Behind the Sea Green Door

From the outside, it was just your run-of-the-mill garden shed. One of those metal sheds that becomes sweltering and almost unbearable on a summer’s day. It was a little rusted around the edges and worn with age. Where the paint had survived the elements, it was a beautiful sea green that matched the colour of the winter grass after the rain.

Sometimes, if I was feeling brave, I’d walk up to the shed, tap it, and listen to the clanging sound, like I was daring myself to go inside.

I wish it had a window, so I could look in and make sure everything was still in order.

Occasionally, I’d imagine what the inside would look like now. Cobwebs hang in the corners, the tools corroded with age… and then, beneath a moth-eaten sheet in the back of the shed, it rests… waiting.

The door was padlocked shut.

The key sits in my kitchen drawer. I really should move it; every time I open that drawer, I see it, and it reminds me. I think I leave it there to taunt myself, to see if one day I’ll eventually cave and open that sea-green door.

I found the photo frame at a garage sale the year I met my husband, Adrian. He was really into photography and even had his own darkroom. When I saw it sitting there, a heavy, elegant-looking oval-shaped brass frame with shells on the sides and waves spreading out from each one like the ocean, I knew he’d love it for one of his works of art.

When the owner of the sale saw me looking at it, he practically gave it to me for free. He looked relieved to be rid of it.

I stopped at the shops on the way home and bought some wrapping paper to gift wrap it before giving it to him.

That night I had a friend over for dinner. We shared a few glasses of wine, and once she left, I wrapped the frame.

When I gave it to Adrian the next day, he eagerly unwrapped it and turned it over in his hands.

“This is beautiful, it’s so ornate,” he exclaimed with joy.

“I’m glad you like it.”

“Just one question though. Why is there a picture of your Mum in it?”

“Huh, let me see that.” I grabbed the frame, and sure enough, there was a photo of Mum in it. She looked like she was sitting in her favourite recliner, fast asleep. She always falls asleep in it after our family lunches. We have so many of these photos; it’s a rare opportunity to get one of her awake.

We just laughed it off.

“I must have had more to drink than I thought last night.”

But the next day, I got a call from Dad. Mum had passed away in her sleep, while napping in her recliner after lunch.

Absolutely distraught, I completely forgot about the frame and set about helping Dad organise the funeral.

Months passed, Adrian proposed, we were married, and life carried on as normal.

Then one day, I was looking for my car keys when I remembered I’d been talking to Adrian in his office the day before. I went in, and sure enough, my keys were sitting on his desk. As I went to grab the keys, I knocked his stapler off the desk. I bent down to pick it up and that’s when I saw the frame sitting on the ground propped up against his bookcase. Curious about what he had decided to put in the frame, I picked it up to take a closer look.

I was a little confused because it was a snapshot of my best friend, Jenny. She was driving and it looked as if someone had taken it from the front passenger seat.

My mind went into overdrive imagining where Adrian and my best friend had been driving together, and why it was so special that he felt the need to keep a photo of the moment in the frame that I bought him.

I was in the kitchen making a cup of tea to calm my nerves when I got the phone call.

It was Jenny’s mum. Jenny had been in a car crash the night before. It was a head-on collision with a truck. She didn’t make it.

After Jenny’s funeral, I couldn’t stop thinking about the photo of her I’d seen in the frame. I tried to talk to Adrian about it, but he seemed convinced that in my grief I’d imagined things.

“No, the frame’s empty. I’m still waiting for the perfect photo to put in it. Besides, you and Jenny were always going on road trips. If anyone has a photo of Jenny driving, it would be you, not me.”

Of course, when I went to check the frame, it was empty.

After that, I couldn’t bear to be around it. If I wanted to talk to Adrian while he was working, I’d call him out of his office and make him come to me. I couldn’t set foot in there anymore. I could almost feel it laughing at me whenever I walked past the room.

“That thing gives me the creeps. You should get rid of it,” I’d often say to Adrian.

“No, you bought it for me, and I love it!”

Months passed, and I started to believe I’d imagined the whole thing. It did all sound a little crazy. Life went back to a new kind of normal without Mum and Jenny. I still wouldn’t set foot in his office though.

One morning, Adrian came out with his camera slung over his shoulder, carrying the frame.

