Behind the Door

by Mary SanGiovanni

  And people like Toby were good at it.

  He was turning forty that year, which meant he had spent the last twenty-four years since his conviction, incarceration, and release perfecting his ability to lie. He had learned to change like a chameleon. He could be charming, unassuming, unworthy of notice or comment. He was also selective and, at times, ruthless. And it had been almost two and a half decades gone by since he had been arrested or convicted of anything that had to do with children.

  However, his confidence, and with it some of his skill, had waned after the girl in Dingmans Ferry. It wasn’t that he didn’t know deep down, deeper than his lies and justifications could reach, that he hurt children. He had, in the past, tried to justify it as a necessary evil, a means of pain management or sedation or simply an inexorable addiction. He was not so deluded as to think the children were unaffected by his…attentions. It had never been so clear to him, though, nor had it ever inspired such self-loathing, as it had with that girl. Something changed after that. Toby had taken a good look at his life the last four decades or so and realized that all that perfected lying had never been perfect at all. He had never escaped his mother’s belief that he was a monster, pure and simple, the kind that most of the rest of the world would see put down sooner than a rabid dog.

  It made him afraid of others, as if he were somehow suddenly exposed. Mostly, it made him afraid of himself, a notion he wasn’t used to and didn’t like at all.

  Toby had always wanted to be normal, to date regular adult women, to get married. When he’d realized, much to his disappointment, that his sexual attraction to preadolescent girls wasn’t something he could outgrow or ignore, he’d resigned himself to what he was. In fact, he’d suppressed instead that sad, self-pitying hope of ever getting better. After the Dingmans Ferry girl, though, that need to feel normal reemerged, and it was almost—not quite, but almost—as strong as the urges themselves. He didn’t want to feel self-loathing every time he drove past a playground or worry that the hawk-eyes of watchful mothers in grocery stores were judging him with disapproval and hostility. He no longer wanted to feel that old familiar tension and discomfort throughout his body at the birthday parties of family’s and friends’ children.

  There were only so many times one could park a half-block or so from the middle school during recess and come to a boil of lust and shame, only so many uncomfortable drives home with a hard-on in his pants and the echoes of his mother’s disgusted words in his head, before it came time to admit to being at a crossroads. Down one way lay peace; there might never be redemption, but there might be some cosmic credit for and solace in having overcome the basest part of himself. Down the other way meant the risk that one day, those little bloodied flower-print panties were going to end up shoved down some slender, pretty little throat or some fragile set of growing bones was going to break. He didn’t want that. Lord knows, he didn’t want it to come to that.

  He asked the gods behind the Door to take the urges away.

  Edward Richter had told him about the Door. He knew Ed from the hardware store, where the old man had been working stocking shelves and ringing up purchases for the last seventeen years. Ed was more than a familiar face around town, though Toby wasn’t sure he could quite classify Ed as a friend. Ed shared the same affliction, a predilection for children, though his preference was for little boys. Toby had seen it right away: the familiar mannerisms and expressions and the wolfish look in the eyes, just as he supposed Ed had recognized the same in him. It was a tenuous bond between them, for hunting is a lone pastime, and a lonely one.

  He and Ed got together once a month, usually at Ed’s house, a small, pale-yellow bi-level on the edge of town out by the woods. They drank beers and vented about work or politics or debated the merits of the Mets vs. the Pirates. Sometimes they talked about their respective stints in jail. Sometimes they talked about children. But until that one night three weeks prior, Ed had never mentioned the Door. No one had, in all the years Toby had lived in Zarephath.

  “Well, Ed,” Toby had said that night in response to Ed’s asking after his well-being, “I’ve hit a wall, I think.”

  “In what way?” Ed cocked an eyebrow at him and sipped his beer.

  Toby shook his head. “I drove past the park yesterday—you know the one out on Miller Road, by the firehouse?”

  Ed nodded. The flash in his eyes, imperceptible to anyone but a fellow predator, told Toby that Ed knew it well.

