Some Things Aren't Meant To Be Found

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

People had been going missing for years. People walking their dog would have the inexplicable urge to take their stroll through the neighbouring woods, never to be seen again. It was the makings of a local lore that became the burlesque backbone of this ultimately forgettable village. That was until the streetlamps were near unseeable from layers upon layers of missing person posters. Woebegone faces, muted and marred from years of neglect; paper eyes watching the village down every street.

The story spoke of the bodies being discovered in an abandoned cottage in the middle of the woods. The villagers had set about burning it down, however any effort to set the cottage ablaze was ineffectively met with the reemergence of the building unscathed. And so, for everyone’s safety the village folk created this one rule.

Don’t. Open. The Door.

The words long burnt into the face of the cottage door glared down at me as I stood in front of it. The cottage itself was unlit and soundless, like a dormant malevolence waiting to end its eternal loneliness. The infamous door was dilapidated and derelict, easily breakable. But something about it…

It’s not that difficult.

… felt foreboding.

If you want to know the truth about your missing brother all you have to do: is open it.

I took another glance around. It was only me, and my little brother’s dog. On our walk. On our own.

He’s waiting for us, you know, on the other side, the cold whisper lured once more. I took one last look at my little companion before my hand clenched the ice cold handle of the door.

His beady eyes looked back at me as a ghoulish, soulless smile ripped through his unimpeachable face.