“Ugh, what are you doing with that?” I asked.

“This has been empty long enough. I’m going for a walk to take some pictures. It’s a beautiful day, I’m going to find the perfect shot for this frame.”

“Do you have to? Spend the day with me, I’ll make some popcorn and we can watch a movie.”

“That sounds perfect. But first, I’m going for a walk. I won’t be long.”

Giving me a quick peck on the cheek, he walked out the door.

I was doing some cleaning, so I went back to it. When I was done, I came out to the kitchen and as soon as I saw the frame my hands started shaking. Needing to be as far away from the frame as possible, I picked it up and took it back to Adrian’s office.

As I knelt down to put the frame back in its place, I saw it.

There was a new photo.

This time, it was Adrian.

He was lying on the ground underneath a giant tree branch, eyes wide, lips twisted in a terrified grimace, blood dripping from the corner of his mouth.

I raced out of the house and started running down the street screaming “Adrian, where are you?”

I turned the corner, and that’s when I saw the ambulance. I bolted towards it and ran through the cordoned-off area, screaming, “That’s my husband.”

But it was too late. They said it was instant.

The weather was perfect that day. No wind. No storms. Just a freak accident.

Once I got home from identifying his body, I couldn’t even look at the frame. I picked it up and took it out to our garden shed. Adrian was the handyman; I never had a need to go in there. I put it in the back corner and threw a sheet over it so even if someone walked in, they wouldn’t see it.

I locked the door and put the key in the kitchen drawer.

After Adrian’s death, I fell into a dark hole. I’d lost Mum, Jenny, and Adrian, all in the space of two years. I took six months off work and spent most of it in a drunken haze.

I slowly picked up the pieces, went back to work, started going to yoga, and made some new friends.

I still haven’t dated anyone though; Adrian was the love of my life.

Some days, when I’m feeling really tired, I’ll put my head in my hands, close my eyes for a second, and the image of that key will flash in my mind.

As soon as I see it, I open my eyes again, and it goes away, but it always comes back.

Then, a few weeks ago, while I was at yoga, I closed my eyes and that sea-green padlocked door flashed up in front of me. I opened them straight away, but it didn’t go away this time. It stayed for a few seconds as if it was burned into my retinas.

Later that night, I woke with a start. I could have sworn I heard the shed door blowing in the wind outside. I went out there, but the door was still shut and locked.

Last night, I dreamt I walked to the kitchen, grabbed the key, and went down to the shed. I woke as I was just about to open the door. I was in a daze, not really sure where I was, or what the cold, metallic thing in my hands was. I ran my fingers along its teeth and realised I was holding the key.

The chill hit me, and I knew I wasn’t in the house anymore.

I was standing in front of the shed door.

I had been about to open it in my sleep.

If I’m going to get my life back to any shred of normalcy, I need to destroy that frame.

I march down the hallway into the kitchen. Opening the kitchen drawer, I pick up the menacing key. It feels hot in my hands, almost burning my palm as I grasp it.

I head out into the backyard.

One unsteady foot in front of the other, I slowly make my way down to the shed at the bottom of the yard.

My heart pounds in my ears.

With my sweaty, trembling hand, I insert the key into the padlock and turn it. The lock has rusted with age, but after I jiggle it a few times, I manage to open it.

The door opens with the same familiar clang I would hear when I dared myself to tap it. Everything is exactly how I pictured it — cobwebs in the corners, a board of rusty tools up on the wall. Adrian installed the tool board when we first moved in, but over time the assortment of saws, hammers, and garden shears has become tarnished and discoloured. Each of the jagged teeth on the saw has oxidised with age.

I trace my eyes along the tool board and down the wall to the object below.

The sheet has somehow slipped off the frame; it lies crumpled on the floor in front of it.

A flickering image begins to appear.

That familiar feeling of dread comes over me as I wait for the picture to materialise.

And there it is.

This time, the image is of me. I'm looking up, eyes bulging in fright, my mouth open wide in a scream, tears streaming down my face.

My gaze is torn away from the frame as the door to the shed slams shut with a loud bang.

Before I have time to turn and open the door, the tool board above me comes crashing down.

I become the screaming woman in the frame.