The Door: A Short Story

The Door 

A Short Story

What a peculiar-looking door that is, he thought. There it stood monolithic and out of place, connected to no building at all, blocking an alleyway anchored and resolute. Curious and bewildered, the man stretched out his hand expecting to touch an invisible wall on either side of the door but he felt nothing save the wind slipping through his fingers. A mass of stained mahogany hand carved with the most intricate design, the door was a sight to behold intriguing passersby to turn their gaze for a moment. Some people halted mid-stride to confirm it was truly there and not a figment of the imagination, others didn’t seem to see it at all.

The man, we’ll call him Peter, contemplated the door beyond looking, rather he carried it along with him in the factory of his mind processing what to do with such a door that disrupts his existence on his way to work. Not knowing where the door leads, if it goes anywhere at all, or if it can even be opened for goodness’ sake kept him awake at night. When his young children called to him, they woke Peter from the daydream of opening the door to find the illusive figure or destination hidden on the other side. Absent like a ghost floating translucently through the life of the living, was Peter for weeks possessed by the beckoning spirit lingering in the grooves of the wood until he resolved to take action.

That providential morning, Peter stood before the door ready to face whatever demon called from the other side of the nothingness that would allow him to rest knowing it was all in his head. Either way, after this, he would see a shrink. Trembling, he reached for the gold knob, surprisingly warm in his hand. With increasing force, he attempted to turn the knob but it jammed a quarter way through the turn. No, no, no, I have to know what will happen when I open this door, Peter thought. Breathing furiously through his nostrils, Peter slammed his shoulder repeatedly against the door, forcing his way to resolution. Then, after great exertion, the knob relented and the door broke free of the lock.

Now, the moment had finally come and the man relished every moment as he slowly swung the door open into a long corridor. The walls were a striking red velvet all the way down, and the floor was carpeted by an extravagant long red rug trimmed and woven with a gold pattern. As Peter walked in, the door slammed shut behind him, for he had entered a place from which there was no return. Curiosity protected him from the impossibility of his present location and he continued down the strange corridor, where there were windows letting in rays of light on the path. He looked out of one of the windows to see where the corridor would lead but was immediately horror-stricken by the sight of something I dare not repeat. He ran to the next window hoping the first was a trick but the man saw a sight even worse than before, wrenching his heart so that tears welled into pools under his eyes. Why did I come to this place? He thought to himself. Now as Peter ran down the way, averting his eyes from the horrendous spectacles displayed on the windows, he wished for a door to take him out of that horrible place and back to his life before ever seeing the door.

There it was growing larger as he approached it, the door out of the red velvet corridor with windows so dreadful they pierce down to the soul. There was no struggle leaving when Peter twisted the knob against sweaty palms, the door opened, and released him back into the place he was only it wasn’t the place he remembered. The tormented man could easily see this was the very street he passed every day on his way to work, but the automobiles were sleek and rounded, new buildings stood with strange architecture in what used to be gaps in the sky, and people were dressed queerly, and there were electric billboards in the sky. After the factory of his mind processed the initial shock of what struck his eyes, he thought of his family. “I’ve got to go see them,” he said to himself. The only peace and serenity he could imagine now was the possibility of returning home and embracing his wife and children. He hoped they had not changed, hoped that it was all some dream he would soon wake up from, but reality had been perverted into a nightmare he could no longer revert to.

There was his house only a few steps away, the same color, only there were cars in the driveway he did not recognize. The neighborhood looked so different but at least the house was the same. As was his custom, Peter looked inside the window where he’d usually find his children playing on the living room floor with their toys, but they were not there. He peered deeper into the window toward the dining room and saw his wife older and children grown into young adults. His beautiful wife had her hand interlocked with a strange man he did not recognize, filling Peter with rage and fear and desperation that drove him into the house to confront the other man.

“What are you doing in my house?” Peter demanded harshly, startling everyone at the table and filling their eyes with terrifying astonishment.

“Dad?” His now grown son asked in a shaky and questioning voice.

“Peter?” his wife had trouble catching her breath and making out the words. “What are you doing here?”

