The Last Door

# The Last Door

The basement door creaked as I pushed it open, the sound echoing in the empty house. My aunt and uncle's footsteps had faded minutes ago, their car pulling out of the driveway with promises to return before dark. At seventeen, I was finally deemed responsible enough to stay home alone—a rare privilege during my summer visits.

I flicked on the light switch and descended the wooden stairs, each step groaning under my weight. The basement was finished, but barely—concrete floors, wood-paneled walls, a few pieces of outdated furniture. Uncle Frank used it as his "workroom," though what work he did down here remained a mystery.

And then there was the door.

Small and unassuming, painted the same drab beige as the walls, it sat in the far corner of the basement. I'd asked about it every summer since I was ten.

"Storage," Aunt Martha would say, not meeting my eyes.

"Nothing interesting," Uncle Frank would add, changing the subject.

But it was the only door in the house that remained locked, and the only topic that made them exchange those nervous glances when they thought I wasn't looking.

Now, standing at the bottom of the stairs, I felt a familiar pull toward that corner. Seven years of curiosity climaxed in this moment of opportunity. I crossed the basement, my heart drumming against my ribs.

The door had no knob, just a small keyhole. Last Christmas, I'd noticed Uncle Frank kept a ring of keys in his desk drawer upstairs—one of them small and antique-looking, different from the others.

Ten minutes later, I was back in the basement, the key ring cold in my sweaty palm. It took three tries before I found the right one—a small brass key that slipped into the lock with surprising ease.

It turned with a soft click.

The door swung inward, revealing darkness so complete it seemed solid. I fumbled for a light switch, finding none. My phone's flashlight illuminated a narrow staircase leading down.

Another basement? Below the basement?

I hesitated only briefly before placing my foot on the first step. The stairs were stone, worn smooth in the center. They spiraled downward, farther than seemed possible for a suburban home. The air grew colder, damper.

When I reached the bottom, my flashlight revealed a small chamber, perhaps fifteen feet across. The walls were rough-hewn stone, like something from a medieval castle rather than a house built in 1978. The chamber was empty except for a pedestal in the center, upon which sat a leather-bound book.

I approached slowly, listening to the hammering of my own pulse in my ears. The book was old—ancient even—its binding cracked, its pages yellowed. Carefully, I opened it.

The first page contained just two sentences in an elegant, flowing script:

*"The boundaries between worlds are thin for those who share our blood. Read aloud only what you wish to invite in."*

I frowned, flipping to the next page. It contained what appeared to be a poem or incantation in a language I didn't recognize, yet somehow understood. The words seemed to shimmer on the page, rearranging themselves as I stared.

From upstairs came the sound of the front door opening.

"Hello?" I called out, my voice echoing in the stone chamber. "Aunt Martha? Uncle Frank?"

No response.

I should have closed the book. I should have climbed those stairs, locked the door, and returned the keys to the desk drawer.

Instead, I began to read.

The words felt strange on my tongue, ancient and powerful. As I spoke the final line, the air in the chamber grew thick, pressing against my skin. The stone walls began to tremor, dust raining down from above.

And then, silence.

In the far wall of the chamber, where there had been only solid stone moments before, now stood a door—ornate and impossibly old, carved with symbols similar to those in the book. It was slightly ajar, a sliver of bluish light spilling through the crack.

I approached cautiously. The door seemed to pulse with its own heartbeat, the carved symbols glowing faintly. Warm air rushed through the opening, carrying the scent of flowers I couldn't identify and spices I'd never smelled.

From beyond the door came sounds—voices speaking in that same strange language, laughter, music played on instruments that produced notes outside any scale I knew.

I reached for the handle, my fingers inches away, when someone grabbed my wrist.

I whirled around to find Uncle Frank, his face pale, his breathing ragged.

"Don't," he whispered. "Sarah, please don't."

"What is this place?" I asked, yanking my arm free. "What's through that door?"

Uncle Frank's eyes darted between me and the glowing door. "It's our family's... legacy. Our burden."

"Your sister—my mother—she opened it, didn't she? Before she disappeared."

The question hung in the air between us. My mother had vanished when I was three, leaving no trace. The official story was that she'd run off with a man she met online, abandoning her family. I'd never believed it.

Uncle Frank nodded slowly. "She was drawn to it, just like you are. Just like I was at your age." He pushed up his sleeve, revealing a forearm marked with an intricate pattern of scars—the same symbols carved into the door. "I went through, but I came back. Your mother... didn't."

"Is she still alive?" I whispered.

"Time works differently there. Space too. If she's still alive, she's not the sister I knew."

"I have to know," I said, turning back toward the door.

"Sarah, wait—"

But I was already moving, my hand closing around the handle. The door swung open fully, revealing not a room but a landscape—rolling hills under an impossibly violet sky, dotted with spires of crystal that caught the light of two suns. Figures moved in the distance, their forms too strange to make out clearly.

I felt the pull of that place, a yearning deep in my bones, like I was returning to a home I didn't remember leaving.

"If you go through," Uncle Frank said from behind me, "I can't follow. And I can't promise you'll find a way back."

I turned to look at him one last time. "I have to know what happened to her."

Understanding passed between us. He pressed something into my palm—a small brass key.

"If you find your way back," he said, "we'll be waiting."

I nodded, tucking the key into my pocket. Then I stepped through the last door, leaving the basement—and my world—behind.

As the door swung shut behind me, I heard Uncle Frank's voice, distant now: "Find her, Sarah. And both of you come home."

I stood beneath the violet sky, feeling the strange gravity of this new world adjusting my bones. Somewhere out here was my mother, and answers to questions I'd carried my whole life.

I took my first step forward, into the unknown.

*The End*