Little Doors

by Paul Di Filippo

  My wife smiled. The agent just shook his head. He seemed unusually tenderhearted for someone in his profession.

  “This is really nothing for you to worry about,” I offered. “Why not just show us the portion of our house that’s open, and let us make a decision based on that?”

  The agent acquiesced. We began to move up the front walk, crushing the weeds that grew up between the flagstones.

  “I won’t have people living in our cellar and in our attic,” said my wife forcefully, as if demanding the death penalty in a murder case.

  “Don’t worry, dear,” I said, not really bothered by the prospect of evicting the unseen tenants. For she had said the words that let me know she was as much in love with the place as I.

  “Our cellar. Our attic.”

  * * *

  It was a weekday evening. We were idling in the cozy parlor on the first floor of our house. We had been living in our house for three weeks. Already, as I had anticipated, it felt as if we had always lived there. Our house seemed a natural layer on our existing personalities, a kind of second skin, comfortable as a wrinkled pair of favorite jeans. With our house as a refuge to retreat to, away from the pressures of the daily world, both my wife and I were functioning more efficiently at work. We really couldn’t have been happier.

  Except, of course, for the matter of the tenants.

  I had discovered, by making careful inquiries among the neighbors and at City Hall, the names of our unwanted lodgers.

  Huddling cravenly in the basement, a Mr and Mrs Ab.

  Perched insouciantly on the third floor, a Mr and Mrs Meta.

  Illegal immigrants both, I was certain, with names like that. It was an angle I was willing to exploit, if necessary. No pressure seemed too unethical to apply, if it would force them to leave. Why, they probably didn’t even belong in this country, much less in our house. Every time I thought of them, practically trespassing on our property, I became as angry as I ever did. I knew my wife felt the same way. Tonight, I had resolved, was to be the occasion of my speaking sternly to at least one set of these disreputable squatters. And I had decided, rather arbitrarily, to buttonhole the Abs first.

  Although it might seem queer, I had not confronted either couple previously for several good and sufficient reasons.

  First, I had had to contend with the expected, but nonetheless taxing exigencies connected with uprooting oneself and transporting all one’s possessions to a new home. This had been very debilitating. (Not that the stress hadn’t been worth it, in order to possess our house. Quite to the contrary …)

  Second, the unwanted couples were—to be fair about the matter— so innocuous, so quiet, so hidden, that they slipped my mind for days at a time. No noise ever intruded from above or below, and we had yet to witness our tenants coming or going.

  Third came my natural reluctance to cause a scene, even knowing that by all civilized standards I was absolutely within my rights as the new owner of the house.

  In any case, these hindrances were no longer operative. Tonight, I had finally overcome them all.

  This very evening I was determined to venture downstairs, into the terra incognita of our basement, and break the news to the Abs that they had better think about moving, and soon.

  I rose from my chair and turned toward my wife.

  She was sitting in a rowing machine on the floor. The ultramodern and slightly diabolical-looking apparatus appeared absolutely incongruous amidst our heavy Victorian furniture, which we had been accumulating for years in anticipation of one day living in just such an immaculately restored house. I marveled, not for the first time, how the old and new managed to coexist in our society …

  Clad in a blue Lycra stretchsuit, she faced the television set, which was on and tuned to PBS. (I had not been watching, instead sitting pensively, anticipating the various possible objections the Abs would raise, and how I would counter them.)

  “I’m going downstairs now,” I said to my wife, who pulled vigorously on the oars, rowing to nowhere.

  “Great,” she huffed. “Give ’em hell.”

  I hesitated, suddenly reluctant to confront the Abs. “What’s that you’re watching?” I asked, seeking to delay the inevitable moment.

  “Nova. Something about the brain. Three-part structure. Cortex, cerebellum … I don’t really know. Not paying attention, I guess.”

  Then she began to stroke harder, effectively precluding further talk. With no additional excuse for delay, I left the parlor.

  In the hallway, I abruptly stopped. A thought had occurred to me: where exactly was the entrance to the cellar?