“Oh Martha,” Peter wept and embraced her with his head on her lap. The other man stood in her defense, but his wife halted him with a raised hand. “Martha, I was foolish. There was a door and I went through.” Peter was interrupted by his sobbing. “I saw horrible things. Then I came out. Everything was different. Now everyone is older. I am scared, Martha.”

“Peter, you’ve been gone fifteen years and didn’t say a word. Someone said you had been checked into the sanitarium after a mental break and then disappeared. Are you okay?”

“I’m so confused and so lost. I don’t know what is happening,” panic had taken Peter’s voice. “It was the door. That horrible door, I never should have gone in!” He was yelling now.

“Daddy,” his daughter called to him in a tender but scared quietness. She was weeping for the father she had lost. The father standing in front of her so clearly had lost his mind. Peter walked over to her and she flinched away from him, but he clung to her legs.

“Oh my dear sweet Angela,” he sobbed into her skirt. The broken father stretched out his hand to his son, who was looking at him with a clenched jaw and tear-filled angry eyes. “My son, please take my hand.” Instead of taking his hand, the young man stormed away to an empty room to beat his fists against the wall.

Before long, the police arrived quietly through the door and apprehended the man who had been gone for fifteen years, though it was only for a moment to him. He did not fight, he did not say goodbye, he only looked down at the floor and sobbed as they carried him off to the cold empty concrete jail cell. While he sat alone surrounded by iron bars, Peter was tormented by the visions in the windows of the corridor, nightmares that were now the reality of those fifteen years he had vanished because of the few minutes spent through the door. His heart was filled with rage and hatred for the door and whoever put it there in the first place, but it did not take long for Peter to realize he had only himself to blame. He could have been like the passerby who ignored the door completely and never gave it a second thought, or the man who saw it and continued on his own way. Peter knew that his trespass was in lingering around the door, contemplating the door, and carrying it with him in his thoughts. His thoughts had given birth to an action that led to the loss of his family. How could undo what had been done?

I must destroy the door, he thought. If I ever get out of here, I will take an ax with me and chop the damned thing to splinters. Peter waited patiently for his release and was taken in for psych evaluation. The psychiatrist breezed through the questions as if he was running late for an appointment with his lunch, but the desperate man answered as sanely as possible while his mind pondered the destruction of the door. Unfortunately, due to the statements of his family, Peter was forced to undergo thirty days in the sanitarium for observation. While there, he was put on a medication that made him very sick but he did not complain for fear that they would hold him longer. He remained compliant, quiet, and isolated from the other looneys in the bin.

The time came for his exit interview with the same psychiatrist, and Peter told him that he was ready to move on with his life and try to redeem the time lost with his family one day at a time. This satisfied the psychologist enough to award him with a certificate of leave from the asylum and he was settled into a halfway house as long as he kept the factory job assigned to him. Peter sat on the bed of his new room and contemplated what he told the psychiatrist as it resounded in his mind like a scratched record on repeat. Perhaps instead of trying to undo his mistakes, he could focus on redeeming the time lost with his children. If he tries to explain what had happened with the door, they will only think him crazy and report him back to the asylum. On a cold winter night, Peter found himself standing in front of the door that started it all, only it wasn’t monolithic anymore but a standard door attached to a storefront. Every fiber of his being wanted to see what was inside the store on the other side of the door, but he feared the years he would lose by taking that risk. Rather than knocking on the door or looking through the window, Peter put his hands in his pocket and walked back into his room.

The rehabilitation program had allowed him access to a phone and he called his daughter first because she would be the most forgiving. Instead of explaining what happened with the door, he apologized for the time he had disappeared and acknowledged the blame on account of his foolishness. She wept because of the pain it caused her for all the years she missed her father, but forgave him and sought to reconcile with him. She even promised to speak to her brother and convince him to give dad a call. That warmed Peter’s heart who was beginning to feel the fifteen years of age catching up to his body.

Next, Peter called his wife’s new husband, Dennis, to apologize for the scene he caused in their house and sought permission to apologize also to his ex-wife Martha. He reluctantly agreed and it was a heartwarming reconciliation that was much needed. Days later Peter tried to call his son, but all of his calls were ignored. It was his son’s conversation that he felt was most urgent because his son was approaching the age when the door appeared to him. Every day as Peter worked, he made sure to keep his phone charged and on loud to answer whenever his son called but the call did not come.

