The Door in the Alley

by Adrienne Kress

  The man didn’t respond.

  “Trudy dear, would you pass the salt?” asked Mr. Anderson. Mrs. Anderson looked up from her pudding and then, after a moment, silently picked up the saltshaker. She leaned across the table, extending her hand holding the salt, and her husband did the same to receive it. The moment of saltshaker passing was reflected in the man’s sunglasses.

  Mr. Anderson shook some salt onto his pudding and placed the shaker to the side, not quite letting go of it, as if it were a security blanket of some kind.

  “Please,” said Mrs. Anderson, after the salt passing had been completed, “just let the child go.”

  Evie looked at Mrs. Anderson, then at the man. The man looked at Mrs. Anderson, then at Evie. She saw reflected in his glasses what she assumed he saw, her face, small and pale, framed by wisps of light brown curls, a figure sitting low at the table, too old to require a booster seat but not quite at a comfortable height. She looked stupidly young, much younger than she felt. Maybe it would work in her favor. Then again, if it did, and the man let her go, she didn’t feel right just leaving the Andersons there alone. There must be something she could do.

  The man slowly shook his head side to side. An ominous “No.” Evie’s heart sank, as did her noble intentions. Maybe she could make a run for it. Though, she reasoned, if that were an option, surely the Andersons would have already tried such a thing. There was something more going on here, she realized just then. This man was no random thief in the night.

  She glanced at Mr. Anderson, who just sat there, eating his salted pudding. He kept his head bowed. Meek. She felt sorry for him. She felt sorry for all of them. Would they die? Was that what was going to happen tonight? And if so, what was the man waiting for?

  No. No, she wouldn’t even think it. Dying was a beastly thing, and she wouldn’t think it.

  It was then that Evie noticed what Mr. Anderson’s left hand was doing. It was still holding on to the saltshaker, and she saw that it was slowly and methodically unscrewing the cap. Maybe…

  “Sir,” she said, looking over at the man, “those are awfully neat glasses. They’re like perfect mirrors.”

  The man stared at her.

  “Can I see them?” She opened her eyes wide and gave him a small smile. It was a foolish attempt, or so she thought, but the man, after another pause, removed the glasses and passed them over to her. She looked into his pale blue eyes. They were hard and cold, like a layer of ice on a field of snow. She wondered why he felt he needed to wear the glasses at all. His eyes were just as inscrutable as, and indeed far more intimidating than, the glasses.

  Which she glanced down at now. They weren’t particularly interesting. She just hoped she had guessed right.

  “Excuse me,” said Mr. Anderson, and the man turned to look at him. With the same speed with which he had gone to help his wife earlier in the evening, Mr. Anderson’s arm shot forward. The contents of the open saltshaker flew into the man’s face and he doubled over, holding his eyes and making a strange gurgling grunting sound as he did.

  Just as quickly as her husband had done, Mrs. Anderson grabbed the gun and daggers and was up on her feet. Mr. Anderson barreled into the man, pushing him off his chair and onto the floor.

  “Go now!” he shouted, and Mrs. Anderson was quickly at Evie’s side, pulling her to her feet.

  “Run to the door,” she ordered in a fierce whisper.

  Evie lurched forward, not entirely aware of her surroundings and stunned by the sudden speed and athleticism of the mild-mannered Andersons. Mrs. Anderson’s firm hand was between her shoulder blades, pushing her faster than she could keep pace with. She tripped in the hall and staggered toward the door. Mrs. Anderson yanked it open. Standing in the dark on the threshold was another man. Evie had only a moment to take stock of his terrifying face, which seemed as if it was half melted off—including his ear—before she was yanked back inside by Mrs. Anderson. The melted man lunged and she closed the door just as he did, holding it with her back up against it. She stared wide-eyed at Evie. Then yelled, “Get down!”

  Without a thought, Evie flung herself onto the ground as an explosion occurred above her. There was a scuffle behind her, another explosion. Evie wrapped her arms around her head and pressed her face into the cold marble floor. Her whole body was shaking now. She wanted to look, wanted to see what was going on.

