Demon's Door

by Graham Masterton

  Teddy opened his study book and wrote My Last Meal at the top of the first page. Then he looked up at Jim and said, ‘You’re going to ask me what I’m doing here, aren’t you? In remedial English?’

  ‘You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to.’

  ‘Well, so what. It’s all in my college records I guess. I have kind of a problem when it comes to writing. Once I’ve started, it’s like I can’t stop. I write pages and pages and pages until I run out of paper.’

  ‘You have logorrhea?’

  Teddy nodded. ‘Logorrhea, that’s right. That’s what my shrink calls it.’

  ‘Logorrhea is actually a euphemism for the uncontrollable urge to write endless reams of bullshit,’ said Jim. ‘Believe me, you’re not the only one who suffers from it. There’s plenty of famous writers who do the same, but they get prizes.’

  Jim returned to his desk and opened up his book again. Most of his class were frowning into the middle distance as if he had asked them to explain Einstein’s Special Theory of Relativity in ten words or less. Only two students had their heads down: Teddy, who was scribbling as if his life depended on it, and Arthur, who was writing much more laboriously, but licking his lips as if he could almost taste the food that he was writing about.

  At the back of the class, sitting at the next desk to Grant, was a pretty, dark-haired girl in a tight gray T-shirt. Georgia Bisocky. She was staring at Grant and batting her eyelashes flirtatiously, even though Grant remained oblivious.

  Jim said, ‘Georgia . . . I know Grant looks good enough to eat, but I doubt if the cooks at San Quentin have any recipes for football players.’

  Georgia blushed, but Grant only looked around in bewilderment, and blinked. Jim realized then that – although Grant wasn’t stupid – he was only capable of thinking one thought at a time.

  Jim was reading The Memory of Goldfish. It was a novel about a man who wakes up every morning having totally forgotten what happened to him the day before. Jim found the idea quite appealing. To wake up, every single day, and rediscover life afresh. The trouble was, he might be nice to people he hated, without remembering that he hated them. He might eat broccoli, and he detested it.

  He glanced up at the clock. Only another ten minutes to go before recess. But then there was a polite knock at the classroom door, and Jim could see somebody standing outside, looking in through the window.

  ‘Come on in,’ he called, and beckoned.

  The door was cautiously opened. An Asian-looking boy came in, with straight black hair that stuck up vertically from the top of his head, and a round face that put Jim in mind of a very young Jackie Chan. He was wearing a snowy-white T-shirt and blue jeans with rolled-up cuffs.

  In one hand he was carrying three textbooks, fastened together with a strap. In the other he was carrying a large brown wicker basket with a lid.

  ‘Special Class Two?’ he asked.

  ‘That’s right,’ said Jim. ‘And unless I’m very much mistaken, you must be the late Kim Dong Wook.’

  The boy approached Jim’s desk and bowed his head. ‘I apologize, sir, for missing first half-hour. I was delay at pet store.’

  ‘OK . . .’ said Jim, suspiciously. He looked down at the wicker basket. He could hear something scratching inside it, something alive. ‘What do you have in there, Kim? We don’t generally allow students to bring livestock into college. Petty rule, really. To my mind, there’s nothing like a few chickens pecking about the classroom to give it some character.’

  ‘This is gift for you, Mr Rook,’ said Kim. He lifted up the basket and set it down on Jim’s desk.

  Jim said, ‘I’m sorry, Kim. I can’t accept gifts from students. Might be seen as bribery. Maybe an apple now and again, or a slice of pepperoni pizza. But not this, whatever it is.’

  ‘This is not gift from me, Mr Rook. This is gift from Kwisin.’

  ‘Kwisin? Who’s that?’

  ‘Please to open it, Mr Rook.’

  ‘Kim, I can’t. You’ll just have to take it back where it came from.’

  ‘Not possible, Mr Rook. Once Kwisin has given gift, it cannot be returned.’

  T.D. called out, ‘Come on, sir! Open it up, why don’t you? Let’s see what’s in there. Might be a beaver! Me, I love beavers!’

  ‘Yeah, come on, sir,’ Arthur urged him. ‘Can’t hurt to take a look.’

  Jim stood up. ‘OK,’ he agreed, ‘I’ll open it up just to see what it is. But I can’t keep it. Faculty rules.’

