The Forbidden Door

There was only one rule: do not open the door. We had heard it many times. Grandmother repeated it every summer when we came on holiday. The door was a triangle, just a hatch, under the roof.

If we asked why, she would get angry and say, “Did you hear me?”

The house was one that she and grandfather had built themselves. It was built in 1951, and we kids were the last call in the boomer generations.

It was built exactly on the same spot where the old house stood, and no one knew when and how old it was.

One year, my mother fell sick on oktober 31st. Halloween. Dad was a farmer and couldn’t take care of small children, so my sister and I were sent out to grandmother. I don’t think we missed mother because it was paradise to go on a little holiday at our grandparents' place.

Suddenly, we had plenty of time to explore all corners of the house; the nook was always exciting and filled with old things we could play with. On the other side of the hallway, opposite the door to the nook, was the triangular door.

Grandmother was outside tending to the chickens and collecting eggs.Now was the chance.

“You dare not open the door,” I said to my sister.

“You know we’re not allowed to,” she almost whispered back. “You can try yourself.”

So, I had to do it myself. I tiptoed. The floor creaked.

I grasped the handle, which was icy cold. But I pressed it down and slowly opened the door.

Icy cold air and an empty room. Cobwebs and dead flies.

Everything swayed. My sister cried. “I want to go home,” she screamed.

"Me too" I yelled.

In this room lived the longing for home.