Jeremy & The Door

Chapter One : The Door

Jeremy loved his door. Not in the way that a new homeowner and a predatory real estate agent loves a fine piece of furniture, but in the way that a mother loves her newborn child. Jeremy’s love for his door eclipsed every other love in his life. Jeremy was so utterly, head-over-heels in love that one might be forgiven for thinking that Jeremy was simply insane, and that rather than seeing a door, Jeremy saw his long-dead mother, or perhaps his long-left girlfriend. But no, he was quite sane, and he knew what he loved was no more or less than his bedroom door.

Jeremy kept his love secret from others, as quite understandably, they would likely think he was a bit mad. So he loved his door in solitude, which was quite all right with him for Jeremy did not need anything else, his door made him content, made him happy, made him peaceful. Jeremy was complete.

The door itself was quite unremarkable in appearance, it was made of varnished oak, with a gleaming brass doorknob and three well oiled hinges. If you had observed the door, the only thing you may have noticed is its pristine condition. It was so clean that you probably felt insecure about your own door. You might consider the door a sign of general cleanliness, but Jeremy’s door was unique. If you were to examine the rest of the doors in Jeremy’s house, you would notice that the front door creaked, the bathroom door was missing a handle, and the kitchen door had enough dents and splinters in it to rival a particularly accident-prone tree. You might, after examining these doors, conclude that the bedroom door was somewhat significant, that perhaps there was something valuable behind it, or it was an ancient family heirloom. But what made this door significant was not what was behind it (a somewhat untidy room and an even untidier man) nor its heritage (no-one in Jeremy’s family had ever laid eyes on, let alone touched the door). What made this door significant was the love Jeremy had for it. Which is why, when Jeremy woke up one day to find the door missing, he went quite understandably berserk.

The day in question was a Sunday. A Sunday that was absolutely stunning. Across the town people rose from their slumber, and everyone, from the street cleaners to the contract killers (of which there were a rather disconcerting amount for a town this size) took a moment to reflect on the simple beauty of a sunrise. They then went about their duties with joy, for no matter what this day would bring, nothing could take the beauty of the sunrise away. For Jeremy however, the sunrise went unnoticed for he rarely looked or went outside. Perhaps, had Jeremy seen the sunrise that fateful day, then he may have taken a different path, one of peace and forgiveness rather than bloodshed and carnage. But Jeremy did not see the sunrise, Jeremy did not see the glistening dewdrops cloaking his overgrown garden. What Jeremy saw when he opened his eyes was his hallway.

“Strange” thought Jeremy, blearily rubbing the last vestiges of sleep from his eyes, “Not like me to keep my door open at night”. He yawned, rubbed his eyes, and with a rather ungainly movement, likely born from his dancing accident twelve years before, fell out of bed. Recovering from his horizontal position, he stumbled towards his door, reaching out with his hands to touch his love. In another universe, Jeremy would have tenderly clutched the door, gazing into its dark, wooden depths for minutes, before reluctantly tearing himself away in order to get dressed and carry out his morning routine. Yet this is not that universe, instead Jeremy grasped thin air, fell over and realizing what the empty space meant, let out a bloodcurdling scream.

Leaping upright, his dancing injury temporarily forgotten, Jeremy stared wild-eyed at the space his door had once occupied, unable to comprehend why such a thing could have happened. He spun around, perhaps he had moved the door in his sleep? But the door was not in his room. Sprinting through the vacated doorframe, he frantically scoured the house for any trace of his beloved. The kitchen, bathroom, living room were all just as they always were, that is, without any extra doors. Finally Jeremy burst into the parlor, a room rarely used (For Jeremy never had visitors, except for the occasional lost milkman). As soon as he entered he noticed something different. On the wall, in what seemed to be blood (it was actually jam, but Jeremy was far too hysterical to see anything so mundane) was daubed with a symbol, a symbol Jeremy had seen only once before, the day he met his door.

Ten minutes later Jeremy accelerated from his driveway in his car as fast as his car could go. Although this maneuver would have been quite impressive had Jeremy been behind the wheel of a Porsche or a Ferrari, in Jeremy’s rust eaten Mini Cooper it was akin to watching a boat fall off a trailer. Recovering from his near miss with the neighbors mailbox, Jeremy stamped on the accelerator again, achieving little in the way of acceleration but much in the way of flattening the scrawny tabby cat that could often be seen patrolling the dustbins of the street. Jeremy was unaware of the small fluffy life he had just snuffed out however as tears were streaming down his face, obscuring his vision to such an extent that it was remarkable he had made it this far with only one feline casualty.

As Jeremy roared down the road (to the outside viewer, Jeremy’s progress was more like a steady, clanking trundle, but to Jeremy’s grief stricken mind, he was tearing down the road at a hundred miles an hour) he glanced at the notebook open on the passenger seat. Inside the third page of this notebook, after some notes on an aborted book and an old shopping list was the symbol that had been daubed on his wall. Jeremy had pulled this notebook from the depths of his closet moments before leaving, pausing only to read the address scrawled below. Jeremy had never forgotten the address, yet seeing it written down in that old, distressingly familiar handwriting made the trauma, the grief and the memories seem oh so real again.

Pulling onto the main road, Jeremy screamed again. The pain! The memories! They threatened to overwhelm his already traumatized mind. How could he follow this path? The sheer immensity of what the symbol and his missing door implied was almost enough to persuade Jeremy to give up, to go home and live his life in despair and anguish. Yet Jeremy’s will was iron, his mind a flaming beacon of righteousness, Jeremy could not be stopped by anything. Except for the truck barreling towards him, which smashed into Jeremy’s car, sending the car (And Jeremy) spinning off the road and into the freezing canal which lay alongside. As the water closed in, Jeremy, bruised, bleeding and frozen, fell into unconsciousness, the memories of his first fateful encounter with the door flashing before his eyes.