  Kim unfastened the cord that held the lid on the basket. Then he took two steps back, and bowed his head again.

  There was more scratching, and the basket rattled and creaked on top of Jim’s desk. Whatever was inside it was obviously impatient to be let out. Jim said, ‘This isn’t dangerous, is it? It’s not a polecat or anything like that?’

  Kim said nothing, and his expression remained unreadable.

  Jim lifted the lid at arm’s length, prepared to jump backward if the creature inside the basket sprang out at him. But it didn’t. Once he had removed the lid and set it down on the desk, it simply sat there and stared at him with narrowed eyes.

  Jim looked at Kim and he found it almost impossible to speak. Kim Dong Wook bowed his head for a third time and said, ‘Gift from Kwisin, Mr Rook. Given with gratitude and deep respect.’

  ‘How is this possible?’ said Jim. ‘How the hell can this be?’

  ‘All things are possible,’ said Kim.

  Jim reached inside the basket and lifted Tibbles out. Jim’s heart was thumping but Tibbles seemed to be unimpressed. He gave Jim one of his usual condescending looks and then turned his head to take in Special Class Two.

  ‘Well, I was nearly right!’ said T.D., popping his fingers. ‘It’s not a beaver, but it’s a pussy!’

  ‘He’s dead, for Christ’s sake,’ Jim told Kim, under his breath, so that nobody else in the classroom could hear him. ‘Where did you find him? How did he come back to life?’

  ‘Maybe not same cat, Mr Rook.’

  ‘Of course he’s the same goddamned cat!’ Jim hissed at him. ‘You think I don’t recognize my own cat? He’s still wearing his collar! Look at it! Look what it says here! Tibbles! That’s my cat!’

  ‘Gift from Kwisin, Mr Rook. Not dead now. Door close, door open.’

  ‘Oh, just look at it!’ squeaked a blonde-haired girl in the second row, sitting in front of T.D. Her name was Judii Rogers, although Jim had already nicknamed her Calamity Jane because of her tight denim vest with silver stars on it, and her tiny denim skirt, and her white boots with fringes on them. ‘It’s so totally cute! Can I take it home with me?’

  Tibbles looked across at her with an expression of deep disdain. Jim said, ‘That’s it,’ and lowered Tibbles back into the basket. Tibbles tried to cling on to the sides, but Jim forced him down, gently at first and then much harder, and replaced the lid, tying the cord securely. Tibbles gave his distinctive ‘warrooow’ mew, which meant that he was annoyed, and scrabbled at the sides of the basket in frustration.

  Jim felt as if he couldn’t breathe. Maybe he should take the basket out of the classroom and check Tibbles again, just to make sure that he wasn’t hurt. Or maybe he should dismiss Special Class Two altogether, and take Tibbles straight to Dr Hooperman, his vet.

  Kim seemed to guess what he was thinking, because he said, ‘Cat is perfectly healthy, Mr Rook. Same as yesterday. No need for worry.’

  Billy Friedlander called out, ‘Sir? Mr Rook, sir? You still want us to finish this last meal thing?’ Billy Friedlander was sitting right at the back of the class. He had messed-up hair and a gray T-shirt with holes in it and gray sneakers without any laces. Jim had nicknamed him Hobo.

  ‘I’m just getting to dessert,’ said Billy. ‘I was thinking about Death By Chocolate. Better than Death by Potassium Chloride, huh?’

  Jim said, ‘Yes, please. Everybody finish their menus. Kim – find yourself a desk and sit down, please. Here’s some paper, and a pen. Your assignment is
to write down what you would like to eat for your last supper, if you were on Death Row, and you were going to be executed.’

  Kim took the paper and pen, but looked directly at Jim and said, ‘Only in Christian religion is last supper.’

  ‘Well, write it down anyhow,’ Jim told him. ‘Let’s wait until the bell rings, and then you and I can have a little talk about life and death, can’t we?’

  THREE

  Jim spent the rest of the lesson with his elbows on his desk, his book open in front of him but unread, his eyes fixed on Tibbles’ cat basket. Every now and then, Tibbles let out a plaintive mew, but Jim thought that he sounded sorry for himself rather than sick. He certainly didn’t sound as if he were breathing his last shrimpy breath.

  Kim had seated himself at the end of the front row, nearest the stationery cupboard, next to Janice Sticky. Jim glanced at him from time to time but he didn’t raise his head once.

