The Locked Door
by
Austin Crawley
First published in Great Britain in 2017
by Provisioners Press
ISBN 978-137095598-5
Copyright Austin Crawley 2015
Austin Crawley has asserted the right to be identified as the author of this work under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All Rights Reserved
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise without the prior written permission of the publisher and copyright owners.
The Locked Door
The blackened clouds across an angry red dawn sky threatened rain. Emma thought the striking colors might have made for an interesting painting, had the shadowed line of hills not been broken by an unsightly, decrepit house.
This was Emma's destination. The unexpected inheritance from an aunt whom she never knew. Aunt April had died childless and in testate, mourned by no one, except perhaps the emaciated looking grey cat whom Emma could see sitting on the front porch of the property, as if waiting none too patiently for its next meal.
Emma glanced at the messy, dark hair of her sleeping five-year-old son, slumped in the passenger seat, and felt grateful that at least she had a dependable car with which to drive them to this remote locality. She had kept the car in tip top shape since the death of her husband, frugally conserving as much of the insurance money as possible so that she wouldn't have to go out to work before Keshawn was old enough for school. The inherited house had brought visions of clean, country living and perhaps a small town library where she could dust off her old degree and find work once the Kindergarten term began, but what had been described as a fixer-upper looked more like a complete wreck as she drew closer and Emma was beginning to contemplate alternative plans.
The front of the house looked even worse from close up. Emma parked directly in front of the door and contemplated whether or not to wake Keshawn. Despite being out in the middle of nowhere she would not leave her child unattended for even a moment, but she was having doubts about whether or not she would venture very far inside the house. Its run down state was completely disheartening. She wasn't even sure if it could be considered safe. The weathered, grey bricks around the base of the wood house looked as if some of them might crumble at any moment.
Emma let out a laboured sigh and got out of the car as quietly as she could, contemplating whether there might be a cheap motel in the nearby town. She closed the car door with a soft click and trudged over the gravel drive to the porch. This, at least, was made of solid cement and looked safe enough. The rotting wooden front door, on the other hand, brought visions of a collapsing roof and other dangers. She was glad that she had thought to wear old jeans and her plain denim-blue cotton blouse that she usually used for painting and other diy jobs. The cobwebs framing the door frame suggested that she was likely to find heavy dust inside.
She opened the door with the heavy, antique metal key that the lawyer had given her along with the papers for the house. Ruin that it was, the house was fully hers now. It was a responsibility she hadn't asked for, but the land alone was worth a fair price if it came to bulldozing the structure itself. Suddenly, with that thought, the bricks and cement seemed very solid... defiant of any suggestion of demolition. Emma had a strange feeling, as if someone were watching her... judging her.
Emma looked up at the upper floor windows. She had almost expected to see a face looking back, but there was no sign of anyone, anywhere. She shook off the images from watching too many Horror movies and turned to look at her son's slouching figure through the car window, reassuring herself that he was safely within sight. Then she turned back to the door and put the key into the lock. The metal let out a squeal as the key turned, as if it hadn't been used in years. Emma found it strange because she knew that her aunt had continued to live there until she died, just two months ago.
She pushed the door open and peered inside. At first the dim light from the doorway revealed nothing more than the shadows of furniture inside; a Victorian designed sofa, some small tables and a hearth. Then a bright ray of sunlight penetrated the glooming clouds and shone right into the room, illuminating rich, burgundy fabric on the almost new looking sofa and dust-free surfaces on rich, mahogany wood furniture. Emma stepped inside just a little way, astounded by the opulence of the room.
She quickly turned to reassure herself that Keshawn was still in sight, then began opening long, heavy draperies on the windows that faced the front of the house. The light transformed the room and it began to feel inviting. Emma wanted to explore further, but first she needed to wake her son and bring him inside. To her surprise, when she turned towards the door, he was already standing there, rubbing sleep from his eyes. She had not heard a car door close. She looked outside quickly and saw why. Keshawn had left the car door wide open.
"Stay here, Kes. I'm going out to shut the car door." She might have reprimanded him for leaving it open at any other time, but they had had a long day and she just wasn't up to playing the disciplinarian at that moment, especially with the boy still half asleep. She dashed down the steps of the porch and gave the car door a good slam, not caring how much noise it made this time. She thought about locking the car securely, but she didn't want to leave Keshawn alone in the house for more than a moment and rationalized that there was no one around for miles. The car would be safe enough.
She leapt up the porch steps and back into the living room, but in those few seconds that it had taken to shut the car door, Keshawn had wandered somewhere out of sight.
"Keshawn!" Emma called, pitching her voice to reach as many rooms as possible at once. There was no answer. Emma began to feel the slight panic that every mother feels when a small child can't be found for a moment, battling with the calm logic that he couldn't have wandered far.
"Keshawn!" she called again, this time aiming her voice towards the staircase, some part of her noting the decorative carved work on the wood banister while her primary focus remained on locating her son.
"I'm upstairs!" the small voice called back. Emma's shoulders relaxed. She hadn't realized how tight all of her muscles had become in the near panic that had begun when he hadn't answered her first call.
"Well come back down and stay with me," she ordered. "I'm not sure how safe the different rooms are, especially upstairs."
There was silence for a moment, then the sound of soft footsteps echoed from somewhere up the stairs and Keshawn appeared at the top.
"Come upstairs, Mom. I've found a really neat door!" Rather than obeying his mother's command to come down, Keshawn turned and ran back the way he had come. Emma had no choice but to follow.
"This isn't what I said to do," Emma bellowed as angrily as she could muster. "I said to come down!"
Emma stopped at the top of the stairs, wondering which direction Keshawn had gone. A hallway to the right appeared to lead to most of the rooms, but a landing to the left led to another set of stairs that presented the sort of mysterious alcove that would fascinate a small boy. She was intrigued herself, but first she needed to collar Keshawn.
"Where are you?" Her voice sounded exasperated to her own ears.
"I'm in the bedroom!" Keshawn's voice sounded weakly from the hallway to the right. Emma was almost disappointed that he hadn't chosen the more interesting left hand path. She walked down the hall, looking into each room as she came to it and grumbling to herself that she had no way of knowing which bedroom he meant or even the layout of the house. Eventually she found him, squirming as if he were making snow angels on the bedcover in one of the smaller bedrooms. She tried to glare at him stern
ly, but she was just too tired from the drive and relieved to have him back in sight to produce the desired effect. Keshawn grinned at her and carried on rolling around on the bed.
Emma opened her mouth to warn him that the furnishings were probably dusty, but she stopped when her gaze fell onto the bedside table and she could clearly see that there wasn't a speck of dust on it at all. She thought that there should be some after two months, even if the old lady had kept her house immaculate. She brushed the thought aside, assuming that whomever had been in charge of the house after her aunt's demise had kept it clean. She added the thought that it was a pity that they hadn't also kept the outside in good repair.
"I found a key!" Keshawn announced, holding up an old fashioned brass key, much like the one that Emma had used to open the front door.
"Is it the same as mine?" she asked, pulling the front door key out of her pocket. She held it up and Keshawn scooted over to hold his key next to it. The style was similar, but the wards and bits were completely different.
"Maybe it goes to the door in
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