Locked Tight

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

Mother and father never seemed to care about any others. About any of us. Not really.

Anything we did, no matter how severe, it was never enough. They were obsessed, would only tell us to remember to behave ourselves. And, of course, never open the door.

I hated that door. I remember the feeling so clearly. Despite the hammering, driving nails into place with the steady SLAM SLAM SLAM of metal striking metal and wood, the thing was unchanged. First one second crooked boards in place, then the next, all were gone.

The first time the door freed itself, father went into a rage. But just the once. Never at us. That was the only time I saw how much he despised the door; seeing the fury and hatred on his face nearly cured me of my own.

I resented the door, resented all the time and attention my parents gave it, leaving us to ourselves. Orphans in a house with living ghosts.

Maybe that's the reason Yvaine went through the door. I was watching when it happened: with careful, delicate steps she approached and wrapped her thin fingers around the handle. She opened the door, making me blink. That microsecond was all it took.

Gone as though she never was.

One by one, each of the others went through the door. Each one, exactly the same, would start talking about what a drag the door was. Each one, talking about how nice it would be to simply not have to worry.

And then they were gone.

And then there was one.

And that one is staring at his own wrapped around the handle.

Whatever happens, I hope we can be a family at last on the other side.