As to try to write more mature like and be more eloquent, I'm going to start this story, finish it, then finish all my half done stories as well.
Enjoy.
The Forbidden Door - Chapter One
Like a lingering scent in the air, the door always remained in my mind yet was never powerful enough to warrant my attention after I left my house some odd years ago. As a child, it's presence dominated my world and caused my two older brothers and me to grow up in vivid curiosity of it.
We were never to question the door, ask to open it, or even ask to know what was inside. To do so would "shatter our fragile minds" my mother would say. So like obedient sons, we stayed away from the mahogany door that ended the downstairs hallway into a dead-end. At night my brothers and I would talk about the basic fears and fantasies: a coffin with a vampire in it, a severed head, a portal to a world where kids ruled like monarchs and the adults our slaves. You know, kid stuff. As we grew up however, the childish fantasies of our minds gave way to the perverse invitations the door seemed to throw at us whenever we would be near it or even look at it.
I guess you could say that one of my invitations was accepted. Running as fast as a cheetah to my upstairs room, I quickly snatched up my Buck Rogers Ranger Knife and sneaked downstairs, snatching glances into rooms and around doorways all the way down. I approached the door with the timidness of a prom night virgin, fumbling hands and rapid heartbeat, trying to find the opening to that lovely dress. I inserted the knife into the keyhole and started to fumble with it. The keyhole started to catch and turn and my heartrate went from a galloping horse to an army gatling gun. Just as I was about to turn it fully and open, a strong hand that smelled of gin and aftershave clasped my shoulder. I turned to the left and looked up into my father's face.
"Didn't I tell you to never come near this door?" he asked in the gentleness of a father but with the severity of an oncoming beating.
"Yes sir."
"Then you know what happens when you disobey, Anthony?" he said squeezing my shoulder within his vice-like grip.
"Yes sir," I answered, knowing that my buttocks would feel like hot coals in a few minutes time.
I was beat like I was never beaten before that evening. When Mother returned from her bridge game around 7 o'clock she even had a turn at me herself when she found out what I had did. All and all, that beating drove out of me all other curiosity and urges to ever see what was behind that forbidden door. No amount of pain was worth that.
When it was time for me to leave for college, I left behind all the silly childhood memories of that house and prepared for a life in the real world. I graduated at the top of my class and earned my PhD in Biochemistry, while holding only a minor Masters in Psychology. Then the war hit. Vietnam I mean. Since I was 23 and technically in college, I was excused from the draft. My two older brothers weren't as lucky as me however. They left and came back years later former shells of themselves. Charlie, the oldest, told stories of napalm, rainy nights of death and "expanding your horizons with only one pill." My brother younger than Charlie but older that me was Ryan. When he came back, he didn't tell stories of the horrors of war. He never spoke to us again.
We took Ryan back to that victorian-styled house on the hill at the end of Wabash Court where my parents welcomed us with open arms. They took Ryan back in, who only hugged them very tightly and said not a word. Charlie and I stayed the night and left Ryan with our parents in the morning. We watched as my father and mother waved to us and Ryan only stood in the middle looking at us with his hands in his pocket, like a punk kid trying to show no emotion at his parents' funeral. That was the last vision of him that I remember now. Charlie and I never saw Ryan again.
I moved from sunny California and began working at a pharmaceutical company in New York City around 1973. Life in the city was just what I needed to wash the suburbia of Illinois, and the sun-bleached soul of California, off of my body. Adjusting to the city was tough at first. Twice I had my car stolen and I even was mugged a few times but I DIDN'T CARE. The feeling of being in a city where anything was possible and the sky held no limits amazed and frightened me at the same time. When I look back on it now, I guess I fell under the same disillusion that America fell under towards the 1870s. I stayed in NYC for the remainder of the 70s, through the Black Power movement, through the disco nights "boogie woogie woogie" and all that jazz. When in 1983, my world partly came screeching to a halt. My parents called me in the middle of the night, August 12, 1983 to inform me that my brother had slit his wrists and his throat in our house. Near the forbidden door. I took the next flight to Springfield and I carried my brother's casket with Charlie while my parents watched and the community of Springfield suburbia gossiped along the way.
After that, my world held no more enchantment, no more illusions of grandeur that had fueled my heart in the earlier years of my life. Only the bleak sky of existance seemed to stretch to an infinite length and my mind only numbed the pain because to open myself again would turn my brain white with insanity. I moved from the hustle and bustle of New York City, and settled in Hinterlands, North Carolina in a moderate house away from most of the town. The scent of pine trees and the sight of rolling hills, calmed the ever present storm that was churning in my heart at the time. That was when I met Jeanine. She was the Balm of Gilead to my soul, my oasis in the long desert of depression. I met her in the supermarket one day when I was stocking back up on cough syrup to get myself drunk again for the next week. She bumped into me around Aisle 8 and I immediately fell in love with her. I began courting her and in the spring of 1986, we were engaged. We moved out of the now cramped house into a bigger one on Slygan Avenue to accomodate our future family.
