Strange, I’d never noticed that door in my bedroom before.
I could’ve sworn the space, across the room from the familiar door I used to enter and
leave the room every day, was bare. But one day, the door was just…there. Made of oak,
I think, with a rich, dark finish. It was large—as wide as three people, as high as two.
The knob looked antique-y, its brass decorated with strange designs—lines, squiggles
and slashes—like runes I couldn’t decipher.
Indistinct sounds came from its general direction—bells, chimes, whistles, bird cries,
bullfrogs grunting, lions and tigers growling, planes taking off and landing, cellophane-
thin voices speaking in a strange dialect. The door began to glow, gently at first, but
gaining intensity as the sounds of the whistles, bullfrogs, moans and such grew louder. I
pulled the covers over my head and fell into a feverish sleep…
When I woke, slick with sweat, the door was gone. The wall was smooth and solid once
more. The lone adornment was a calendar, two months out of date.
I sat on the edge of my bed, blinking manically, eyes zipping around the room.
Strange, I never noticed that 16-panel bow window before, its panes awash with eerie
light…
…or the ornate antique mirror shimmering with freakish power…
…or that lava-red rug, shuddering with crimson waves.
As I slid off my soaked pajama top and, searching in the closet for my favorite green polo
shirt, stared into the vibrating viscous void behind my rack of tan chinos, I made up my
mind…
I’ll sack out on the living-room couch from now on. The endless Twilight Zone marathon on my TV that never shuts off always lulls me straight to dreamland.
About the Author
Dave’s stories, essays and articles appear often in print and online. twitter.com/davegian