  The black girl with the gilded cornrows and the purple glitter nail-polish waved her hand at him. Her name was Elvira Thomas, although Jim had nicknamed her Cleopatra because of her sleek high cheekbones and her exotic looks. She wore dangling gold earrings that almost hung down to her collarbone, like two chandeliers.

  ‘Sir? My last supper? What if the prison kitchens don’t know how to cook it?’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘It’s blaff, sir.’

  ‘Blaff?’

  ‘It’s fish, cooked in lime juice and chillies. My grandma makes it.’

  ‘Let’s assume for the purposes of this assignment that the catering staff at San Quentin know to cook just about anything. Where does blaff come from?’

  ‘Martinique, sir. That’s where my grandma came from. She’s the greatest cook ever, and she can mix up magic potions, too. When I was a little girl she told me that she knew a way to walk straight through walls.’

  ‘I’ve heard about that,’ put in Teddy. ‘It’s called a door.’

  Eventually the bell rang and everybody in the class came shuffling forward with their assignments. Some of them had written only four words, while others had used up half of their sheet of paper. Teddy had filled up both sides, and then written vertically up the margins, too.

  Judii tottered up and gave Jim a white toothy smile. She had masses of blonde curls and shiny scarlet lip-gloss. ‘I totally adore your cat, Mr Rook,’ she said in her breathy, squeaky voice. ‘Any time you want a cat-sitter, just let me know.’

  ‘OK,’ said Jim. ‘But let me warn you that he’s very temperamental.’ Not to mention immortal.

  ‘He won’t be temperamental with me. I’ll love him and I’ll tickle him and I’ll squeeze him so tight that he won’t even be able to breathe.’

  Kim was the last student to come forward. Jim took his paper and read what he had written. Bindaeddeok, mi yeok guk, dak gal bi and in jeol mi.

  ‘Sounds almost edible,’ he said. ‘What is it?’

  ‘Mung bean pancake, then beef and seaweed soup, then spicy chicken with vegetable, and finish with sweet rice cake with roasted bean powder.’

  ‘OK, good.’

  Kim turned to leave the classroom but Jim said, ‘Wait up, Kim. You and I need to have a little talk, don’t we?’

  ‘There is no charge for basket, Mr Rook. Please fetch it back when you have taken cat home, and I will return it to pet store.’

  ‘I’m not worried about the basket, Kim. It’s the cat.’

  ‘Like I say, sir. Cat is perfectly healthy. Same like yesterday.’

  ‘Kim – my cat died this morning, before I came here. I ran him down in my car and squashed him flat as a tortilla. I killed him. But less than an hour later you stroll in with a cat basket and hey presto! He’s not dead after all. You want to explain to me how that happened?’

  ‘Like I say, Mr Rook, your cat is a gift from Kwisin.’

  ‘He was lying dead on my sunbed on the balcony of my apartment. My apartment was locked. How did you get hold of him, and how come he isn’t dead any more?’

  ‘Doors close, Mr Rook. But doors also open.’

  ‘That means absolutely nothing as far as I’m concerned.’

  ‘With greatest respect, you will soon see that it means everything.’

  Jim went over to the basket and untied the lid. Tibbles climbed out and made a performance of stretching himself. Jim picked him up, although Tibbles made it obvious that he hadn’t yet forgiven him. He hung suspended from Jim’s arm, his eyes closed, his tail occasionally twitching to show that he was irritated.

  ‘You see?’ said Kim. ‘He is mad at you, maybe, but he is living and breathing for sure.’

  ‘So who’s this Kwisin?’ Jim asked him. ‘Is it a he, or a she? Or is it a bunch of monks? Or a street gang, like the Korean Killers?’

  ‘Kwisin, sir, is she. She is like spirit. Like somebody who step through door. Somebody gone but still here.’

  ‘You’re talking about a ghost?’

  Kim shrugged. ‘In Korean story, spirits are different from Western story. We call them demons, but they have many different shapes. Like frog, like fox, like witch-woman. Like spider sometimes.’

  ‘So you’re telling me that Tibbles here was resurrected by a Korean demon?’

  ‘Kwisin is grateful to you, Mr Rook. Your cat’s life – that is your reward.’