  “Evie,” someone whispered hoarsely.

  She couldn’t move. She wouldn’t move.

  “Evie. Get up now.”

  With all the bravery she could muster she slowly pushed herself to her knees and raised her head. Mrs. Anderson was on the floor, sitting against the door, holding her shoulder. Evie saw red leaking out between her fingers.

  “Mrs. Anderson!” she exclaimed, and was up and running over to her.

  “No, no, Evie, not now. I’m fine.” She winced just as she said it.

  “You’re not.” Evie was full-out panicking now. What could she do? How could she fix this?

  “I am. It’s only my shoulder. You need to listen to me very carefully.” Evie stared at the wound and then looked at Mrs. Anderson’s face. The woman’s expression was determined. Evie nodded. “Good girl. Now, I need you to reach into my pocket. Do it quickly. There’s a letter.” Evie slid right up to her and reached into Mrs. Anderson’s trouser pocket. Her hand grasped some paper and she withdrew it. She stared at it, an open cream envelope with the Andersons’ address handwritten upon it. A couple of drops of ink beside the A indicated it had been written in a hurry. Evie flipped it over, and on the back was a broken red wax seal.

  “We got this last week. We don’t know when it was sent, if it’s even real. We didn’t want to alarm you. Or give you false hope. But now, with these men here, we know the truth.”

  “The truth?” Evie was more confused than ever.

  Mrs. Anderson held up her hand to silence her and turned her head. “Do you smell that?”

  Evie sniffed at the air. A faint bitter smell hit her. It smelled…dangerous.

  “Fire. Help me up.”

  Evie jumped to her feet and helped Mrs. Anderson to stand. It was at that point that Evie had a good look around. Mr. Anderson and the man were nowhere to be seen—or heard, for that matter. But the hallway looked like some kind of war zone: a vase smashed on the floor, dirt smeared across the tiles. The sideboard was also overturned.

  “Where’s Mr. Anderson?” Evie asked.

  “I’m sure Ted’s fine. Follow me.”

  Evie followed quickly behind Mrs. Anderson to the rear of the home, through the taupe kitchen toward the small conservatory extension, but from where they stood they could easily see flames on the other side of the glass.

  “Then there’s only one way about it,” said Mrs. Anderson, more to herself than to Evie. “Come with me; we’re going to the basement.”

  —

  Unfinished, dark, dank, an afterthought, the Andersons’ basement did not help ease Evie’s dread. She followed Mrs. Anderson over to the far end, where flat packs of brown cardboard filled with shelves yet to be assembled leaned against the wall.

  “Help me move them,” said Mrs. Anderson, and Evie did, more than aware that her hostess was in considerable pain.

  Revealed behind the flat packs was a small hole in the wall. It looked like something a person was meant to crawl through, but it was certainly not large enough for that.

  “What is this?”

  “Once upon a time we were working on a secret passage to outside.”

  “Why?” Evie asked, when what she really wanted to ask was “Why on earth would people as boring as you need a secret passage?” Although she supposed the Andersons didn’t seem quite so boring anymore.

  “It was dangerous; then it stopped being dangerous.”

  Stopped? It had only just begun! “It’s dangerous now.”

  Mrs. Anderson nodded. “It isn’t large enough for me, but it is for you.”

  Evie peered into the hole. “Are you sure abo
ut that?”

  “Yes. One of the neighbor kids got in last year this way. You need to go now, Evie. Take the letter. Get help.”

  “Take it where? Where do I get help?” Evie was starting to panic. What was going on, and why was she suddenly the one who had to fix everything?

  Mrs. Anderson said the name of a place, and Evie furrowed her brow. She didn’t recognize it. Was she supposed to know this place? Did everyone else know about it? Was this yet something else she’d missed out on?

  “Go, Evie!” ordered Mrs. Anderson, interrupting her thoughts.

