THE DOORS CLAIRE BURGESS
The house looked beautiful in the glossy brochure. It was almost a century old; built soundly of hardy, dependable brick and surrounded by hardy, dependable flora. Robert was inclined to select it even before setting foot on the property, and I was more than willing to make my home wherever he desired. We contacted the sales agent and embarked on the three hour long drive to the house the next day. We were awed by the ancient trees surrounding the drive and charmed by the flourishing lilies lining the ivy-covered exterior. We admired the windows, large, and the stables, large, and the groundskeeper, small and sweet. We walked closer to the entrance, the agent apologizing in advance for the neglected interior, hoping that we were not allergic to dust. The doors to the house had not been breached in nigh fifty years, and even then only so that the previous groundskeeper, the father of the man we had met, could chase out an elusive animal he had sworn he heard scratching at the door, but never found. Went quite mad in his later years, the agent said, and the scandal was enough to drive away buyers for decades. This was a very superstitious area, and the groundskeeper had engaged in some nefarious, even violent, business. Robert and I clucked our tongues and moved on to more practical matters. We chatted amicably as we walked along the drive, discussing window dressings and the hiring of help, when the agent called our attention to the queer front door. My eyes had danced about nearly the whole of the house before that moment, landing on anything but those doors, that dark shadow in the corner of my eye; now, wide open and defenseless, they beheld them. I was unable to look away. The massive 40
Berkeley Fiction Review
