Do Not Open the Door

Do not open the door. That’s what the sign affixed to the beige color door inserted between the bureau and tv stand read. I didn’t even notice it when I initially entered the room. Usually, I am a rules follower. I figured it was a maintenance issue—a faulty lock or hinge.

I was tired from my trip to the coast, and stretched out on top of the bedspread for a nap, I woke up 12-hrs. later. Still groggy, I went to the window and looked out. A shimmer hovered over the water. I noticed mist surrounding woman sitting on the beach. She had the presence of an old soul. When she rose, a serpent breeze caused her black hair to tumble out of the bun down both sides of her face.

In the distance, advancing, a whoosh of flapping wings. It arrived with a wail from above and swooped low, causing her to drop to her knees, head bowed. When she lifted her head, her brown iridescent eyes flickered. Instead of showing fear, she smiled a thin alluring smile.

I was drawn to her—something mysterious, melancholy. She began to gently place her footsteps over the jutted rocks. Her pleated gown swayed and revealed her delicate skin from her neck to above her alabaster cleavage. The fog rolled in—she was gone.

I felt tired again. This time, I crawled under the covers.

The whining wakes me. At first, I think it’s the wind, then I realize it’s coming from the other side of the door. It becomes so piercing, I am forced out of the bed. I go to the door, forgetting the sign, I pull open the door. Staring back at me is the woman from the beach—all skeleton—except for the thin alluring smile.