  “There was this little girl. She was sitting on top of the monkey bars, with her feet dangling over and the wind moving little blond strands of her hair across her cheek…She was beautiful, Ed. I mean stunning. I wanted her. But…it was more than just wanting her. It wasn’t enough, just watching her.”

  A small, uncomfortable smile passed over Ed’s lips. “It seldom is.”

  “I wanted to hurt her, Ed.”

  The older man looked up in surprise. “Oh?”

  “I don’t know, it was…not like the other times. It was more intense a feeling, more…primal. Savage. I never felt that before…at least, not to that extent, you know?”

  “Can’t say that I do,” Ed said, shifting in the chair. “Not that I’m judging, mind. Just not familiar with what you’re describing.” Something in his eyes and the tone of his voice led Toby to believe Ed was lying. It was the subtlest shift to survival mode through denial and diminishing. Toby wasn’t going to argue, though.

  “I can’t keep on like this. I need to do something before I…hurt someone. Jesus.” He rose, stalking to the far corner of the den with his beer. Suddenly that little room seemed incredibly stifling to him, with its dim, seventies color scheme and old furniture that clung to its ghosts like a dust shroud. “I can’t take it anymore. I wish I could carve this whole part of me away, make these feelings just dry up.”

  “And therapy…?”

  Toby groaned. “It’s useless, man, especially in the short-term. You know that. And I’m frankly terrified a shrink will suggest the surgery. I guess maybe I could do the drugs, but the guys on the forum who are taking them seem so miserable, or just numb to everything. I don’t want to be like that, either. Plus, there are all these possible side effects—serious ones.” He sighed. “I don’t know what to do. I just want to be normal. I want the urges to go away. I’d do anything at this point. Christ, maybe I should be on those damn drugs…” He shook his head. He felt lost.

  “Well, uh…there is another way. No drugs, no surgery, and no therapy. But you have to be really sure, really clear in your own head about what you want. Is that what you really want?”

  Toby turned to the old man. “Yeah, yeah, of course. Wouldn’t you, I mean, if you could get rid of that part of you that feels what we feel for kids, wouldn’t you cut it out of you? It’s like a tumor, Ed. I’d just as soon be rid of it.”

  Ed cleared his throat. His gaze was fixed on his beer bottle, but Toby knew he had something to say, hanging there just behind that unsmiling mouth.

  “What?” Toby prompted.

  “Well…there’s the, uh…the Door.”

  “What? What door?”

  “The Door…you know.” Ed gestured toward the window and beyond it, the edge of the forest. “The one out in the woods. The Door.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Ed. The door to what? And what does it have to do with me?”

  “Ain’t no one ever told you about the Door? For fuck’s sake, how long have you lived in this town?”

  “Ed, what door?”

  Ed gazed at his beer for several seconds before answering. “It’s a Door that…gives you stuff. Or takes stuff away that you don’t want anymore. Like suppose your old lady is cheating on you with the guy down the street, right? Well, you go to the Door—you have to go alone, see, at night—with a letter. You fold the letter and seal it with wax that has drops of your blood in it. And inside, the letter asks f
or your wife not to see the guy anymore, or for the guy to just go away, right? Just up and disappear. And in three days—never heard of it taking no longer or shorter—you get what you want. Like, the guy gets hit by a bus, maybe. Or he just vanishes, no trace, just gone. You get your old lady back. Maybe.”

  “You’re kidding me.” But Toby could tell that the older man wasn’t, just as he could see the predator behind Ed’s grandfatherly eyes. Ed was serious; he believed what he was saying whole cloth.

  Ed shook his head slowly. “You ask any of the old folks around here. They’ll tell you. The Door is real. Go out, see for yourself. It’s standing out there, plain as day. One of Zarephath’s great unkept secrets. And it does work, just like I told you. You ask for something to be taken away, like, like your attraction to little girls there, and you will get what you want. Though I gotta say, it may not be like you think…and you can’t take it back. You can’t undo what you asked. And you sure as hell can’t open the Door no matter what, no sir.”