  There was no exterior door or bulkhead set into the foundation. I had mowed the weedy lawn just yesterday, making a complete survey of our house’s perimeter, and would surely have noticed any possible exit. Such a lack could mean only that the entrance to the basement was within the house.

  This seemed incredible. How could the prior owners have consented to this kind of arrangement? Who would want one’s tenants trooping daily in and out through one’s own private quarters? I couldn’t conceive of such a setup. Yet what alternative was there? There had to be some sort of access to the cellar, and if it wasn’t outside, it had to be inside. The Abs must come and go while we were sleeping or at work …

  I set out to find the hidden door below.

  After much opening and closing of hitherto undiscovered closets, I came upon the door I sought in a shadowy corner of the kitchen. It was secured with a rusty nail hammered into the doorframe then bent at an angle and rotated into the body of the door. The nail had bitten so deeply, and for so long, that I had to use a claw hammer to remove it …

  I opened the door onto a Stygian stairwell, a benighted shaft. The light from over my shoulder illuminated only the first four or five steps. After that the darkness was complete.

  I looked for a light switch on either side of the door.

  There was none.

  I found a flashlight in the kitchen junk drawer. Its batteries were dead, a corroded and fused acidic mass. Perhaps, I thought, I should postpone this encounter until I caught the Abs venturing upstairs … But then, imagining what my wife would say if I told her I had failed to confront the Abs, I knew such a course was out of the question.

  Reluctantly, my left hand on the railless wall on that side, my right hand extended out into the blank abyss in the other direction, I began the descent.

  The stairs seemed to go on forever, with many twists and turns. The wall beneath my left hand changed from plaster to stone. The stone became damp, then actually wet. I could feel the movement of small rills. My right hand encountered nothing. A reptilian smell filled the air, as at the snakehouse at the zoo. I shuffled on, carefully lifting each foot and seeking out the next step.

  Eventually I reached the bottom. Beneath my shoes, the floor seemed made of stone and lightly scattered with sand.

  So: this was our house’s cellar. It seemed somehow fitting that such an impressive edifice should have a correspondingly deep and solid foundation. I was not alarmed. In fact, I was rather proud.

  My eyes having adjusted to the gloom, I noticed a faint, reddish, lambent glow emanating from one direction.

  I moved toward it.

  After navigating several bends, I realized the glow must be the familiar radiance cast by naked flames. My shadow, in fact, now danced behind me.

  One last turn brought the source into sight. The corridor opened out into a cave, at the center of which was a small crackling fire. Its smoke spiraled upward and vanished into the gloom that hid whatever ceiling—our floorboards?—there was. The cave walls—much dryer here—were decorated with primitive yet affecting drawings, consummated in charcoal and organic paints: mammoths, giant sloths, saber-tooths, and the outlines of hands, created, I knew, by blowing powdery pigments through a hollow reed as the actual digits lay splayed against the wall. There were various implements of bone and stone arranged around the cave: spears, fishhooks, knives …
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br />   By the fire crouched a lone figure. It looked up as I entered the circle of light.

  I instinctively recognized Mrs Ab.

  Moving closer, I lifted my empty hand in a greeting. Mrs Ab did likewise.

  At first I thought she was clothed in the fur of some animal. Then I realized the covering was her own dense pelage, and that she was naked. Her dark rubbery nipples poked through the fur. The short, thick, not unappealing pelt covered even her massive brow. Her brown eyes were those of an innocent beast.

  I squatted by the fire. For several moments neither of us said anything. I was unsure of Mrs Ab’s ability to converse at all, and did not wish to embarrass her. Yet what alternative did I have? I had to say something to explain my presence. The musky, primeval smell I had noticed at the head of the stairwell was incredibly pungent here, I realized, and it was beginning to make it hard to concentrate. I had to speak, before I forgot how to.

  “Uh, Mrs Ab,” I began. “Is your husband home?”

  “Ab hunt,” she replied, coarsely but intelligibly.