I now sleep in bed with my lovely fiance Jeanine when I am awakened by the telephone. Flashes of Ryan's death call ring in my mind as I blindly reach for the phone.
"Hello?" I ask in a gruff cowboy voice.
"Hey man, I hope I didn't wake you up," says a familiar voice on the other end.
I sit up in bed and rub my eyes.
"Charlie is that you!? I haven't heard from you since Ryan's funeral!"
"Yeah Anthony, I wish I didn't have to call you this late at night and disturb you, but I have some bad news."
No, don't say it. Oh God in heaven, don't say it.
"Mom and Dad were found with their wrists slit..."
No. God, stop it!
"and their throats cut open..."
Not in front of the door. NOT IN FRONT OF THAT DAMNED DOOR.
"in front of the forbidden door, Anthony. Just like Ryan," finishes Charlie and he finally crumbles and openly sobs on the phone.
"OH GOD NO," I heard myself saying as I began to cry as well.
Jeanine woke up from the noise and turned the lights on, sitting up.
"When's the funeral?" I said through sobs and tears.
Charlie composed himself and stifled a sob.
"The funeral is in a week. I want you to come and meet my wife Clara before the funeral."
"You got married Charlie!? You never told me man!?" I said smiling for the first time since he called.
"Yeah, but now we all will have to grieve over this. Anthony, it's time to do it."
"Do what?"
"It's time to open that damned door once and for all Anthony," said Charlie as the phone clicked and the signal toned on.
Jeanine grabbed me by the shoulders in the same vice-like grip of my father and I broke down once again. Whatever was the reason for my parents death, Charlie and I knew it involved the door in some way. We were going to open that forbidden door into a world of unknown possibilities and even more incomprehensible explanations. When I thought about what would have to be done, it scared me. After all, to have your brother and parents die in front of the same door in the same exact fashion made calling it the "forbidden door" seem like just a horror movie monster. In actuality, it was more like the door to Hell itself. Charlie and I were about to get a hands-on look into true evil. And you know what they say about doors. If someone's knocking at the door and ringing the bell, do them a favor and let them in. The hard part however, was knowing whether the pain we were about to witness was justice or torment for our unwillingness to accept the facts that presented themselves. I just wish to God that I could have seen my parents one last time. It would make knowing what happened to them alot easier to cope with. I turn to Jeanine and tell her what just transpired on the phone. She listened and gasped at all the right parts. When it was over, we sat in silence.
"So what are we going to do now honey?" asked Jeanine, wiping a bang from her face.
"Pack your things darling," I say in a stoic voice. "We're going back to Springfield."
Only we weren't going back to Springfield. We were about to descend into madness in it's purest form.
End Chapter One
Enjoy.
The Forbidden Door - Chapter One
Like a lingering scent in the air, the door always remained in my mind yet was never powerful enough to warrant my attention after I left my house some odd years ago. As a child, it's presence dominated my world and caused my two older brothers and me to grow up in vivid curiosity of it.
We were never to question the door, ask to open it, or even ask to know what was inside. To do so would "shatter our fragile minds" my mother would say. So like obedient sons, we stayed away from the mahogany door that ended the downstairs hallway into a dead-end. At night my brothers and I would talk about the basic fears and fantasies: a coffin with a vampire in it, a severed head, a portal to a world where kids ruled like monarchs and the adults our slaves. You know, kid stuff. As we grew up however, the childish fantasies of our minds gave way to the perverse invitations the door seemed to throw at us whenever we would be near it or even look at it.
I guess you could say that one of my invitations was accepted. Running as fast as a cheetah to my upstairs room, I quickly snatched up my Buck Rogers Ranger Knife and sneaked downstairs, snatching glances into rooms and around doorways all the way down. I approached the door with the timidness of a prom night virgin, fumbling hands and rapid heartbeat, trying to find the opening to that lovely dress. I inserted the knife into the keyhole and started to fumble with it. The keyhole started to catch and turn and my heartrate went from a galloping horse to an army gatling gun. Just as I was about to turn it fully and open, a strong hand that smelled of gin and aftershave clasped my shoulder. I turned to the left and looked up into my father's face.
"Didn't I tell you to never come near this door?" he asked in the gentleness of a father but with the severity of an oncoming beating.
"Yes sir."
"Then you know what happens when you disobey, Anthony?" he said squeezing my shoulder within his vice-like grip.
"Yes sir," I answered, knowing that my buttocks would feel like hot coals in a few minutes time.
I was beat like I was never beaten before that evening. When Mother returned from her bridge game around 7 o'clock she even had a turn at me herself when she found out what I had did. All and all, that beating drove out of me all other curiosity and urges to ever see what was behind that forbidden door. No amount of pain was worth that.
When it was time for me to leave for college, I left behind all the silly childhood memories of that house and prepared for a life in the real world. I graduated at the top of my class and earned my PhD in Biochemistry, while holding only a minor Masters in Psychology. Then the war hit. Vietnam I mean. Since I was 23 and technically in college, I was excused from the draft. My two older brothers weren't as lucky as me however. They left and came back years later former shells of themselves. Charlie, the oldest, told stories of napalm, rainy nights of death and "expanding your horizons with only one pill." My brother younger than Charlie but older that me was Ryan. When he came back, he didn't tell stories of the horrors of war. He never spoke to us again.
