This was a short story I wrote for my writing group. It was based on a dream I had.
It bloomed from a crack into a seam. What used to taunt my anxiety had grown into a long, angry-looking fissure in our plaster wall.
A Sunday afternoon. The kids were busy doing kid things. Darren was somewhere doing Darren things. I was carrying a basket of washing, mentally ticking off tasks. My toe hurt, and I was limping a little. Age or something more sinister?
Walking down the hallway, the overflowing basket resting heavily on my hip, I stopped.
The dark, incongruous black in our bungalow’s beiging wall caught my attention. It always caught my attention. But, normally, I’d walk past and curse under my breath. This was different. This was worse. Deep. No longer surface level, now spanning from the floor, more than two metres tall. Straight. Too straight.
“Darren?” I called. He didn’t reply.
I touched the crack. There was a whisper of air under my fingertips. I pushed, and the plaster yielded as if it were no thicker than aged paper. The fissure spread in lines and angles, revealing the shape of a door.
“Darren!” No reply, again.
A gentle push and the door swung inwards, revealing a white room, lit by the sun through a skylight. Three metres by five, it housed a washing machine and dryer placed side by side. There were shelves along the back wall and dust across everything, creating a neglected, dirty patina.
My heart jumped. Another laundry room! Much-needed space. My mind sprinted through the potential. We could knock down the wall, extend a bedroom, build a large master suite. How much would it cost? Would we have the money?
Then, there was another door.
My heart jumped again. I could barely grasp the thread of excitement. Of potential.
I didn’t call Darren. I would see how far this treasure trove of real estate went and then surprise my husband.
This second door had a knob and swung open easily on well-oiled hinges.
Inside, a bedroom.
I gasped.
Two stories. On the bottom floor, a large, ornate four-poster bed in dark walnut and a matching bannister sweeping up and around the room towards what appeared to be a library full of books wrapping the circumference of the second floor. The carpet was deep, blood red. Rich and heavy. The kind that tracked footprints, though there were none.
There were items on the floor, scattered. Records from bands I’d never heard of with covers featuring people I’d never seen before. Their hair like golden manes, a filter on the lens, soft and dreamlike. A hand-drawn poster advertised the party of the year, ‘Let’s Welcome 1979 – Celebrate!’. The room was full of someone else. Their stories, their possessions. It smelled musty and close. As if they’d simply closed the door and left their life behind.
I thought of the cleaning and redecorating we would have to do. How much work this would be. Did I have the energy?
Then, another door. Different to the first and second, as cold air seeped through the frame, like it led outside.
It didn’t.
It opened to an indoor soccer pitch. A smaller version, scaled to mimic the normal size. It reminded me of a primary school sports hall. Rough concrete walls you could file a fingernail on, wooden benches that doubled for gymnastics, and basketball hoops over the goals.
In my house! We had a laundry, another bedroom and an indoor sports hall.
I reached for my phone to call Darren. No reception. I would find him later. There was still more to explore.
Another door across the pitch.
This one had concrete stairs that led up to a faded dark green facade, framed with gold accents. ‘Ye Olde Pub’ over the entrance in large, Celtic, matching-gold lettering.
Lights were on inside, and I could just hear the sound of an Irish ’ditty’. Played on a fiddle, it was shrill, but upbeat. Welcoming.
Does someone live down here? I wondered.
I climbed the steps and peered through the semi-frosted glass of the door. There were booths with leather seats in the same green as the facade, and round wooden tables and chairs neatly ordered. Everything polished. Shining. Ready.
And then there were three men.
They hadn’t been there. And then they were.
They wore matching or accidentally similar clothing: loose white button-up shirts, rolled to the elbows. Dark brown trousers and shoes. Each held a cloth, ready to wipe a table or a glass. They noticed me and flipped their cloths over their shoulders. In unison, they turned and walked towards me.
And smiled.
I’ve never seen smiles like it. Smiles that tore their faces in two. Smiles that must have used every muscle. Smiles that didn’t break.
”Hello there.” One of them said in a lilting accent. It sounded more like ‘dare’. “Why don’t you come inside?”
Of course. I would go inside. I wanted to.
I put my hand on the door and almost pushed. In the second it took to glance at my hand on the door and back up again, all three of them were in front of me at the window, enormous unwavering grins plastered across their almost-matching faces.
A wave of nausea roiled through me, and my scalp itched.
“Come.” One of them said. “They’re waiting for ye.”
”Who?” I asked and looked behind the men. I could see no one.
They smiled.
As if now unlocked, something in the door released and yielded to my hand.
It opened. And they stopped smiling.