  Well, that was a relief. At least she could speak. I felt on more solid ground.

  “I hope I haven’t come at an inconvenient time,” I said. “Allow me to introduce myself. I’m the new owner of the house below which you dwell. Your landlord, so to speak. As such, I have come here to make new arrangements regarding your tenancy. To put it plainly, Mrs Ab, my wife and I do not wish to have lodgers sharing our house. Nothing personal, you understand. I’m certain just from seeing your home that you and Mr Ab are fine folks, decent hardworking members of the lower middle class. And to be sure, you haven’t made any disturbance that would be cause for complaint. It’s just that we desire our privacy, you see, and the arrangements that exist now—the exit through our kitchen and all— Well, it just can’t continue.”

  Mrs Ab cast a hairy hand behind her, indicating the depths of the cave. “Ab go that way, not your way.”

  Aha, that explained it. There was another entrance to the cavern. I pictured Mr Ab, spear in hand, exiting from between, say, two boulders in the city’s park at night, hunting squirrels, dogs and cats. Amazing. Still, they had to go.

  “Mrs Ab, I’m afraid you and your husband must find different lodgings as soon as possible. It’s as simple as that. My wife and I plan to finish off the basement. Perhaps we shall install a Jacuzzi. No prejudice involved, I assure you. The Metas will be receiving their notice next.”

  Mrs Ab shivered charmingly. “No. Ice. Too much ice. We almost die once. No go again.”

  “Mrs Ab,” I countered reasonably, “you’re prevaricating. There is no ice outside. In fact, it’s been one of the hottest summers on record. No, I’m afraid the old ‘ice’ excuse won’t cut it. You must make plans to leave …”

  Mrs Ab lay back on the floor. Bracing her feet, she spread her legs. Her inner thighs were hairy all the way to her genitals, which the firelight illumined in flickering detail.

  I felt myself becoming aroused. The thick air seemed a primal aphrodisiac.

  “Mrs Ab, get up,” I begged. “This is not the way to behave …”

  Still offering herself, she said, “No move. Please no move. We mate. No move.”

  “Mrs Ab,” I faltered, “what you’re proposing— I simply couldn’t— It’s out of the question.”

  Mrs Ab reached between her legs and spread the wet lips of her vagina.

  It was more than I could withstand. Before I fully realized what I was doing, I was naked and atop her.

  Our mating was the coupling of wild animals, brief but all-consuming, like a storm or wave.

  When we were done, lying together, naked flesh against furred skin, Mrs Ab whispered over and over, “No move, no move …”

  I must have dozed. When I awoke, the fire was low and Mrs Ab was gone.

  I dressed and sleepily made my way back to the foot of the stairs. I went up. The journey, once made, seemed shorter the second time.

  Upstairs, once more in our house, I shut the door and poked the nail into its old hole, so that the door would look permanently shut, yet allowing me easy entrance if I wished to return.

  My wife had gone to bed. I took a shower to rinse away the ancient odors that clung to me, then joined her.

  * * *

  It was several days before I was able to contemplate with any equanimity the events that had transpired on my uncanny visit to the Abs, our intrusive and unwelcome basement-dwelling tenants. (If only they would just pack up their chipped flints and scraped mammoth hides and depart voluntarily, how wonderful everything would be! Our house would begin to assume the homogenous, unified nature we so desired …)

  During this period my wife maintained a continuous inquiry as to how I had made out. Employing all the legalistic tricks of her trade, she probed and cross-examined me at breakfast and each evening on the reaction of the Abs to my demand that they depart.

  Feeling as if I were on the witness stand, I grew tongue-tied and hesitant, and was unable to answer her questions satisfactorily.

  “Well, just tell me: did they agree to vacate or not?”

  “It’s not as simple as getting a yes or no. There was, ah—a slight communication problem. As I suspected, they turned out to be, um—foreigners. It was hard to make myself understood …”

  “We’ll see if they have any trouble understanding the police enforcing an eviction notice!”