  “Okay,” Evie said. But no. She couldn’t. She couldn’t just leave Mrs. Anderson in a house on fire with two dangerous men after her. “You could try to come with me!”

  “I won’t make it, but I’ll be fine. We are always fine. That’s what being us means.”

  “I don’t understand. What does being you mean?”

  “There isn’t enough time!”

  No, Evie wasn’t about to let everything stay all mysterious when so much was being asked of her. “You had enough time to explain about the neighbor kid, you had enough time to move the packs away from the hole, you had enough time—”

  “For crying out loud, Evie! I don’t want you knowing anything in case you get caught!”

  That stunned Evie into silence. Which was convenient, as it meant neither of them could possibly miss the loud crashing noise that followed from somewhere above.

  “Go!”

  Evie nodded as she turned and faced the hole in the wall. She took a deep breath and then climbed inside. For the first time she could appreciate why there were people in the world who were claustrophobic. The space around her hardly was a space, and she wondered how there could possibly be enough room for both her and air. She had to kind of swim along the tunnel, pulling with her arms, pushing with her legs. She went as fast as she could, but it was difficult. The dirt gave way as she pushed her foot against it, and she would face-plant, getting a mouthful of the stuff.

  Evie pushed and pushed and kept going. The crumpled envelope in her hand helped motivate her, and the fear of what she had left behind, of a hand grabbing at her ankle or the tunnel collapsing on her head, helped just a little bit as well.

  Then eventually she drew in a breath, and it wasn’t just stale dirt she tasted, but a tiny bit of something bright and fresh. Evie pressed forward and the smell got cleaner and crisper, until the tunnel in front of her wasn’t quite as dark, and then there was no tunnel at all. She crawled out into the open and took a long, deep inhalation of night air. Then she climbed to her feet. She was dirty, confused, and scared, but she was still alive.

  Alive and totally lost.

  Evie had no idea where she was other than somewhere in the Andersons’ neighborhood—the houses looked similar. She looked around and decided that if she tried, she could find her school. Sirens approached, and instinctively she pressed herself up against a rough brick wall as fire trucks whizzed past. She wanted to follow them, to see the rescue of the Andersons, to see they were okay. But just as the thought entered her mind, a sinister shadow crossed her path. The shadow, a moment later, was revealed to belong to the melted-face man. He walked quickly down the street, and she held her breath as he passed; then she peered around the corner to follow his movements. He stopped a few feet away and twitched his head slightly. Had she made a noise? Was he even looking for her?

  She squeezed the letter in her hand, not really thinking why, and held her breath again.

  The man picked up his quick stride again and was off down the street and out of sight. Immediately Evie darted across the street in the other direction and began to run. She didn’t know where she was going; she only knew she had to get far away from the Andersons’ home and the terrifying man. She maneuvered through darkened streets, steering clear of streetlights. She ran down a dark alley that opened onto a narrow road that took her along backyards and driveways. Eventually she came to a garden that backed onto a kitchen, the windows of which were alight. A happy-looking family sat inside playing a board game at the table. She crouched by the back door, and in the porch light looked down at the envelope in her hand.

  She opened it and she started to read.

  Dear Ted and Trudy,

  Despite the rumors, and I daresay many concrete facts, I am not, nor have I ever been, dead. I am, however, in a dire and dangerous situation right now, one from which I fear I cannot extricate myself. I need help. I need someone to come and rescue me. But that is not the worst of it. There are people looking for the key. You must protect it first and foremost. If it is destroyed, my very life could be over, and if it falls into the wrong hands, I cannot even begin to imagine the damage that might occur. Even before you find a way to help me, this must be done. Please.

  I know I’m asking a lot of the two of you—you neither desired nor sought an adventurous life. But remember this: the journey is not so treacherous once you understand that the four directions all point home.

  Yours in friendship,

  Alistair Drake

  P.S. If there is any way to send my love to little Evie, please see it done.

