Unseen Threat

There was only one rule: don’t open the door.

I woke up every morning staring at the door. Pondering what existed on the other side. My parents’ words sternly engraved in my head: don’t open the door.

Toys scattered on the floor. Tea parties with my stuffies doused the thought of the door in the imaginary sips of our drinks. Or ignored by our dances at the ball. Hidden by the laughter of sleepovers. What door?

Until it whispered. “Open me.”

Pain pounded my stomach. The clear cut signal of my monthly friend’s visit. Toys sold and imagination replaced with reality. Sleepovers a pastime. “Open me.” Penetrating my dreams night after night. The urge to open pulling at me.

My parents should know about the callings. No! They would never understand. Never do. They are stuck in a world before my time. They consider me a baby. I’ll show them. I’m mature. I’m an adult.

“Open me.”

The door. What’s inside? Secrets of their past? I’ll open it and prove how much I have grown. I’m no longer a child.

I clutch the knob. Twist it open. A bright, blinding light floods over me, drawing me deeper into the space beyond the threshold. Where am I? Mom? Dad? Anyone? My voice echoes. The click of the door closes behind me. Locking me inside.

My eyes adjust. I am alone in a dark room. A thin layer of dust covers a crib.

“Mommy,” a voice interrupts. A toddler stares at me feebly standing on her two legs. I look for a mirror. Wrinkles etched on my face. My gaze flows from the door to the toddler. Four words flood my mouth and spill out.

“Don’t open the door!”