  ‘I don’t get it. My grandfather served in Korea during the Korean War and he was always telling me Korean folk stories about magic bottles and fish that could talk but I never heard of Kwisin. And why should she be grateful? What the hell have I ever done for her?’

  ‘You have not yet given Kwisin anything. But you will. And for this Kwisin is grateful. Like thank you in advance.’

  Jim stared at Kim intently, but just as before, Kim’s face remained smooth and round and impassive. Jim was tempted to shout ‘boo!’, just to get a reaction. For a Korean, Kim had very pronounced creases over his eyes, so that it looked almost as if he were watching Jim through the eyeholes in a papier-mâché mask.

  ‘I know that you can see spirits, Mr Rook,’ he said, in a flat, matter-of-fact tone.

  ‘What?’

  ‘I know that you can see ghosts, and demons. You have the eyes.’

  ‘What are you talking about? What eyes?’

  ‘But it is true, yes? You can see spirits?’

  Jim hesitated. He could deny it. He could simply refuse to answer. After all, he didn’t know this Kim Dong Wook from Adam. He hadn’t yet had the opportunity to check through his school and his medical records, and for all he knew, Kim was autistic, or drug-dependent, or a borderline schizophrenic. But he had walked into the classroom with a living, mewing, bad-tempered Tibbles, and whatever he was, and however he had done it, he had brought an undeniably dead cat back to life.

  ‘What’s going on here, Kim?’ Jim asked him. ‘You seem to know more about me than I know about you.’

  ‘I have come here simply to learn, Mr Rook. My father and mother were told that you had great gift of teaching. You see not just one world, like most teacher, but both worlds.’

  ‘Oh, yes. And who told them that?’

  ‘Kwisin, Mr Rook. You cannot open a door into the spirit world without the spirits knowing about it. The spirits can see the living when they enter the world of the dead, just like you yourself can see the dead when they enter the world of the living.’

  Tibbles began to struggle, so Jim dropped him down on the floor. ‘All right, Kim. Let’s put it this way. I can see things that most other people can’t see. Spirits, ghosts, whatever you want to call them. Demons, too. I’ve been able to do it ever since I was nine years old, when I nearly died of pneumonia. But don’t think for a moment that I like doing it, because I don’t.’

  ‘There is a saying in Korea, Mr Rook. If you are given a lamp, why would you not light it when darkness falls?’

  Jim looked down at Tibbles and Tibbles looked back up at him with supreme arrogance, as if he had asked the question, instead of Kim.

  Jim didn
’t answer. He was very reluctant to meddle with spirits these days, because it always seemed that there was a price to pay. Real life wasn’t like that TV program Ghost Whisperer, in which troubled ghosts were eventually shown the way to heaven, and everybody ended up tearful and happy. Once – reluctantly – he had helped his neighbor to talk to her recently dead husband. She had wanted to make up with him because he had stormed out of the house after an argument about the way she cooked chili and he had been cremated less than twenty minutes later in a fifteen-vehicle auto pile-up on the Golden State Freeway. When Jim had raised his spirit, there had been a highly emotional confrontation, with husband and wife both shouting and crying. Eventually they had sorted out most of their misunderstandings, and calmed their anger with each other, even if they hadn’t found perfect peace. That same evening, however, the woman’s sixty-seven-year-old father had suffered a stroke which left him permanently speechless and paralyzed.

  Almost every time that Jim had put the living in touch with the dead, similar tragedies had followed, sometimes worse. He had never been able to prove that they were a direct consequence of getting in touch with the spirit world, but he no longer offered his services as a mediator between the living and the dead, no matter how much pain and loss anybody had suffered. Two years ago, he had contacted the late wife of one of his fellow teachers. She had died of breast cancer at the age of thirty-three, and all that her bereaved husband had wanted to do was to embrace her one last time.

  At 3:33 p.m., with the drapes in their living room drawn together to keep out the sunlight, the teacher had held his lost wife in his arms. She had been shadowy, barely visible, but she had been sufficiently substantial for him to feel the warmth of her body, and kiss her lips.

  At 3.33 p.m., less than five miles away, their four-year-old daughter had fallen from the seventh-story balcony at her grandmother’s apartment on to a concrete path, and died later that night from severe head injuries.

  Jim said to Kim, ‘What will I be giving this Kwisin, to make her so grateful? You could at least tell me that.’

  ‘You will find out, Mr Rook, when we reach the right time.’