Peter was beginning to have brunch and coffee with his daughter regularly and started seeking employment that was more akin to what he did before the door incident. It took him a while to accept his new life and stop waking up expecting the nightmare to be over. This was his new life so he needed to make the most of it. Then his son, Andrew, finally called. Peter stepped outside of the noisy factory and into a supply closet to be able to hear his son better.

“Hello, son.”

“Hey pop,” the words came out awkwardly through the phone and Andrew paused for a moment. “How are things going?”

“Well, son, as good as they can. How are you?” Peter caressed his phone tenderly as if he were holding his little boy again.

“We should uh…probably get together and talk.”

“I’d like that very much.”

They agreed to meet at the old diner on the highway where they used to go after soccer practice over a decade ago. For Andrew, this was like taking a trip backward through a time machine but for Peter, it was only a few weeks since the last time they did this, and so much had changed.

“So tell me the truth, pop. What really happened? Why did you leave us?”

“The truth son,” Peter paused, “Is not easy to hear or understand so listen very carefully. The true explanation is for your ears only and I want you to learn from my mistake.”

Andrew stopped stirring his spoon in the coffee mug and leaned forward attentively.

“For me, it wasn’t long ago when I was standing out on 4th Street looking at the loveliest door I’d ever seen, so mysterious, massive, and out of place. The door evoked a sense of wonder at the possibilities or places or whatever could be on the other side, but I had no way of knowing unless I tried. I could have just walked on by and left the door shut, but the temptation overtook me as I fantasized about the numerous opportunities potentially available by opening that monolithic door. It seems as though the door was made for me but I never thought once of the consequences. I was blinded by folly and selfish ambition without thinking about what devil could have placed this door as a snare to imprison me. One day, I was overtaken by this selfish ambition and I forced my way through the door into a nightmare that I have not woken from. It was a corridor red as blood from a fresh wound. The windows revealed the repercussions of my worst fears and when I finally walked through the door, all of the visions in the window had come to pass. Fifteen years had passed and I lost everything. Because of one opened door, I lost the love of my life to another man, missed the best years of my children’s lives, and I could never gain those back. For me, it was only a few moments, for you, it's been fifteen years.”

“My head is spinning,” Andrew dropped his face into his hands. “Have you tried going through the door again? Where is it?”

“NO!” Peter slammed his fists against the table. “No, don’t ever go near that door; rather, run the other way and hold each thought captive lest you lose countless years for an empty corridor of nightmarish repercussions. I thought of destroying it but it would give people all the more reason to lock me away in the sanitarium. The door is bewitched by a power far beyond the force of an ax. I am telling you this so that you will learn from my loss, learn from my suffering, and beg your forgiveness for abandoning you every time you needed me because of my foolishness.” Peter wept bitterly into his arms folded on the table. His son moved from across the table to his side and held his father against his bosom.

“I forgive you, Dad. I am sorry for what you lost. From this point on, let’s focus on rebuilding what we lost and making sure it never happens again.”

A year later, Andrew took a wrong turn in the city on his way to meet a colleague for lunch. There, in between two buildings was The Door, a mass of stained mahogany hand carved with the most intricate design, beckoning to him to open. Andrew looked at the sign on the corner of the street reading 4th Street and Ace Avenue. He knew this was the door his father warned him about. He scanned the design of the door, appreciated its craftsmanship from every angle, and even felt a hint of curiosity about opening it. Maybe it would be different for him. Then Andrew remembered every birthday he wanted his father but he wasn’t there, every craft he made in school on that special day for a father who disappeared, and the tears he shed when his mother remarried. He thought of the pain in his father’s eyes when they wept together in the diner. Andrew looked at the door one last time and then followed the directions on his phone to the proper destination. He never thought of the mahogany door again and he made sure to avoid 4th street from that moment on.


Some opportunities are not worth the risk. Not every door is meant to be opened. Redeem the time while you still have it.