  Some might find it surprising that of all the information that stood out to Evie in this moment, “send my love to little Evie” hit her in her gut first. But I hope you will agree with me that she could be forgiven in this moment of such distress to thrill to the knowledge that she was loved by someone. And I think we can agree that her indulging the feeling for a moment before considering the real pressing issue of her grandfather’s being alive and in grave danger didn’t mean she was a selfish creature.

  Oh yes. Grandfather. A grandfather Evie had heard mentioned only a handful of times by her father. Her father had always valiantly tried to praise him, but there’d been a tinge of bitterness to his voice, and Evie kind of understood. After all, he had barely been around for his son. For most of her father’s life, her grandfather had been out on wild adventures. Adventures Evie had longed to hear tales about. She had wished so much that her grandfather were still alive so he could tell her himself. But he had died years before she was born. Or at least…that was what her father had always told her.

  When she was younger, Evie had been secretly sad not to have any grandparents, or aunts and uncles, or cousins. She’d never dared say so aloud, though. Her parents had always tried to make their situation seem special. It was just the three of them, a team. And that had been a nice thought. Once. The last couple of years, it had only made her feel completely alone.

  But now she wasn’t alone. Now she had someone. A grandfather. Her grandfather. The only family she had left. And he was in a dire situation of some kind. And he needed someone to protect a key. And to then rescue him. Probably from the very men she’d just escaped from. She had to help him. There was no question about it.

  Yes, she faced a bit of a challenge, considering she didn’t know where said key was. Or where her grandfather was. Or why he had asked the Andersons, of all people, for help in the first place. But thanks to Mrs. Anderson, Evie did know now whom to ask for assistance. And that, at least, was an excellent place to start.

  She recalled Mrs. Anderson’s words and stood, determined.

  It was not back to the Wayward School for her. No, not while her only living relative needed her help!

  It was, instead, to some place she’d never heard of before, a place that somehow had the answers she was looking for.

  Some place called The Explorers Society.

  The next day after school, Sebastian arrived armed and ready at The Explorers Society. Having stayed up well past his bedtime doing his research, he had determined who each of the five was. And had quickly become profoundly impressed by all of them.

  From what Sebastian could tell, Alistair Drake was their leader. He seemed quite sophisticated, based on the formal way he posed in every picture and the fact that he seemed to wear a tweed suit no matter what the weather. He also had a neatly trimmed beard. He was interviewed the most whe
n articles were about the general team. That was what made Sebastian suspect he was the man in charge.

  Next was Catherine Lind. She was always photographed with animals and, though she bore a stern expression, seemed very relaxed with them. It was only in photographs with humans that she appeared awkward. She was tall, very tall, which was neither here nor there, but Sebastian couldn’t help noting it. She was definitely taller than anyone else in the group. And she wore her hair in a short, sharp bob that ended at her equally sharp cheekbones.

  The oldest member of the group was the complete opposite of Catherine, though for some reason she was usually photographed standing next to her in team photos, which only drew attention to how different they were. Her name was Doris Sullivan, and she had long silver hair that she wore in braids usually collected together in a hair tie. She was short and stout and tended to look a little confused as to why she was posing for a picture. It was hard to determine what her role was, but she was often seen underneath various vehicles, so Sebastian thought maybe she was a mechanic.

  From the oldest member of the team to the youngest: the Kid didn’t seem to have a name, though he must have had one. He was only ever referred to by this nickname. Sebastian thought it was a bit silly, really—he wasn’t fond of nicknames as a rule. What was the point of having another name when one’s current name did the job? In any event, the Kid didn’t seem to do much more than rappel down the sides of mountains and drive fast cars. What his usefulness to the team could possibly have been eluded Sebastian, but his fearlessness was nonetheless impressive.

  The fifth member was Benedict Barnes—a man Sebastian almost forgot about, as he was in so few photographs. This was, of course, because he was the team’s photographer (and cartographer) and thus usually on the other side of the lens. It was also suggested in one article that the man kept a journal about all their adventures, but that book was definitely nowhere to be found in the plain wooden box.