  Naturally I couldn’t tell her the truth of my seduction by the hirsute Mrs Ab and the awkward position of acquiescence it had placed me in, so I temporized, just as the realtor had done—and probably for the same reason.

  “There’s no need to take such a step yet. Just give me a little more time. I’m perfectly capable of handling this little matter.”

  “All right. But I won’t put up with living this way much longer. And don’t forget, you still haven’t tackled the Metas yet.”

  Ah, yes, the Metas …

  I had managed to push those unknown upstairs upstarts to the back of my mind. My wife’s mention of them now brought them forward. Suddenly they seemed less like a hurdle than a convenient excuse to postpone revisiting the Abs.

  “Good idea, dear. I’ll deal with them tonight.”

  “It’s about time!”

  That evening I rose from my chair—where I had been pretending to read the newspaper while actually worrying about the upcoming encounter—and regarded my wife once more.

  Dressed in her blue exercise suit, she was hanging upside down in a set of padded inversion cuffs attached to a braced chrome framework similar to a chin-up apparatus. She had detached the antenna from the television and inverted the set, so that she could watch it in her bat-like position.

  I was momentarily overwhelmed by a strange sensation as I contemplated both her and the image of the documentary narrator standing on their heads. For an instant I was convinced that the whole world had flipped over, and that I alone was left wrong side up, falling, falling, falling—

  When the queasy feeling dissipated, I asked, “What are you watching?”

  “Its all about Freud and his theories. Id, ego, superego—you know.”

  I nodded, wondering what the mundane gesture looked like to my wife, from her novel perspective.

  “I’m going to speak to the Metas now,” I said.

  She grunted a wordless reply, reminding me of Mrs Ab during her bestial climax. I left her thus.

  Wandering throughout the second floor’s many halls and rooms (our house was much bigger than it looked from the outside, due to many convolutions and curious folds), I pondered the problem of how to secure entrance to the third floor, where the Metas resided.

  Just as there was no exterior access to the basement, so was there no outside flight of stairs that would lead to the Metas. Entrance, therefore, had to be made from somewhere within. Yet the main staircase ended at the second-floor landing.

  But just as I had located the inconspicuous cellar door, I finally found the hidden way upward, in a dark corn
er at the end of a hall.

  Obeying a nameless impulse to look up, I detected the hair-thin outline of a square trapdoor in the high ceiling. Fumbling about in the shadows, I discovered wooden rungs set into the wall.

  Grasping an upper rung and lifting my right foot to the first, I began to climb.

  It seemed to take an inordinate amount of time to reach the ceiling. When my head was nearly touching the trapdoor I placed a hand against it and pushed. The panel resisted slightly, as if long disused, then yielded.

  As soon as the smallest crack showed, the panel was yanked away by unseen inanimate forces, a torrent of white light flooded out, blinding me, and I was snatched bodily, as if by suction, up and through the square hole in the ceiling.

  I found myself standing in a medium-sized white room, lit by a harsh, pervasive light whose source was hidden. The walls and floor of the place were padded in a substance that seemed both organic and artificial, giving way slightly under pressure, like skin, yet firm and tough as plastic. There was no furniture, nor any door. And the panel in the floor, by which I had hoped to return to the familiar portion of our house, had been in some manner seamlessly closed. I could detect no trace of it.

  As I stood, baffled, contemplating my prison, I sensed a presence behind me. I turned.

  There had somehow appeared a man clothed in a form-fitting white jumpsuit of some synthetic material that merged imperceptibly with white boots. His head was completely bald. His features were smoothly regular and extraordinarily placid, as if he surveyed the world from a lofty perch, far removed from any of its foibles and cares. He looked utterly imperturbable.

  This, then, had to be Mr Meta.

  Before I could quite recover my equilibrium, he spoke.

  “What are you doing here, sir? You really don’t belong up here.”

  Mr Meta’s voice was a sensible, rational monotone that completely infuriated me. To suffer such treatment in our own house—! It was too much. I’m afraid I lost my temper, and began to rant.