Door Number One

There was only one rule: don’t open the door. The Newark, Delaware home featured amenities that most other residences in the city lacked. Sure, it had a fireplace and a brick oven for making pizzas, but its main feature remained its ornate cellar door. During a party, the schmoozing and light talk transitioned sharply to the observation of the door.

“Ah, of course,” Brady Blount, 39, smirked, his white teeth contrasting his black skin. “Well, we don’t open that door.”

“And why the hell not?” Carlsgrove Antley asked. His skin was like Blount’s.

“Maybe we shouldn’t talk about the door,” Lina Blount suggested with a nervous smile. “Come, let’s go out on the patio.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” Antley announced with venom.

“Well, you can leave, Carl.” Griffith Doane called.

“Doane, stifle yourself. This is about the Blounts.”

“Honey, you might have had a few,” Awana Antley interjected.

“No, I’m seeing what’s behind that door.”

The other participants charged at Antley.

“It’s just a door! What could it be down here? Should I call the cops? Maybe they would like to discover the secret behind door number one!”

Blount held out a stun gun. “Leave now, Carl. I’m trained in using this. If it has to come to this, I have a roomful of people who would say they witnessed you trespass after you were told to leave.”

The faces showed signatures on a check, acknowledging Blount’s words.

“Okay. If I get the FBI on this, we’ll know just what lurks behind the door.” He then made a run for it and opened the door. He twisted the knob, set foot, and plummeted, his face smacking against the cement floor, his eyes staring into forever.

“He's dead. How many is that?” Blount asked.

“Too many,” Lina Blount said aloud wistfully.