The Door

The Door

by Roman Gandara

(Originally posted on the Jittery Goat)

For as long as I can remember, my grandmother told me not to open the door at the end of the hall. She really never gave me a reason; she always kept it locked no matter what. In fact, I don’t think I can remember a time when she entered the room. As a kid, I would try to flatten myself down to the ground onto the carpet that probably hasn’t been replaced since it was built in the 60s. I would try to peek into the little crack between the door and the floor. It was bright, almost fluorescent and white, a stark contrast to the rest of the warm yellow lights my grandmother liked to keep the rest of the house lit up in. I stopped trying to look into the room after my grandmother caught me when I couldn’t have been older than 10; she scolded me and lit up in anger, her wrinkles and skin stretched as she yelled at me to get back. It scared me so badly that I never could muster the strength to look again. My grandmother, for the most part, is a nice older lady, like the ones you see at the grocery store checkout who call strangers “hun.” Since that time, I have never seen her get angry like that again.

 Now she’s not really allowed to leave home, at least not on her own. Ever since Grandpa passed, she’s been declining, and so has her memory. She sits there in the living room in her La-Z-Boy chair and rocks back and forth, back and forth; sometimes she mutters something, but I never really know what she says. Sometimes I think she's talking about that room. When I look into her eyes, I see this sense of nothing, of confusion. Like she doesn’t recognize me. I can’t imagine what it would feel like to be confused about your own existence. 

I have a lot of time to think about these things; it’s my week to watch her. We’re not exactly the richest people on earth, since our family couldn’t afford to put her in a home, and my grandparents never were the best savers either. So this is what I do. I sit on the couch, scroll through my phone as the TV in the background plays the game shows she loves to watch. At noon, I make her a sandwich: white bread, a slice of ham, and cheese. Vegetables on the side; the doctors tell her she needs to eat them, but she’ll never remember(or she does and just doesn’t want to). Then she sits there in her rocking chair going back and forth until dinner time, usually some type of soup. Then around eight at night she begins to get tired, and I help her get to bed. Rinse and repeat. When I’m on that couch, though, my eyes can’t help but linger on that door at the end of the hall. I can see it from here, that bright white light gleaming out of the cracks. It’s been gnawing at me all week like your stomach when it’s hungry. 

I’ve always theorized what could be in there. Could it just be the furnace? What if she turned out to be some crazy serial killer and that’s where she hid the bodies? Maybe my grandparents were into some hippie crap back in the 70s, and they have stockpiles of drugs. Or it could just be nothing. But why keep it under locks? It just had to be something. I couldn’t resist any longer; after she goes to bed tonight, I’m going to find out.

It’s almost like she knew I was up to something. It wasn’t until nine tonight that she began to feel tired and went to sleep. Finally, I heard her snore and headed into the kitchen. The kitchen floor was wood, and each step made an awful groan as I walked slowly and silently to the drawer. I slowly and carefully opened up the drawer, and there it was, the key to the door. She hid it away, and I’m not sure how, but I just had a gut feeling it had to be here. It was silver and looked like one of those medieval keys that belonged to a prison door, not a house door. 

I quickly hopped back into the carpeted hallway and stood in front of the door that’s haunted me for my whole life. My hand couldn’t help but shake as I lifted the key. I started to get second thoughts, thinking that maybe I shouldn’t do this, but I had to know... I had to find out. I put the key in the lock, turned it, and slowly opened the door to see… my grandmother in her rocking chair in the living room. 

“That’s impossible.” I thought to myself; I even rubbed my eyes, thinking they were playing a trick on me. The living room is directly in front of the front door; how could I be here? Then it hits me: how did I know where the key was? This wasn’t the first time I walked through this door, was it? How could I not remember? I look into my grandmother’s eyes, and instead of nothing, I see disappointment. Then I feel it and see it: a warm light that covers me and everything, and then... Nothing.

Ever since I can remember, my grandmother always told me not to open the door at the end of the hall. She really never gave me a reason; she always kept it locked no matter what. In fact, I don’t think I can remember a time when she entered the room.