This was written for the 30 Days of Fright Writing Challenge, prompt 20: open door; door as portal. Hosted by Wendy Cockcroft.
There are different ways to escape.
Open Doors
It’s easy to not hear what’s happening. When you practice enough.
Close the closet door. Huddle in the corner with your blankie. Too old to still call it a “blankie” but you do anyway, in your own head at least.
Wait for the other door to open. The special door. The one that takes you away, to a land of mist and trees and horses that run wild, but you can still ride them. A land where bird song and frog croaks and the sound of the creek burbling over the smooth pebbles take the place of the noise of the yelling, the smack of hand on flesh, the sobbing from outside the “real” door. The closet door.
I knew all the scratches and chips of paint on the inside of my closet door. Studied it, like a meditation. Waiting for the special door to open. It always did eventually. I placed an unwavering faith in that door.
My Pa drank a lot. Not an excuse. Just a contributing factor.
I don’t blame my Mama for what she did. How could I? I had my own door. She had hers.
On summer nights, Mama liked to keep the kitchen door open. She said she wanted to see the fireflies blinking out there in the dark field. Liked to feel the warm breeze.
Sometimes she and I would sit at the little round table, after she’d washed up the dishes, and she’d make us tea in a pot. I felt like a proper grown-up lady, drinking tea like that. And she’d tell me stories of when she was a girl, of my late Gramma Rose (who was a kind lady until she went a little “batty” in the end, Ma said). Sometimes she’d read to me from books we’d got at the library, even though I could’ve read them on my own. This was our time, being women together, drinking tea from an honest to goodness teapot.
Until it was time for Pa to come home.
We always cleaned up and went our separate ways before he came. Mama would start preparing his lunch for the following day and I would drift off to my room to lie in bed and stare at the glowy stars we’d stuck to my ceiling, or sometimes I’d read from one of those glorious library books.
And Mama made damn sure to shut the kitchen door.
This was our lull before the storm. Or maybe the storm that was my Pa was always around us, and this was just the time we were in the eye of the storm. Waiting for what might come next.
That last night, the real bad one, I mean, Pa came home early. I still don’t know why.
“What the hell you doin’ with the door standin’ open and you sittin’ around like you got nothin’ better to do?” He slammed the door shut with a fury that felt different than usual, like when you know it ain’t just a regular lightning storm coming, but a tornado.
Mama jumped up from the table, and so did I, scampering back against the cabinets, trying to make myself small.
“I been workin’ and you—” Mama’s eyes darted to the table. “What the hell’s this?” He picked up the blue china teapot—the one Gramma had given to Mama—in his too-large, rough hands. I knew I hated him then.
“Who d’you think you are? The goddamn Queen a’ England?”
I remember like it was in slow-motion, the way he slammed the teapot down, the way it cracked against the edge of the kitchen table. The way Mama crumpled, even though he hadn’t hit her yet this time.
And then the way she stood herself back up, like she was a tree, rooted and tall and sturdy. I’d never seen her as anything other than a ragdoll, or a rabbit in a dress, like Mrs. Cottontail from the story. Never as a tree.
Pa advanced on her then. I thought I knew what was coming. The storm that always came. But Mama was still a tree and with a firm branch-like arm she reached over and pulled the carving knife—the real big one—the one she usually hid away before Pa came home—from the dish drainer.
She looked at me and I thought I saw fireflies in her eyes. “Go hide now.”
I ran. I slammed the closet door behind me and huddled in my corner.
I heard the sounds. I heard him crash, and howl, and other sounds, too awful to remember. I didn’t cry.
My special door would open soon. I huddled and waited.
I heard the sirens. Heavy boots on the porch. Deep male police voices, “The front door’s wide open.” More boots. “...blood… dead… She’s here… one who called…”
The special door opened. The mist felt cool on my face. I could hear frogs croaking. And a police officer in the kitchen, “Ma’am, you alright? … anyone else in the house?” More footsteps.
I was between doors. Beyond my special door, it was night, owls were hooting in the trees, the water burbled in the creek and for the first time, among the trees, I saw fireflies blinking.
I heard the knob of the closet door turning. I could hear my Mama sobbing.
The fireflies beckoned. I followed them into the welcoming night mist. Somewhere a wild horse whinnied.
I pulled the special door closed behind me.
The air around me was full of night music and glittering with fireflies. In the distance, muffled, I heard the closet door creak open, heard an unfamiliar male voice. “No,” it said. “There’s no one here.”
If you’re interested in doing this 30-day horror-writing challenge, or reading other stories by other writers in the challenge, it’s hosted by
.You should check it out! It’s not too late to hop in.Here are a few of my other stories for these prompts so far:
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As someone who daydreams a lot, I get this. Great job!