Beyond the White Door

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

Mike had told Jenny this, must have been 200 times. And despite being six, she had always heeded his law - until the day she didn't.

Mike was away. The door, normally as closed as the grave, was cracked an inch. Jenny surrendered to her wonder. And sidled to the forbidden portal. She looked around furtively. She was alone. She pushed. The door swung open into a dim and windowless room - lit only by a dark red gloom.

Jenny’s heart thudded. Curiosity overcame cowardice. She stepped in.

Metal trays full of clear liquid sat on a waist-high shelf. Beside the trays sat two raised blades attached to wood blocks. Machines of unknown purpose loomed in the murk. Everywhere images of children stared at her - their faces slashed with rictus grins. The stench was unbearable. Jenny froze. An unseen force impelled her toward the trays. She reached up and pushed against one. Liquid sloshed on her. The smell was metallic, acrid, unnatural. Her skin burned where oily chemicals had landed.

She panicked. In her fear, she knocked one tray against another. It clattered to the tile floor. Something splashed her eyes, burning her corneas. Her vision blurred. She leaped away and knocked against bottles. They crashed to the floor and shattered. She slid and fell on her stomach. She skittered on all fours trying to gain traction on the greasy tiles.

Then she heard Mike. He was standing in the doorway. In a voice obsidian with rage and menacing in its intensity, he yelled at her, “What the hell have you done to my darkroom?”

She couldn't reply. She didn't understand the question. Shame mixed with her pain. Because a dog knows when it’s been bad.