We took Ryan back to that victorian-styled house on the hill at the end of Wabash Court where my parents welcomed us with open arms. They took Ryan back in, who only hugged them very tightly and said not a word. Charlie and I stayed the night and left Ryan with our parents in the morning. We watched as my father and mother waved to us and Ryan only stood in the middle looking at us with his hands in his pocket, like a punk kid trying to show no emotion at his parents' funeral. That was the last vision of him that I remember now. Charlie and I never saw Ryan again.
I moved from sunny California and began working at a pharmaceutical company in New York City around 1973. Life in the city was just what I needed to wash the suburbia of Illinois, and the sun-bleached soul of California, off of my body. Adjusting to the city was tough at first. Twice I had my car stolen and I even was mugged a few times but I DIDN'T CARE. The feeling of being in a city where anything was possible and the sky held no limits amazed and frightened me at the same time. When I look back on it now, I guess I fell under the same disillusion that America fell under towards the 1870s. I stayed in NYC for the remainder of the 70s, through the Black Power movement, through the disco nights "boogie woogie woogie" and all that jazz. When in 1983, my world partly came screeching to a halt. My parents called me in the middle of the night, August 12, 1983 to inform me that my brother had slit his wrists and his throat in our house. Near the forbidden door. I took the next flight to Springfield and I carried my brother's casket with Charlie while my parents watched and the community of Springfield suburbia gossiped along the way.
After that, my world held no more enchantment, no more illusions of grandeur that had fueled my heart in the earlier years of my life. Only the bleak sky of existance seemed to stretch to an infinite length and my mind only numbed the pain because to open myself again would turn my brain white with insanity. I moved from the hustle and bustle of New York City, and settled in Hinterlands, North Carolina in a moderate house away from most of the town. The scent of pine trees and the sight of rolling hills, calmed the ever present storm that was churning in my heart at the time. That was when I met Jeanine. She was the Balm of Gilead to my soul, my oasis in the long desert of depression. I met her in the supermarket one day when I was stocking back up on cough syrup to get myself drunk again for the next week. She bumped into me around Aisle 8 and I immediately fell in love with her. I began courting her and in the spring of 1986, we were engaged. We moved out of the now cramped house into a bigger one on Slygan Avenue to accomodate our future family.
I now sleep in bed with my lovely fiance Jeanine when I am awakened by the telephone. Flashes of Ryan's death call ring in my mind as I blindly reach for the phone.
"Hello?" I ask in a gruff cowboy voice.
"Hey man, I hope I didn't wake you up," says a familiar voice on the other end.
I sit up in bed and rub my eyes.
"Charlie is that you!? I haven't heard from you since Ryan's funeral!"
"Yeah Anthony, I wish I didn't have to call you this late at night and disturb you, but I have some bad news."
No, don't say it. Oh God in heaven, don't say it.
"Mom and Dad were found with their wrists slit..."
No. God, stop it!
"and their throats cut open..."
Not in front of the door. NOT IN FRONT OF THAT DAMNED DOOR.
"in front of the forbidden door, Anthony. Just like Ryan," finishes Charlie and he finally crumbles and openly sobs on the phone.
"OH GOD NO," I heard myself saying as I began to cry as well.
Jeanine woke up from the noise and turned the lights on, sitting up.
"When's the funeral?" I said through sobs and tears.
Charlie composed himself and stifled a sob.
"The funeral is in a week. I want you to come and meet my wife Clara before the funeral."
"You got married Charlie!? You never told me man!?" I said smiling for the first time since he called.
"Yeah, but now we all will have to grieve over this. Anthony, it's time to do it."
"Do what?"
"It's time to open that damned door once and for all Anthony," said Charlie as the phone clicked and the signal toned on.
Jeanine grabbed me by the shoulders in the same vice-like grip of my father and I broke down once again. Whatever was the reason for my parents death, Charlie and I knew it involved the door in some way. We were going to open that forbidden door into a world of unknown possibilities and even more incomprehensible explanations. When I thought about what would have to be done, it scared me. After all, to have your brother and parents die in front of the same door in the same exact fashion made calling it the "forbidden door" seem like just a horror movie monster. In actuality, it was more like the door to Hell itself. Charlie and I were about to get a hands-on look into true evil. And you know what they say about doors. If someone's knocking at the door and ringing the bell, do them a favor and let them in. The hard part however, was knowing whether the pain we were about to witness was justice or torment for our unwillingness to accept the facts that presented themselves. I just wish to God that I could have seen my parents one last time. It would make knowing what happened to them alot easier to cope with. I turn to Jeanine and tell her what just transpired on the phone. She listened and gasped at all the right parts. When it was over, we sat in silence.
"So what are we going to do now honey?" asked Jeanine, wiping a bang from her face.
"Pack your things darling," I say in a stoic voice. "We're going back to Springfield."
Only we weren't going back to Springfield. We were about to descend into madness in it's purest form.
End Chapter One
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