of the stairs, my feet firmly planted on the hardwood flooring in my socks, I heard the noise again. The low emission of the groan. And I knew exactly where it came from. The dining room.

I swallowed, hard.

I willed my feet to move, heading forward to the dining room. I moved down the darkened passageway, the only light coming from the front door which had a small stained glass window built into each of the doors. It cast colours across the floor, dancing as the rain that fell dropped down the window, casting flickering shapes.

I was almost there. I could see the door to the dining room ahead of me, dark and tall, panelled wood. I vaguely wondered why anyone would decorate a place in such a drab style. I was on the door sooner than I'd hoped, the familiar moaning sounding louder.

Taking a deep breath I shoved the door inwards, jumping in to sweep my eyes around the room. I saw no one. After a few minutes I realised that my hand was raised above my head, candlestick at the ready. I felt like a character out of Cluedo. I dropped my arm, feeling silly.

Then the moan sounded again. I spun as I finally realised where it came from. The door.

I tiptoed over to the mosaic, my mind churning as much as my stomach. My heart was beating faster than ever, blood rushing through my ears at an amazing pace.

Before me I saw the mosaic. The same coloured tiles depicting the scene, the dark clouds hovering over a rough sea. The boat wavering in the unrelenting tide. The man…. The man was gone. I moved closer, staring at the boat. The man was gone. How can that be? Gingerly I reached out, stroking the tiles. They felt like normal ceramic tiles should, cold to the touch, smooth. A dark filler had been used to keep the tiles together, bridge the gaps.

Where is he? My eyes scanned the picture, searching, unsure. My mind couldn't comprehend how a person in a motif could move, where he could have gone. How he could have gone. I searched and searched, my eyes flickering over the image, taking its entirety in. And then, I spotted him. A small figure clad in brown and green lying on the grassy verge just over the rocks. I crouched to get a better look. In his hand he still held his fishing rod, a small blob hooked on the end. I assumed it was a fish. On his flesh I saw small tinges of red, dots to my eyes.

He moaned again, the sound seeming altogether too loud for the picture. Too loud at all, in fact.

He was hurt, I was sure of it. Hurt by something, maybe something in the sea. He was bleeding.

I stood up, panic rising in my chest. What can I do? I knew that in reality I couldn't do anything, he was a man in a picture. A picture. He couldn't really move. He wasn't really real. I glanced down at him again, saw his limp body on the grass.

Just then, the front door opened. I could hear my mum come trundling in, her arms laden with bags. Quick as a flash I dashed from the dining room to the hallway.

"Mum! Mum!" I yelled as I saw her. She was drenched, her hair patted down by heavy rain drops, bags wet. "Come see," I told her.

"Amanda!" her voice rebounded against the panelled walls, coming down on me doubly hard. "Take some of these bags."

Dropping my candlestick and ignoring the loud thump it made as it connected with the wooden floor, I hastily grabbed some bags from her, lightening the load. I carried them into the kitchen with my mum in tow, placing them gently on the nearest bench. As soon as she had done the same I began again.

"Mum, you have to come see," I told her, pulling furiously on her arm.

She shrugged me off, her brows creasing in a frown. "What is wrong with you?" she asked, her tone harsh. "I'm tired. I'm soaking, let me sort myself out."

"But mum," I complained, my voice whining. I didn't care if I sounded like a child, she had to see.

"What?" she snapped.

"Please, just two minutes," I took hold of her arm again, dragging her through to the dining room. She allowed herself to be led as she unzipped her dripping raincoat with her free hand. I yanked her in front of the picture and pointed. "See."

Her eyes scanned the picture, searching. "What am I looking for?" she asked, her voice a shade calmer.

"The man… he's…" I glanced down myself. The man was back in his little boat, happily fishing away under a stormy sky.

"Fishing," she finished for me with a sigh, pulling her arm from my grasp. She shrugged out of her raincoat, holding it up on one hooked finger.

"Mum he was…" I glared at the bottom of the mosaic, searched for evidence that he'd been on the grass. His fishing rod was gone, the fish he'd caught missing. The grass looked as it always had, a dark shade of green.

"Fishing," she was exasperated. "Now can I go and put my shopping away?"

"Mum he moved! He was on the grass," I pleaded, knowing it would do no good.

"Don't be stupid Amanda, come and help me."

I trudged through after her towards the kitchen, my mind racing. What did I see? Did he really move? Was it all in my head? By the time I was opening bags and stowing the things away into old-fashioned cupboards, I was questioning my own sanity.