  “So you think a magic door is going to solve my problems? Is that what you’re telling me?”

  Ed shrugged. “Poke fun all you want, but you go see if I’m telling tales. Go see.”

  “If it’s so great and powerful, then why haven’t you ever used the Door?”

  Ed gave him a faint smile. “I’m an old man. Not much of a sex drive anymore. No real need. Besides, I guess when I was a younger man, I was…selfish. Selfish, and a little afraid of giving up the only thing I knew, only thing I was sure about. And of course, the old folks at the time made sure I knew about the drawbacks, just as I guess I ought to make sure you know.”

  “Drawbacks?”

  “You don’t get nothing for free, Toe. You know that. Like I been tryin’ to say, there’s risk, using that Door. Always risk.” He sipped his beer thoughtfully. “Of course, it sounds like there’s a mighty big risk in your not using it at this point too. Guess it’s up to you.”

  Toby sat, rolling the beer bottle between his hands as he considered what Ed had said. “So what, I just write a letter? Like to Santa Claus? Tell this Door what I want? Then what?”

  “Then you seal it, like I said. Melt some wax, mix a little of your blood in, then seal it, like those old-fashioned letters, you know?”

  Toby nodded.

  “Then you go out at night—has to be full dark—and you make your way to the Door—”

  “How do I find it? What if I get lost?” Toby broke in.

  “Well, you can bring a flashlight and a compass, or one of them app things on your phone, if you got it.”

  “Okay, so assuming I find the door, then what?”

  “Then you slip the letter under the Door. That’s how I had always heard it done. No words necessary. Just slip it under, then walk away. Go home, keep your mouth shut. Deed is done.”

  Toby frowned. The whole thing was crazy. Magic doors, wishes granted. Fairy tales were for kids, not for men who exploited them. He shook his head. He wanted a solution to his problem more than anything, but…this? Was Ed fucking with him?

  Ed seemed to read the doubt on his face and leaned forward, tipping the mouth of his beer at Toby like a pointer finger. “Look, I know how it sounds, believe me. I know. You don’t have to take my word for it. If you want to consider using the Door, I’ll take you out there tomorrow afternoon. You can see it for yourself. If not, we can forget we ever had this conversation. You just said you was looking for a solution that wouldn’t involve drugs or surgery or hurting one of them pretty little girls in the park. This…well, this might be the only option you got, buddy.”

  Chapter 2

  “And that’s it? Three days and then—”

  “Then, the Door gives you what you want.” Cicely stirred the Splenda into her coffee, dwarfed by the high-backed brown booth seats of the Alexia Diner. She wasn’t looking at Kari, which was not like the older woman at all. As long as Kari had known her, Cicely looked everyone and everything in the eye. She was a small woman of firm curves and sure words and smooth, dark brown skin that made her look much younger than she was. The wisdom of her years, though, was in her eyes.

  “But…what? What’s the catch?”

  Cicely finally looked at her. “You don’t always get it how you want it. And there’s no way to take it back, sugar, because rule number one is that you absolutely, under no circumstances ever, open that Door. Once you deliver your letter, it is out of your hands.”

  Kari considered it. She had tried therapy, she’d tried drugs, she’d tried hypnosis and support groups and self-help. And there was the more recent contemplation about joining her daughter. She’d have given anything to have the pain taken away from her, even if only for a little while. A few years ago, she would have thought the things Cicely was telling her were crazy. A lot can happen in a few years, though—a lot of nightmares that seem too real, a lot of nights working hope that there was an afterlife into belief. People putting their faith in things far less concrete than Cicely’s Door. If there was even the slightest chance, even the vaguest possibility that what Kari was hearing was true, even in part, then wasn’t it worth a try?

  “Where is this Door?” she finally asked.

  Cicely glanced around the diner to make sure no one else was listening. She’d done it a few times during the conversation so far, as if the subject of the Door might lead to trouble from some other patron of the diner. Seemingly satisfied that the conversation had still gone unnoticed, Cicely said, “I can show you, but if you do choose to use the Door, you’ll have to go back alone with your letter. What you ask the Door, you gotta ask alone.” She met Kari’s gaze and suddenly placed her hand on top of Kari’s. “Now, listen. I’m only telling you about all this because I see the pain in you—you’re drowning in it. It’s in every outward part of you, much as it is on the inside…and I understand that desperation. But because I understand it, I wouldn’t be a good friend if I didn’t warn you—you gotta be careful. You gotta make sure you word your letter carefully, hear? You don’t wanna give them behind the Door any reason to give you anything other than what you want.”

  Kari was quiet for a moment, mulling over how to word the question in her mind. She didn’t dare hope for a positive answer, but she had to ask. “Has anyone ever….” Losing her nerve, she let the unfinished question hang there between them.

  “Ever what?”

  Kari took a deep breath and continued in a hushed voice. “Asked for someone who died to, you know, come back?”

  Cicely stared at her for a moment, and then a deeper understanding dawned on her face. “Oh, oh no, no, no. Don’t you go thinking like that,” she said, shaking her head and wagging a finger at Kari. “Absolutely not. I won’t show you if that’s what you’re thinking—”

  “No, not really. No. I was just curious how…well, how that would work.”

  “It doesn’t,” Cicely replied with a curt little frown. Her features momentarily darkened as some memory passed over them. “You ain’t the first one to think of such a thing, but I can tell you, it ain’t never been nothing but disaster.”

  “What happened?”

  Cicely sipped her coffee before explaining. “First time was back in ’42, I think. Boy killed overseas, during the war. His parents, Joe and Marlie Thumer, were devastated. They’d already lost another son to a fire the year before. Well, the poor fools asked for their sons back from the dead, alive and well. The grief was overwhelming them, just like you. But Kari, what they got back were stinking, rotting corpses, shambling up along the country road.” She shivered. “We all remember. I was little, only four then. My mama scooped me up and ran me into the house when she saw them boys. Tried to cover my eyes, but I saw—I remember to this day. I guess their brains still worked—I suppose that was what was ‘alive and well’ about them—but you could see it in their eyes, the pain, the misery of being trapped in bodies still falling apart….” She shoo
k her head. “Their mama kept them in the house about a week, and it wasn’t ’til she found what them boys had done to the family dog…. Their papa took them out to the barn and ended their suffering for them. Single bullet each to the back of the skull.”

  “My God,” Kari said. It was horrible, to be sure, but…maybe it was how they worded things in the letter. Maybe, if she could be more careful….

  Cicely seemed to read her lingering hope in her eyes and continued. “That ain’t the only case, sugar. Just the first one. Another woman, Annalie, asked for her dead daughter to return to her, to be alive again and like she was before the accident. Worded her letter better than the Thumers, she thought. What Annalie got was to relive the day her daughter’s car smashed into a tree. She had her baby back a few hours, maybe, and went through the pain of her death and funeral all over again.” Cicely sighed. “You want another story? I got plenty. No, you ain’t the only one to want her baby back, but for the love of the good Lord above, if you got any common sense, ask for something else, anything else. Ask for the pain to be taken away. Ask for only the happy memories. Do not ask for your daughter to come back to you. When you ask for things that defy the laws of God and nature, it never, never works out. Look, I know I said you can ask for anything and you can, sure, but we learned quick ’round here that you don’t. We come to learn there are some things you just don’t ask for without it biting you in the ass.”

  “Okay, okay, I get it. I’ll be…more careful. Ask, like you said, to be done with the pain.”

  Cicely’s features softened, as did her voice. “I know the temptation is there, sugar. I know. But you have to trust me on this. The magic doesn’t work that way, and folks, they don’t get too many chances to use the Door.”